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I wished it was in her point of view.
I blew out a long breath, cracked my knuckles, and got to it.
‘Sam recognised that dark, wavy hair and tantalising curves. He’d thought of little else since she’d bumped into him and he’d replaced her coffee six weeks ago. His biggest regret from that day was that he hadn’t even gotten her name, never mind her number, but now, she was here. In front of him. At the very least, he could get her name.’
Damn it.
Was that cheesy?
It sounded cheesy to my brain.
I copied and pasted it into a second document and tried again.
‘It was her—the girl who’d crashed into him and spilt her coffee all over him a few weeks ago. He hadn’t seen her face, but he was almost certain that he recognised her wavy dark hair and voluptuous hips.’
Ugh.
Voluptuous.
That was a dreadful word.
‘He hadn’t seen her face, but he was almost certain that he recognised her wavy dark hair and full hips.’
Full hips?
Jesus, what were they? A glass of water?
‘He hadn’t seen her face, but he was sure he’d recognise her wavy dark hair and tempting curves anywhere.’
Curves.
Like she was Betty fricking Boop and not a slightly overweight woman.
My curves werenotwhere Betty Boop had them, let me tell you. They were the extra bit of oomph on the upper arms, the dedicated rubbing of my upper thighs, and the little stomach pouch that, somehow, plus-sized models never seemed to have on websites.
I know, I know.I was really selling the curvy girl life, huh?
Ugh.
This was a nightmare.
There were so many words I’d use to describe myself—fluffy, chunky, soft, cuddly—that other people perhaps wouldn’t like. It made it difficult to describe my heroine. I didn’t want to upset or offend anyone because weight was such a touchy issue.
I buried my fingers in my hair, dropping my head, and groaned. Maybe I’d have to send this to both my agent and my editor for their input and move on. I’d already established that my heroine was a bit of a bigger girl earlier in the book, and it was in the proposals, so I was going to leave it to their expert opinion.
Once I’d finished the chapter, of course.
I blew out a heavy breath and let my fingers take control. They glided over the keyboard, writing the scene of how he toyed with speaking to her until he ultimately gave in and casually walked past, introducing himself. He left out his title, much like Max had done with me, and he got to meet her cat.
Yes, it did occur to me that I was romanticising my initial interaction with Max and that this was not healthy behaviour, but the muse wanted what the muse wanted.
Besides, it wasn’t like he’d ever read this. He didn’t strike me as a romance kind of man.
And if Esme read it…
Well, I’d be long gone by the timethathappened, so it was fine.
I’d probably have to move, though. And change my number.
