Page 41 of Where Roads Lead

“Is it really that fascinating for you?”

“Only on slow days.”

I sighed, knowing he wasn’t going to give in, and turned on my heel—leaving the door ajar so he could slip inside if it was really that crucial for him.

I rushed back to the kitchen, hearing his boots against the creaky wooden floors as he followed me into the kitchen.

“It’s cold in here.” He frowned.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Keeps the mind sharp.”

Even though I quite despised being a human popsicle, I found his disapproval of every aspect of my life to be quite aggravating. So, I certainly wasn’t about to give him more ammunition for a problem he assumed I wasn’t taking care of—i.e., the heating issue of the house that wouldn’t retain any.

I sat back down at the table, opening my laptop once more and glaring at the screen.

I hoped that Will being in my space, making his quippy comments, would give me the fuel to get back into my character’s tone of voice.

“Why are you frowning?”

“I’m trying to figure out dialogue for my character,” I told him. “It’s very frustrating because nothing I come up with sounds like something he’d say.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, all the comments I think are funny wouldn’t be comments he’d think are funny, so it just sounds unnatural when I make him say anything. Get it?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, you’re not a writer, so—”

And then suddenly he was behind me, squinting at the screen, and I was slamming my laptop shut faster than Usain Bolt could even dream of.

“Are you writing about me?” he asked, sounding more amused than I thought he had the ability to sound.

“No.”

“I saw my name.”

“Your last name.” I scoffed, cheeks heating.

“And I saw your name.”

“Must’ve misread.”

I finally turned my head to face him, noticing a smug curve to his lips.

Kill me now.

“I’ll have you know that—” I started, about to unleash a stream of excuses that, while he may have inspired a character, I certainly wasn’t writing about him.

And even though he may share some similarities with Hugh, it meant absolutely nothing, because writers draw from real life all the time, and since he wasn’t one, he really wouldn’t understand—

“What is that?” he said, his entire face turning to stone once more.

I didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed to hear that he’d returned to his usual abrasive self.

I turned to the direction his gaze was focused on, a spot on the kitchen table cluttered with papers, coffee mugs and—oh yeah, the carbon monoxide detector, still perfectly safe in its packaging.

“Oh.” I coughed. “I was going to get to that.”