Page 23 of Fate Fiction

Writing was everything to me. The thought of turning it from a hobby into something more sent goosebumps across my skin in spite of the hot cabin.

What if I could share these words I loved with my name and face attached?

What if I could attend signings and be on panels and have my books be in real life bookstores?

There was a dream life waiting for me somewhere in the distance, clouded with a fog of “what ifs.”

If I could get my shit together, this future that Andrea was pushing me towards could actually be possible, and I could strip myself of anything connected to Thorndown. Thorndown was becoming a larger and larger problem. Even thinking about that fictional world with Evan a dozen yards away sent a deep pit into my stomach. I slammed the notebook shut and tossed it back onto the pile.

I could use the quiet to write, I probably should. But every ounce of creativity had been completely drained out of me.

I blew out the lanterns and went to sleep.

six

. . .

Monday, June 2

Blue early morning light beamed through the ill-fitting curtains on the small windows in the cabin. The cabin is still dark. I should go back to sleep, but it’s impossible.

There were still hints of purple dusk light at the perimeter of my curtains when I fell asleep last night, my head hit the mattress before the stars were fully out.

I sat up in bed and watched the steam rise off the lake in a fine mist with my blankets still warm and wrapped around me. My arm held the memory of Evan’s gentle grasp around it.

Yesterday was an incredibly elaborate dream. It had to be.

In a few hours it would be warm enough to lay out on the dock and sunbathe. Maybe even go for a swim. But, unfortunately, my plans for the day were already made. I only had a few hours before having to face Evan again. I would savor them the best I could.

I stepped out onto the porch with a blanket draped over my shoulders and smell the crisp morning air. Pine and earth and grass.

A shadow moved in my periphery. Sure enough, Evan was also wide awake, doing the same thing I was. Son of a bitch. The man was inescapable.

And real. Mortifyingly real.

It would be easy to ignore him there, his shape was partially distorted by the screen of the porch.

I fixed my eyes on the lake and listened to the birds, pretending I didn’t see him.

The shadow waved, I caught the movement out of the corner of my eye.

There needed to be new curse words added to the dictionary for how much I was swearing to myself.

My hair was completely undone as I sat wrapped in the old blanket. I looked like the ghoul that haunted these old cabins. Yet here I was forced to wave back to none other than Evan Fucking McLeod.

In no normal universe would this be something I could have even conjured in my imagination. My fics never toed that all-too-fine line of self-insert territory. I’d consciously avoided getting too personal with him or his character.

It didn’t matter at this point, I was living it.

The percolator started bubbling on the stovetop, a sweet escape. I paused at the antique mirror in the cabin, fluffing out my curls into something that resembled more of a person rather than a cheap Halloween decoration. I shed the blanket, dropping it to the ground as I surveyed the other clothes I brought, contained my tits with a bra and tossed a hoodie over my head.

The polite thing to do would be to offer him a cup of coffee.

Sue would probably be pissed if I didn’t do the hospitable thing. She’d give me some spiel about putting guests first and hospitality and whatnot. I doubted he drank anything but some obscure ancient Mayan blend that had to be French pressed at a specific temperature, but I figured I could at least ask.

I stepped out back on the porch, “ want some coffee?” I whisper-yelled, as if we weren’t the only two people around.

He emphatically nodded.