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)
I laugh. “Have you ever kissed a costar? For a role?” I ask her.
“A couple of times, but those don’t count. Makeout scenes are actually terrible. You have some sweaty director in a chair five feet away yelling action at the two of you, and the heat from the lights is making you both sweat, while the guy you’re being forced to pretend to want to kiss has been a whiny little bitch for the last two solid weeks and you’d rather be strangling him with your hands than your tongue.”
“Sounds awful.”
“It is very, very hard being an actress. Okay, going home. Out of alcohol.” She stands up, but I remain in my chair as she walks down the porch steps. “And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you smooched the cop. Hell, this is my third mimosa today—I probably won’t even remember it happened by the time I make it home.”
“Thank you.”
As Mari is walking away, she says, “And yes, I am possibly an alcoholic, but I’m too old for interventions, so don’t even try.”
“I won’t. I promise. Enjoy your next mimosa.”
“I will. Enjoy your next makeout.”
All I can do is laugh at that. It feels good to laugh, because the last twenty-four hours have been getting stressful again.
I walk back into the house and take a seat in front of my laptop. The writing was going well for like an entire day after Saint kissed me. But then day two came, and I still hadn’t heard a word from him. The silence started to get the best of me, even though he owes me nothing. Not even a text.
But it’s almost as if I need another boost of him to get back into my groove. I’ve been trying to live off the memory of the kiss alone. The way his lips moved against mine, the feel of his hands on me, the unexpected thrill of it all. It’s a kiss that has taken root in my thoughts, refusing to let go, lingering in the quiet moments. Which has literally been every moment since he slammed the door.
At least I was productive after. I wrote several chapters, words pouring out of me like they hadn’t in weeks. I even rewrote some of the notes I’ve taken over the past year and a half to make Cam more like Saint. Every time I sat down to type, I saw Saint in my mind—his face, his voice, his presence. Cam took on new dimensions, becoming a character that felt more real, more tangible, because I had someone to model him after. It felt exhilarating, watching the pages fill with a story that was suddenly alive in a way it hadn’t been before.
But before Mari came over, I had been staring at this blinking cursor taunting me again as I struggled to find the words.
I know what needs to happen in the story, but the energy from the kiss has faded, leaving me with the familiar frustration of writer’s block. It’s as if the high from that moment has worn off, and now I’m left wondering if I can even recapture it again without him.
I talked to Nora last night, but I didn’t tell her about the kiss. Other than Mari, who knows next to nothing about me or my life, I’m never telling anyone. That is definitely something I want to keep private. I’ve always been a private person, and this . . . well, this feels too personal, too complicated to share, even with my best friend.
I write under my real name, but just my first and middle name. My last name is Andrews, but readers don’t know that. I’ve never worried too much about my personal life being revealed to them. They know very little about me. I have the version of myself I portray to the readers, but none of them know if I’m dating or married or single or a mother or a lonely cat lady. I don’t put anything out there beyond my writing, and I want to keep it that way. It’s always been a kind of shield, keeping my real life separate from the persona I present to the world. My readers get the stories, but they don’t get me, and that’s how I like it.
Which is why—as much as I trust Nora—I would never tell her about my kiss with Saint. I feel too guilty, and she’s one of the only true friends in all areas of my life. I’d hate to taint her version of me, whatever that may be.
I’m more worried about how other people would feel about my actions than how I feel. Is this really any different from two actors kissing for the camera? It’s art.
Obviously, a spouse would never be forgiven for kissing someone else based on the excuse that it’s research for a book, but it sure as hell makes it easier to forgive myself that way. I feel very little guilt compared to the moment it happened, thanks to all the clever ways I’ve excused it. And I don’t know what that says about me. Whether it means I’m cold and detached—or is it simply that I’ve compartmentalized what happened as part of my process, something separate from real life?