Page 55 of Haunted Spurs

"You know... I've watched my friend Grant get completely blocked with his writing. And his block didn't stem at all from a supposed lack of creativity, or because he was suddenly worthless as a writer. Even though I'm sure you stubborn writers tell yourselves that way more often than you'd care to admit."

"Uh-huh," I reply, annoyed by the accuracy of his deduction, drumming my fingers on the aluminum shell of my Mac. "Let's hear it, Mr. Know-It-All, what caused his big block?"

"A rough patch," he answers, his voice suddenly going serious, hard. "You know exactly how it works. A relationship that ended badly. A person who makes you doubt yourself. More often than not, a toxic relationship that throws shit at you until you're convinced you're the one who's wrong." He pauses. Then, never taking his eyes off mine, he continues. "I just want to know who the fucking asshole is that managed to do that to you."

My heart accelerates brutally. Ba-thump. Ba-thump.

I clear my throat, feeling it go dry. I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood just so I don't answer him, so I don't tell him to go to hell, so I don't scream at him to mind his own damn business and leave me to rot in my writer's block.

I bite my tongue because... the tragic, unspeakable truth is that, deep down, I like it. I fucking love being seen by him.

God, I'm pathetic.

He reaches out and rests his hand right on my bare knee.

The contact makes me stop breathing. And makes me feel even more pathetic. Instead of pushing him away, my only instinct is to get closer, to close those miserable inches separating us and nestle against his chest to get more of him.

It really is too dangerous to be around him.

"You know you're worth it, right, Selene?" he whispers. His hand gives my kneecap a gentle squeeze. "You know that no idiotic thing said or done by someone in your past can change who you are today and how much talent you have, right?"

He shoots me a small smile. But it's different from his usual cocky, bright smiles. It's an intimate smile. Much sweeter, less cheerful, laced with a silent devotion that digs into me, demolishing my wall of cynicism piece by piece.

I clear my throat again, pressing my lips tight. I am physically incapable of answering. If I opened my mouth right now, I might start crying, and I'd be ashamed of it until the end of my days.

"Of course you know," he murmurs, his voice a caress. "It's impossible that you don't. You'd be a real fool to think otherwise. And you... are no fool."

We sit in silence. The storm rages outside, but on our little window seat, time has stopped. I look up and meet his gaze. His blue eyes are dark in the night, intense, stripped of any filters or barriers. He looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world worth looking at. And I let that gaze strip me bare, defenseless.

I swallow hard, breaking the spell out of pure survival.

"D-did you really read my books?" I ask. I hate the way my voice shakes. "This is my dare of the day, Willers. You can't lie."

He tilts his head, and his tender smile widens as if I just did the most adorable thing in the universe. Instead, I just asked him a very simple, stupid question.

"I would never lie to you," he says, enunciating the words clearly. "I don't like bullshitting. And yes, I've read and loved every single thing you've written, Queen of Darkness. I even know some of your best parts by heart." He gives a slow, theatrical wink. "Care for a recitation?"

Despite myself, without being able to stop it, I burst out laughing.

It's a huge, booming, unexpected laugh. I struggle to remember the last time I laughed like that.

"No, thanks..." I manage to say, shaking my head and wiping a hand across my glassy eyes. "I think I'm perfectly fine without that."

I look back at him.

Ron hasn't stopped smiling. He's sitting across from me, his hand still resting on my knee, watching me laugh with an incredibly happy, satisfied expression.

A little too satisfied for my mental well-being.

18

Wtf?!

Ron

"What is it, buddy? Do you need to go again?"

I look down at Ollie, but it doesn't look like it. His ears are pinned back and he's bracing his paws in the damp morning grass, throwing his entire weight against the leash, pulling straight toward the front door of the estate.