EVIE’S POV
I spend the next hour attempting to convince myself that what happened at lunch was entirely normal.
It doesn’t work.
At all.
Instead, every time I look at my manuscript, my brain helpfully replays the exact moment my thumb brushed across Alexander’s lip.
Wonderful.
Absolutely wonderful.
I sigh loudly and force myself to look back at my laptop.
My protagonist is currently trying not to die whilst navigating an abandoned shopping centre, and somehow that feels significantly easier than processing my own embarrassment.
I add another scene.
Edit two paragraphs.
Delete an entire page.
Rewrite half of it.
Read it back.
Decide I hate it.
Then decide I don’t.
Writing really is an exercise in mild insanity.
The office around me remains mostly quiet. People drift in and
