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“You can tell by his diction and his obvious misogyny. He thinks all erotic novels are written for women, and he hates women.”
“I believe you’re right. I’ve read some of S.T. Nicholson’s work, based on your high recommendation, and I’d say he’s rather fond of women.”
She grins. “I hope so, because whenever I meet him, I’m throwing myself at him. He can leave the mask on—I don’t care.” She claps a hand over her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
My head tips back with a laugh. This girl is something else. Something special. “And what about the ending? Did you also find it cheap and predictable?”
I expected the ending to be divisive, of course. The protagonist is poisoned by his worst critic, but the poison isn’t enough to stop his heart entirely. When he awakens, he’s been buried alive in a coffin. He kicks through the lid, and that’s where the novel ends. Without closure regarding whether he escapes his early grave or dies there.
The reviewer took care to explain in great detail why he found the ending mediocre. Repeatedly referring to itas predictable despite claiming it hadn’t been adequately foreshadowed.
Briar props her chin in her hand. “What did you think of it?”
“I believed it to be satisfactory.”
She scoffs. “It was far better than satisfactory. Any other ending would’ve been a disservice. The whole book is a masterpiece,especiallythat ending.”
I’ve never heard anyone speak so passionately about my work before, not even my agent or editors. I’ve met readers all over the world, some of whom have cried when they met me. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t realize she’s speaking directly to the author and I know her passion is genuine.
“Why are you teaching instead of writing?”
She stiffens. A sore subject. “I’m doing both. I’m sure I’ll get plenty of writing done on our retreat.”
“What retreat?”
A playful little smirk plays on her lips. “Were you not listening to Dr. Barrett’s two-hour lecture on our syllabus? At the end of next semester, we’re going on a writing retreat. We haven’t determined a location yet, but we should have something reserved soon.”
“Sounds like just what you need.”
“I’ve always wanted to go on a writing retreat. Write all day long without any obligations except meals and nightly baths.” Briar hands my phone back, and she’s surprised when I slip my phone in my pocket with one hand and catch her fingers with the other before she can withdraw.
Her fingers are surprisingly delicate for a woman so fiery. I’m certain she’s thrown a few punches in her lifetime. But her skin is so pure, so soft and unblemished. My thumb strokes over her knuckles, and she sucks in a breath. But she doesn’t pull away.
My gaze travels up to hers, blue eyes wide as she watches me. I would stare into those beautiful eyes all day if not for those lips. Plump and pouty, begging to be claimed.
She yanks her hand from my grasp and steps back. “I, um, need to leave.” She scrambles to stuff her belongings in her bag, and I grin. She can’t hide the effect I have on her.
I follow Briar out the door, and she scurries off. The temptation to follow her is nearly impossible to resist, but I have a manuscript to write and a deadline I can’t miss.
The library is quiet, the only sounds the click of keyboards and the shuffle of pages. I settle in at a corner table, pulling out my laptop as the all-too-familiar dread washes over me.
Except this time, when my fingers rest on the keyboard, words appear on the screen. Followed by more, until I’m lost in the story, my writer’s block long forgotten.
Thirty minutes later, my word count sits at fifteen hundred words.
I haven’t written that much in months. I’ve never written that much in half an hour.
Briar’s words ring in my ears. The excitement and passion in her radiant blue eyes.
I’m writing because of her. I’m certain of it.
I fire off a text to Zayden.
You were right. I’ve found my muse.
Briar Shea is my muse. The source of inspiration I lost. The muse I came here to seek, finally found.
I may actually be able to send my agent a completed manuscript. Because of her.
