An hour later, sitting cross-legged on the floor with my laptop balanced on my thighs and the keys warm beneath my fingertips, I stared at the blinking cursor. With a breath, I typed a sentence, read it, then deleted it. “s**t! s**t, s**t!” I groaned silently. I typed another, deleted.
The scene felt flat. Dammit! He was supposed to want her, not look like he was waiting for a freaking bus.
I chewed the inside of my cheek. The scene played out in my head, clear as a photograph, but when I tried to catch it...nope.
With a tired sigh I leaned back in my chair. Around me the house hummed: the fridge ticked, distant sirens wailed, the old pipes complained…and none of it helped. I used to write on autopilot, but lately, everything was a struggle.
A floorboard near the doorway gave the fami
