Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Chapter Six
“You are not going to believe what happened last night,” I say, practically vibrating with a mix of disbelief and exhilaration, the phone pressed tight to my ear. Sunlight streams through the kitchen window, but my mind is still replaying the bizarre, utterly unexpected encounter that somehow, miraculously, jump-started my brain.
“Oh good, something dramatic,” Nora says, ever the enthusiast for chaos. “Tell me everything. Did you finally get to page twenty-one?”
“Something infinitely better.” I can practically hear Nora’s ears perk up. “I had a visitor. A very, very unexpected visitor. And . . . he was a cop.”
A beat of silence. Then, a dramatic gasp from Nora. “A cop? Petra, what did you do? I swear, if you’re writing your next book from jail, I am not sending you care packages.”
“No, nothing like that,” I assure her, already picturing her imagining me in an orange jumpsuit. “There was a police chase that ended near my rental. Some convict. But he shot himself in the road, and then a cop knocked on my door to see if I knew him. At, like, five in the morning. I almost died, I was so scared. But oh, my God, you should have seen him.”
“The cop?” Nora asks. “Or the dead guy? There was actually a real-life dead guy? Jesus, Petra. Did you see a body?”
“Well, real-life dead guy makes no sense, but yes, it actually happened. I’m not talking about the dead guy, though, I’m talking about Cam. The cop.”
“His Name Was Cam?”
“No. It’s just what I call him because he’s exactly who I’m picturing as Cam now.”
Nora’s voice drops to that conspiratorial whisper she uses when she’s truly invested. “This is crazy. See? The universe is on your side. Was he hot? Because if it’s a cop, and it’s rural, there’s like a fifty-fifty chance he looks like he either hunts his own dinner in a fitted flannel shirt, or he can’t jump a fence.”
I lean against the counter, a genuine smile spreading across my face. “Nora. He was . . . so hot. And his name is even hot. Detective Nathaniel Saint.” I let the name hang in the air, relishing it.
Another gasp, even louder this time. “Stop it. That is such a book-boyfriend name. You have to be making this up. You probably fell asleep at your keyboard and dreamt him.”
“I swear it happened,” I insist, pushing off the counter and pacing the kitchen. “He was tall. And had these intense eyes. And the way his uniform fit . . . Ugh. My brain just immediately went, ‘Hello, Cam. Meet Reya’s leading man.’ It was like a sign, Nora. Like the universe decided to send me an actual living, breathing muse.”
“Your muse!” Nora crows, a triumphant note in her voice. “I knew it! The universe does love us! So, did you, like, get his number? Did you flirt? Did you offer him a cup of coffee and accidentally spill it on his very attractive uniform so you could help him take it off?”
I roll my eyes, though I’m still grinning. “No, you lunatic. I was too busy trying not to hyperventilate. But after he left, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. And then, I just wrote. I wrote pages, Nora. Actual, coherent pages.”
“No way,” she says, her tone shifting from playful incredulity to genuine surprise. “You’re not pulling my leg? You actually wrote something?”
“I’m serious,” I say, pulling up the file on my laptop. “I’m sending you the pages now.”
There’s a pause on Nora’s end, the sound of her typing, then a small “Ooh!” of surprise. “Petra! This is almost ten thousand words!” Her voice is practically giddy now. “See? I told you. You just needed a little reconnection to the book world to kick that block to the curb. And now karma’s dropped a hot cop in your lap. I think you’re getting your mojo back.”
“I guess so,” I admit, feeling a warmth spread through me that has nothing to do with the sun. It’s the warmth of words flowing again, of a story finally taking shape. “Writing just feels so . . . right, suddenly. Like something has been unlocked. I forgot how exciting it is.”
“You unlocked a payment from your publisher soon, that’s what you unlocked,” she says. “Okay, so here’s the crucial question. Is there a Ring camera? Do you have any security footage? Because I need a visual. For research purposes, obviously.”
I sigh dramatically, leaning my forehead against the cool surface of the refrigerator. “Believe me, I wish there was a camera. Or that I had thought to subtly, discreetly, incognito-ly snap a picture of him.”
The lingering image of him, framed by my cabin doorway, feels almost like a dream now, a vivid mirage. And while the words on the page are a fantastic start, a small, selfish part of me craves that visual proof, a physical anchor to the man who seemingly broke my curse.