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Max jumped off the second level of hay bales with a huff. “Can you get him a GPS tracker or something?”
“I might have to,” I replied warily. “At least we found him.”
“With the goats, though?”
“Cats like to be up high. The bales are high.”
“At least we know where to bloody look next time he escapes.” He met my eyes. “Don’t tell me there won’t be a next time. He’ll fucking escape again, and you know it.”
I pressed my lips together into a thin line.
Yeah.
He was right.
“I’ll order a GPS collar,” I muttered.
“And find out where he’s getting out. He’s doing it somehow.” He brushed his hands off on his shorts again. “Bloody cat.”
On that note, he left me standing in the barn with the bloody cat in my arms, staring after him.
Well.
One had to agree with his sentiment.
•••
All right.
I was doing it.
No matter what I did or how many times I tried to rewrite this blasted book, the only acceptable muse was Max.
It was really quite annoying. I’d changed the description of my hero three different times, but no words flowed unless he was based upon the very real duke I was, undoubtedly, irritating on a daily basis. Even down to his grumpiness and hatred of my escapee cat—it was all there, being written by my very own fingers that I apparently had absolutely no control over.
I hated it.
I hated that I was going to immortalise him in the pages of my book.
I hated that my dashing, swoony hero was a blue-eyed, black-haired duke with an intense gaze and a firm body and a gentle hand with goats.
I hated that my heroine was a curvy, slightly overweight blonde with an ornery cat who escaped at every given opportunity.
I hated that I was going to make her kiss him and fall in love with him and the goats on his estate.
I hated that her happiness would ultimately wear him down and they’d have wild, satisfying sex while he struggled to admit his true feelings for her.
I frigginghatedit all.
If only I had any semblance of control over the people in my head, my life would be so much easier.
Nobody ever said writing books was easy, but they also failed to mention just how difficult it was.
I stared at the screen.
I could do this.
I could write the moment they saw each other again after she unknowingly booked a stay at a lake house on his estate.
