It was two hours past midnight when I reassessed my situation.
I was beyond the midpoint of my story, and the second half had far fewer notes. I still had a full day and a half to polish and write a killer blurb. Maybe—maybe—my chances of making it to the next round of the retreat weren’t completely abysmal.
I’d skipped dinner, unable to face the embarrassment of the photo incident.
It probably hadn’t made the best impression on Charlene, but there was zero chance I could sit across from John Kater without choking on a drumstick. The moment of him looking over my shoulder would haunt me for years.
Unplugging my laptop, I tore two Post-its off the wall—my next steps—and went in search of tea. And liquor.
Luckily, I found both. Plus a stash of chocolate bars.
The scent of black tea and whiskey curled into my nose, the warmth of the cup seeping into my palms as I padded toward the big fireplace. I had my eye on a ridiculously comfy setup—cushions, plush rug, fluffy blanket. I was ready to dig in, refocus, and?—
“Shit.” I stopped dead in the doorway.
Blue light glowed against John’s face as he stared at his screen, headphones over his ears.
He was wearing vintage half-rim glasses I hadn’t seen before. I did a double take.
He looked… smart. I hated it.
He was slouched in a leather armchair, feet propped on an ottoman, hair tousled like he’d raked his hands through it one too many times. Tired, but still stupidly catalog-level attractive. Pajama model chic. Effortless and annoying.
I tried to quietly back out of the room. His gaze flicked up.
Crap.
“Nora.” He tugged his headphones down, resting them around his neck. I could swear I heard the fading bars ofLullabyby The Cure.
A fluke. No way he had good taste in music.
I realized I was standing frozen in the dark, staring. Like a creep.
His eyes swept over me. I resisted the urge to tug my shirt down.
My outfit: Otis-stretched Bowie T-shirt, oversized cardigan, woolen knee socks.
His expression shifted—disapproval? Annoyance?
Well, excuse me, Mr.I-Can-Wear-Cashmere-To-Bed-And-Not-Go-Broke.
His gaze snagged on the twin rose tattoos above my knees. His frown deepened. Great. He was one of those.
He turned back to his laptop. “Missed me, did you?”
I blinked. “Yeah, because I have absolutely nothing better to do than stalk you.”
I wanted to cross my arms for effect, but I was holding tea, and that would turn this into a wet T-shirt contest followed by a trip to the ER.
He smirked. The kind that saidI know what I saw.Incriminating photographic evidence.
“I’ll go. Didn’t realize this room was taken.”
“Stay,” he said, oddly fast. When I glanced back, he’d taken off his glasses and was rubbing the bridge of his nose. His voice was thick, like he’d had more than one drink.
I squared my shoulders and headed for the sofa. The room was warm, dimly lit by the last embers of the fire. Woodsmoke and golden light. A writer’s wet dream.
If he wanted to leave this slice of heaven, fine by me.
