“What’s brain fuel?”
Their voices drifted out the door.
I let out a breath and looked at George. He was smiling as his gaze lingered where they had just been.
“Nice to have a full house again,” he said. “I miss the chaos sometimes.”
I nodded with a tight smile, feeling my throat constrict. Only one more person was in our little collection of misfits, but it made the house feel more full. It was only the first morning, and the second I felt the pings of hopefulness, I clamped them down. That way only led to disappointment.
I dropped my head to look at the notes for this scene. George’s handwriting was a slanted and messy half-cursive, which I was a professional at deciphering at this point.
“George?” I asked him where he sat next to the fire. “What would you think if I made Lucy pregnant?”
George’s deep, wrinkled brow pinched in thought. “I think that’s the exact sort of idea that makes you perfect for this.”
“Some readers won’t like that.”
“Some readers will. You can’t worry about that,” he said. “Plus, it’s the things you don’t even worry about that end up bothering them the most. Just focus on telling the story of our hearts.”
I smiled at him and ducked my head quickly to type notes on my computer. I’d write on my computer and type the final on the typewriter if I had to. That was what I had done for the last two books. Not to alarm anybody, but that wasn’t necessary anymore, and that was one perk of all this. Soon, the soft sounds of George sleeping filled the room. He was like a cat that way, and there was comfort in that predictability.
I worked for a while in the silent house, losing track of time and feeling like actual progress was made. By the time the vibration of my phone startled me from where I’d been working, it was after lunch.
It was a text from Brooks checking in on me.
My wrists were tired from typing, so I called her back.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing. I just didn’t feel like texting,” I said.
“Sometimes you seem so normal, and then you do things like call me, and I feel scared.”
“Sorry, sorry. Next time, I will text you that I don’t feel like texting and give you plenty of time to mentally prepare. Wrists be damned!”
“That’s better,” she said. “At least you didn’t video call or you’d be getting a whole view of my banoffee pie.”
I guffawed and covered my mouth to make sure that I didn’t wake George. He snored on.
“That is a visual I could have lived without,” I said.
“My humor is wasted on you. How goes it with Brit boy anyway?” she asked.
“Weird. I had this realization this morning—briefs, by the way.” She made a sound of impressed surprise as I went on. “That he is very much a man. Like he has these big man feet and hairy legs and strong shoulders and he’s just amanand I don’t know, like virile and masculine.”
“Virile? Huh. You are a thirsty bird,” she said.
“I mean, it has been a minute,” I mumbled. “But no. You know me. I have turned that part of me off, locked it in a box, and buried it under a haunted graveyard, so the only way to get to it is by battling poltergeists.”
“Quite the metaphor. I assume by ‘it’ you mean your sweet, sweet chastity or are you referring to overall level of horniness?”
“Yes.” I blushed as I twirled a pen on the desk, hiding a secret smile.
She laughed. “Well, hopefully, he won’t be in your hair much longer. Oh! You should come into town, and we can go to the bar and get you a ghost hunter.”
“I regret that metaphor.”
“Too late, your vagina and all surrounding area are now going to be referred to only as the crypt keeper.”
