“Wait. Dylan? As in Dylan Hawke…your landlord?” Libby’s tone was raised about fifteen-hundred octaves.
“Oh, well yeah, I actually forgot he’s the landlord.” All the hours spent with him, Dylan had become so much more than a mere someone she was renting the duplex from.
“Is he hot?”
Hottest man alive.The question made her feel dizzy; thoughts of just howhotDylan Hawke truly was, bombarded her mind like grenades. But she dared not reveal anything personal to Libby. Not yet, anyway. “So, did you really call to check on me, or only to fish for information on the progress of the book?” Asking that seemed ridiculous, given Chloe already knew the answer.
“Honestly, both. However, I can tell you’re not in the mood to fess up. But remember our agreement. In less than seven days from now, you’ll need to submit at least twenty-five percent to me.”
Chloe wondered why she agreed to that. Especially since she only had roughly three chapters written—and even those words weren’t guaranteed to make the final cut. “Talk to you soon, Libby.”
After about thirty minutes of lying on the couch, gaze stuck to the ceiling, Chloe decided to write. It was after all, the reason why she was back in her rental, instead of with Dylan. After their ride around town, he’d picked up some takeout for her to eat later, and had insisted she get some writing done, in the place that would provide her the least distraction. Which would have been a smart decision, in theory. If that theory worked, that is.
The only thing her mind could focus on…was Dylan. Their afternoon out, riding about Fortune’s Bay. Clinging to, who she really should refer to as the real-life-book-hero, while she sat nestled against his backside, aboard Tamale. Dylan was the ideal tour guide, showing Chloe parts of Fortune’s Bay she didn’t see on the map she got from the community center, stopping for photo ops at just about every point that caught Dylan’s eye: Sea Dog Pier, the statue of She Pirate and Her Love. And when they arrived at a small pier closer to home, from a distance he pointed out the four islands: Swallow, Sparrow, Shipwreck, and Shelter—where Rosedale Hotel sat.
“When I arrived in Fortune’s Bay, I wanted to stay there instead of the duplex. But Libby insisted I’d be happier at the rental,” Chloe explained, wrapped snug in Dylan’s arms.
“And was she right? Are you happy you decided to rent my place on the beach? I know I’m sure happy you did.” He kissed her forehead, embraced her tighter, as if he didn’t want to let her go. She confessed to being happier than ever, which led them to partake in another make-out session, waves crashing in the background.
Chloe shook the thoughts out of her head.Write, woman. The command was easier said than done, as if her creativity was dried up, burned out, finished. Pacing the floor, arms folded, Chloe tried with all her might to think of something to put on paper. Never had it been this difficult to come up with a storyline about two people meeting and falling in love.
Ugh.
God knows she’d had more inspiration in the last few days than themonthsshe usually spent in a town gathering information. Perhaps her brain washed away with the storm. Or maybe…
Chloe let out a mirthful chuckle, grabbed her laptop, plopped onto the couch, and began typing, a plausible idea striking her like a cupid’s arrow. Bam.
And after hours of fingertips jamming the keyboard non-stop—Chloe Davenport finished the entire first draft of her novel as the sun began to rise.
You. Go. Girl.
