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It was commonly referred to as the witching hours, but I always associated those with the hours before three in the morning.
My personal witching hours were between six and eight in the morning and ten and midnight on an evening. That was when the words seemed to magically appear, and there was little chance of being interrupted.
Eleven-thirty was the current time on the clock, and my fingers had been moving consistently across the keys for at least the past hour. Shelving my previous work had been the best decision I’d made in a long time, and by the end of the night, I’d have the first five chapters completed to send to my agent.
I really hoped she wouldn’t mind that I’d changed the book.
But this one was just clicking.
It wasn’t even like I had a plan. I had a vague outline of how things were going to go, and I was winging the rest of it.
It was working.
I put in a page break and typed the header for chapter five. Staying up much past midnight was going to be highly irresponsible of me, and I just knew I would regret it tomorrow when I had to tutor Olympia.
Unfortunately for me, my brain didn’t care.
I adjusted my position on the sofa and crossed my legs, then set my laptop balancing on my knees. It wasn’t the healthiest position to write in and it was yet another thing I’d regret in the morning when my neck and shoulders were screaming at me, but a girl had to do what a girl had to do.
I cracked my knuckles and got back to it, pausing only to reach for my glass of wine to sip. The bottle was half-empty, and that really was my limit. Tutoring Olympia while tired was one thing—doing it even a little bit hungover sounded like my idea of hell.
Oh, God, I loved this book. Everything about it was magical. Given that I was past those first ten thousand words, this was nothing short of a miracle. It usually all went to shit then.
The library door opened, and I looked in that direction. Alex was standing there, completely still, staring at me.
“Shit, Adelaide. Sorry. I didn’t know you were in here.”
I waved a hand. “It’s fine. I’m just getting some writing done.”
“I’ll leave you to it.”
“Don’t be daft. As long as you don’t talk my ear off, I can’t say I’d be against the company.”
“No plans to talk.” He held up a book and a glass of wine. “Just read.”
I smiled. “Perfect company, then.”
“Are you sure?”
“Alex, this is your house. If anything, I’m the one who should be leaving you in peace. Unfortunately, this sofa is very comfortable, and I have no intention of going anywhere else.”
With a laugh, he clicked the door shut behind him. “It’s your home for as long as you’re here.”
“Well, yes, and I appreciate that very much.” I smiled again. “But it’s still yours, and I won’t be offended if you tell me to bugger off.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He grinned and sat on the sofa on the other side of the coffee table. “I’ll stop talking now.”
He put his glass on the side table, swung his feet up onto the sofa, and opened his book. He was wearing green checked pyjama bottoms and a red t-shirt that fit entirely too well.
Surely that wasn’t comfortable to sleep in.
Did he sleep in those clothes?
Damn it.
That was not where my brain was supposed to go.
Especially not when he looked like a weirdly sexy Christmas tree.
Oh, no. I wasn’t going to write another word, was I?
How was I supposed to focus with him lying on the sofa opposite me?
He turned a page of his book, and the swish of it seemed to scream at me.
All in all, this was a terrible idea, and I needed to get out of here as quickly as possible before I truly descended into some form of madness.
The dirty dreams where he bent me over desks and slammed me against walls to kiss me were bad enough. I didn’t need any of those thoughts consuming my waking hours, too.
I peered over at him. He was focused entirely on the book—his brow was ever so slightly furrowed, and his lips twitched and pursed as he read the words on the page in front of him.
Why was it so bloody sexy to see a man read?
Ugh.
At least one of us was focused here.
I forced my attention back to my manuscript and made myself start typing again. The problem with being a writer was that it was always exceptionally obvious when you weren’t, you know. Writing.
The tap-tap of the keys—or lack of—was a giveaway.
I supposed I could just randomly hit the keys and pretend that I was writing something.
It seemed like a catastrophic waste of energy, though.
