Not that she kept a diary.
There was a high possibility she’d never be able to face him again. Which was a crying shame because if truth be told, Chloe Davenport would give anything to see Dylan’s handsome face again.
Some hours later,while munching on apple pie muffins, Chloe reprinted the first pages of Project Sizzle. It may have seemed odd to some, but to her it was important to complete the edits needed before she could comfortably move on to writing the next few chapters. It was the way she operated: one or two chapters at a time. Ironically, tackling one chapter at a time before moving on to the next was also, incidentally, how she lived life. Transitions to the next phase were done slowly, methodically, with utmost certainty. She hated admitting being envious of those who lived life by the seat of their pants—wishing someday she too could refer to herself as a risk taker. Go skydiving. Bungee jumping. Write sexier scenes in her novels. Heck...she had to begin the journey to more risqué somewhere, right?
Realizing she hadn’t returned Libby’s call, Chloe reached for her cell phone, pressed Libby’s number on speed dial, and placed her instinctual eye-roll in check. It wasn’t like she loathed her editor. In fact, over the years, the two had truly become best of friends, often hanging out together in their hometown of San Francisco, California. Yet, over the last year, the two seemed to have grown somewhat apart. Libby seemed to have shifted gears, become less interested in Chloe on a personal level. Perhaps it was also because her husband Ted went to college with Walter, which was how the women connected, ultimately launching Chloe’s writing career.
Nonetheless, Chloe’s perpetual eye-roll? It had Project Sizzle written all over it, of course.
“Hey there, stranger. I was just about to call you again. I’m assuming you’ve been holed up in the cave?”
Ah, isn’t she hilarious?
Although there were a couple of times when Chloe thought she should throw herself into that writer’s cave, lock it up, and swallow the damn key. With only twelve weeks left until deadline, she wanted to hide somewhere, never to be found.
Swallowing the lump of shame sawing at her throat, Chloe regurgitated the ugly-truth admission. “Not quite, Libby. I’ve only written one chapter and have yet to review it before I can comfortably move on to the next.” Eyes squeezed shut for a few seconds, willing any welled-up tears to stay put, she hated herself right then. Never in her entire writing career had she fallen so far behind.
Hold it together, girl.
Libby cleared her throat and Chloe envisioned the sour look of worry—or perhaps it would be a look of disappointment—cascading across her editor friend’s face. “For someoddreason, I was under the impression you had almost half of the gosh-darn thing written.”
May as well scratch the look of worry or disappointment she’d envisioned. Anger was a more accurate surmise. And this was evident by the Southern drawl-laced tone creeping through the phone. A Virginia native, Libby’s almost-extinct Southern accent always seemed to surface when she was angry.
Orhangry—an afterthought that had Chloe silently pleading the woman on the other end of the phone wasn’t pissed off, but only skipped her morning bowl of Cocoa Krispies.
Biting her lower lip, she managed to spill out yet another admission, this one far uglier than the previous. “No,”—she paused, sucked in a deep breath—“I’ve only begun—yesterday.”
Perhaps she should have confessed to having writer’s block sooner.
As in months ago...
“What the heck, woman? Just what on God’s green earth have you been doing?”
At this point, it was hard to believe Libby ever left the state of Virginia at the age of six. That timbre blaring through the phone had Chloe thinking she was thrust into an episode ofSouthern Charm.
“Well, I’ve been stuck, Libby.” Banking on the fact Libby was—at some point in their lives—her friend and confidant, she didn’t feel the need to elaborate beyond that.
“Ah, Chloe. Is this about Walter?”
Yes.
No.
Well, yes and no.The ugliest truth admission of all—this one divulged only to herself. “Kind of,” Chloe murmured.
“You have got to get over it.”
Itwas an accurate word choice. Because almost everyone knew Walter, on his own, wasn’t what was hard for Chloe to get over. Being single was theitshe found hard getting used to. And not being able to find anyone interesting enough to go to the next level with. Her circle of prospects included bankers, lawyers, doctors, pilots, writers, politicians—and they all reminded her of Walter.
Bland.
So, after her five-year relationshipoops, she’d all but exhausted her efforts to find anyone else who may be compatible. The act of dating became a chore. A part-time job she despised. Frustrated, Chloe became a bona fide believer in opposites attract. Her opposite was a risk taker, someone unafraid to lead her to the edge.
Like a man who rides a motorcycle?The smile on her lips came and went almost as fast as that thought did.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m getting over it. Anyway, have no fear. I’m off to a fun and surprisingly sexy start.”
True, she was off to a sexy start...surprisingly. The very start—she’d prayed at least forty-eight times, that day alone—her motorcycle-riding neighbor hadn’t set eyes on.
