32
Annie
I drank too much coffee, too much wine. Ate too many olives.
I also gained ten pounds and gave myself carpel tunnel in the days running together of nothing but writing—but I finished.
The f*****g end.
Sitting back, I took a deep breath and let it slowly eek from my parted lips. Done. I’d written three novels in two months. My trilogy sat completed, my characters finally got their happily ever after—and I’d had two agents chomping at the bit and emailing me every other day for the final manuscript.
Both had made offers of representation, but I waited for feedback from the final book before deciding.
I glanced outside, rolling my shoulders, and blinking at finding snow flying.
Shit. How long have I been holed up in here?
Rubbing at my stiff neck, I pushed up from my chair.
