This week was a strange week for me. It was a strange week for America.
“Strange” is putting it lightly.
I found myself needing the weekend to just relax, relate, and RELEASE – in more ways than one.
I wrote until my fingers couldn’t write anymore. I purged. I purged EVERYTHING.
Some may make it into my novels. Some may never see the light of day.
BUT IT WAS SO NEEDED.
If you’re reading this-wherever you are-remember this:
We ALL need time to ourselves-healing time, decompressing time-time for GROWTH.
I took some time today-this weekend.
And it felt good. REALLY GOOD.
It got my focus back on what I love the most – WRITING, and the story that’s currently in my head and heart: The Deal – my newest “frenemies-to-lovers” Romantic Mystery.
I wanted to share a bit before I sink too far back into my weird Author bubble AKA “the writing cave” and I forget.
Find your cave. Appreciate it. And use it when you need to, guys.
Hope this tickles your fancy while you’re in it…
A hand—strong and undeniably warm—falls on my lower back, gripping me.
But it isn’t Reed.
Eyes the color of jagged pine stab me in a thousand different places on my body all at once.
He runs a cursory glance over my figure—no more than a second or two—and I feel shattered, my subconscious scattered all over the place as I try to come to grips with what I’m seeing.
Who I’m seeing… and why he’s here…
My director. Mister Impossible.
And the last person I’d expect to see at my ten-year class reunion.
And his eyes are fixated on me in a way that could only be described as ablaze.
Fire aspires to be as intense as his stare is in this moment; it scorches right through my skin… and I tremble against my own will.
“We need to talk,” he almost growls, sending my sensibilities through the roof.
My hand lands on his arm involuntarily, nearly pushing.
“Jesse… What…? How…” I search the room frantically with fearful eyes. “What are you even doing here? This is… I’m obviously in the middle of something here.”
A splash of red decorates the normally pale skin at his neck, and broad strokes of black peek beneath the collar of his white v-neck t-shirt.
He pulls me in close—close enough to see the beginning of a hidden tattoo, and I swallow. Hard.
His touch is familiar—intimate.
To the passerby, we’d look like two lovers sharing a secret.
But this is only the second time he’s ever put his hands on me.
The first time, I’d wanted him to touch more. And honestly, this second time isn’t turning out to be much different than the first.
His hold is firm, but freakishly tender.
He draws his face to mine.
“Did you think I wouldn’t know?” he rasps harshly.
My heart thunders in my ears. “Know what?”
“Come off it, Brooke. You thought I wouldn’t find out?”
“Find out what?”
Words are failing me. I can’t form complete sentences with him this close. Touching me. His hand wrapped around my waist.
Jesse leans in, nearly bringing us nose-to-nose.
“I know what you did…”
Shit. I bite my lip.
That damn Andy spilled the beans.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about…” I bluff.
“No, I know you know exactly what I’m talking about…”
His brown eyes virtually smolder, and my carefully waxed legs go secretly weak at the knees.
And for the first time in my life, I can’t tell if the crazy little motion is out of fear… or something that is scarily close to being desire…