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I was starting to think my career was over. That these words would never come. It turns out, I just needed the right inspiration. A muse, if you will. Gazing out the window, toward the cabin down the hill, I smile. My cheeks burn bright with the heat of the fire mixed with the warmth spreading inside me from the alcohol.
Owen is like one of my hunky heroes walked right off the page and into my life. He’s everything my readers swoon over. Handsome with his blond hair slicked back from his crystal blue eyes. The way his scruff gives him a rough around the edges look, but his boyish dimples in each cheek just melt your heart whenever he grins. Both of the men tower over me, but where Hardy looks like an untamable beast come to life, Owen’s broad shoulders fit snugly inside his plaid coat and would also look amazing in any suit.
For a moment I’m lost in imagining Owen taking me out for a night on the town. Of course, it would have to be in the city. I can easily picture him in a custom-fitted suit, probably gunmetal gray, that would make his eyes just pop. I picture us dancing, like that scene in LaLa Land when Emma Stone twirls around in her yellow dress and Ryan Gosling guides her on his arm.
Of course, that’s not exactly a scene I can use in my book. I’ll have to stick to true life inspiration on this one. My new hero will definitely be a lumberjack with a heart of gold. I snap back from my imaginary date with Owen and scan the words I’ve typed out so far. I don’t even remember what I wrote, that feeling of being possessed has returned and it’s just as much a surprise to me as it is to my readers to actually soak in the story.
After reaching the end of the third page, I realize that I haven’t done anything except describe my hero. I stare at the flashing cursor on my computer screen and try to imagine the woman in my book. Who is she? What is she running from? Why does she need a magical Christmas cottage getaway to get things back on track?
I’ve got nothing.
My mind is completely blank. Well, that’s no good. I can’t write a best-selling holiday romance without a female lead. Scrunching up my nose and squeezing my eyes shut tight, I do my best to conjure her up, to bring this sassy city woman to life.
Nope. Still a vague, empty space in my mind where she should be. Frustrated, I slam my laptop shut and finish off my glass of wine in one big gulp. Staring out at the winter wonderland, my thoughts roam down the hill to Owen. I wonder what he’s up to? I can picture his biceps flexing as he swipes his ax through a log, like a hot knife through butter, exploding it into pieces.
From the look of the sun dropping in the sky, there’s probably another hour until it will be dark up here. A walk out in the fresh air might do me good. I often come up with some of my best scenes when I’m out for a stroll. I get my winter gear on and head on down the hill. I could’ve chosen any direction to walk in, but if I happen to steal a glimpse of Owen working outside, I feel like that can only really help my story along.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Trying to be nonchalant, I search around their property, but I don’t see my handsome hero anywhere. Instead, it’s just the grumpy grizzly bear man. He’s easily tossing huge eight-foot logs into the back of a trailer. His hair is brown and wild, curling around his face like tiny bare tree branches arch toward the sky in the winter. I try to slink by, not wanting to deal with him, but he stops and stares at me. His green eyes are murky and the thick, white scar that permanently slices his eyebrow open makes him look dangerous. A shiver runs down my back and I keep walking when he calls out to me.
“Mary!”
I don’t turn back. My feet break through the thin layer of ice covering the snow and I head toward what looks like a well-worn path in the woods.
Hardy yells something else out to me, but I can’t make it out. My face burns bright as I turn the words over in my head. Did he just say he wants to strip me bare? Or that he wants to pull my hair? This guy doesn’t know when to quit! Either way, he’s rude and I’m not interested.
Shaking my head, I tromp through the snow and try to push thoughts of Hardy free from my brain. I need to just ignore him. Focus on Owen instead. And what I really need to be doing is figure out my story.
