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August 9, Friday
HI, BRUCE. I wanted to let you know my laptop died and I lost all the pages of the manuscript I’d written. I’m going to need more time.
I nervously waited for him to text back, hoping for No worries, take your time.
Instead my phone rang and Bruce’s name appeared on the screen.
I sighed, then connected the call. “Hi, Bruce.”
“Josie, what this? I’m desperate for the manuscript and you tell me the dog ate your homework?”
I winced. “More like a goat.”
“Are you having a nervous breakdown?”
Maybe. “This place is more remote than I counted on. The power transformer blew and fried my computer. I’m still waiting for the new one to be delivered.”
“You didn’t back up your files?”
“No.” And I didn’t want to tell him it was only six pages.
He sighed. “Darling, I’m getting the feeling you don’t want to write this book.”
“No, I do. I need to.” For the money.
“Okay, then do. I expect the first three chapters by Monday.”
“But—”
“No buts.”
The call ended and anxiety welled in my stomach.
I reached for the notebook and a pencil, massaging my temples. Deep down I knew what had inspired the brief bout of productivity I’d experienced to create the pages that I’d lost, but I didn’t want to go there: Sawyer King. The man had been grist for the backstory for Logan, the hero in my book.
I was getting a little too comfortable with having Sawyer around on weekends… was starting to look forward to seeing him.
And I didn’t want to be that woman… again.
On the other hand, if the handsome, outdoorsy man who was good with his hands could get me over the, um, hump, of my writers block, maybe it was okay to dwell on his… physical gifts.
For the sake of literature.
Unbidden, my pencil started to move.
August 10, Saturday
SAWYER PULLED his truck to a stop in front of the house and climbed out. He was dressed in low-slung jeans, work boots, and a snug T-shirt. “’Morning.”
I was sitting on the porch, writing in the notebook. I sat up and felt my guard go up at the same time. “Good morning.”
He held up a small sheet of glass with tape around the edges. “Thought I’d replace the window I had to break when I saved you from the goat.”
I glanced toward the vertical row of small windows alongside the door. The one he’d broken to reach the doorknob inside still sported a piece of wood he’d nailed in place.
“For the record, you didn’t save me from the goat,” I said, pointing to where Satan stood nearby chewing on the edge of a porch rug.
He grinned. “Let me be a hero.”
