I pushed my body even though it wasn’t designed for anything more strenuous than speed-walking toward beer. I wasn’t stopping until my head was full of ideas. And not just any ideas, but good, usable ideas that would ensure I could finish my book in the next two weeks, then edit and publish it by May fifth.
Without a book to promote, I couldn’t win that bet with Dad. And the idea of losing was just… I shuddered.
I’d rather jump headfirst into some medieval torturer’s largest and most disgusting pit of vipers.
My head works in mysterious ways. When I push my body to its limit, my mind finally gives up being blocked. Probably my subconscious knew I’d jog until I collapsed if it didn’t do what I wanted. As I jogged, snippets of dialog and scenarios and scenes swirled in my head like a confetti storm, enough to make me slightly dizzy. Or maybe the lightheadedness was due to the fact that I couldn’t suck in enough air to sustain my out-of-shape body’s sad attempt to run.
Also, I hadn’t had much to eat. And my refrigerator didn’t have much to live on while I holed up to work on my book.
Not good.
Wars aren’t won based on which general is the smartest. They’re won based on who has the best supply lines and provisions. I had two weeks to go to finish my book and send it to my editor, and nobody can fight on an empty stomach.
I drove my car from the trail to Sunny’s Mart, parked and marched inside, snagging a huge cart along the way. I knew exactly what I needed and where to find it.
First, white wines from Virginia. The store had blended whites from Jefferson Vineyards, and I loved them, having discovered the brand while attending the University of Virginia. I took all seven bottles, then moved on to the section with flavored beers from the local brewery, Hop Hop Hooray. They made the most amazing raspberry and Virginia apple beer. The only problem was that their stock was limited. They usually sold them at their own bar and restaurant in Kingstree. I almost never went, because going out meant I had to people. (People was most certainly a verb.) Kingstree was a lovely, sleepy little town in Central Virginia, but people could be so…friendly and overly talkative, to put it kindly.
T
hat fact should’ve been in the real estate brochures, I thought morosely. It might’ve made a difference in my decision to move here. I’d only wanted to settle down in a small town after living in D.C. because a tiny population meant very little human interaction, a delight to my small hermit heart. Or so I’d assumed.
I told myself the town had a well-stocked grocery store, so I should be happy. And I would be, as long as it had… I scanned the beer section, and—yes!—Hop Hop Hooray sat on the shelves. Woohoo! Doing a little victory shimmy, I grabbed the entire stock of Triple-H beer and placed it in my cart. Along with two bottles of decent whiskey, just in case. Then I went down the snack aisle and cleaned out the Animal Crackers section, too.
Now for some ice cream…
I prayed that Sunny’s had just gotten a shipment from Bouncing Cows. It was a local dairy that only used organic milk from grass-fed cows to make ice cream. Once you had it, you could never go back to eating the mass-produced stuff. And out of all the flavors they offered, my absolute favorite was Bouncy Bare Monkeys. It had dark chocolate chunks and mini-marshmallows in the smoothest, richest chocolate ice cream ever. It was a kind of crack that the rest of the country hadn’t discovered yet. It tasted like a fever dream of tiny little angels copulating on your tongue.
Saliva pooled in my mouth. Just like Hop Hop Hooray, Bouncing Cows never made enough for my taste. If they did, I would’ve started every day with a big bowl of their Bouncy Bare Monkeys.
I maneuvered my cart around the corner, and Ah-ha! There it was.
I inhaled, feeling an almost Tantric bliss. It seemed like an incandescent shaft of heavenly sunlight was illuminating the freezer in front of me. The special jumbo tub! And there was only one left!
Closing my eyes in silent thanks, I opened the door, wrapped my hand around the tub and pulled.
It didn’t budge.
I scowled and opened my eyes. Another hand was on the carton, the long, strong fingers latched around the lip of the lid like demon claws from the darkest depths of hell.
Snarling, I turned around, then closed my right eye and squinted so I could see the would-be thief better.
Holy shit. What the…
My mind went blank for a second as I took him in. Hot shivers skittered along my spine. What a face… And what a waste.
Longish black hair that reached a little below his ears. Strong, bold lines. Brilliant, piercing blue eyes and a thin, straight nose. His lips were a little puffy, like he’d gotten really lucky in the genetics lottery or lightly cuffed in the mouth. Probably the latter. Anyone who’d snatch someone else’s ice cream…
Regardless, I couldn’t help but acknowledge—only to myself—that he’d be amazing on the cover of a romance novel. Dress him in a wet white button-down shirt (unbuttoned, of course) that clung to his torso…a pair of dark jeans that hung a little low on his hips… Mmm. Maybe put him in a meadow and have him stick a thumb into his waistband and look at the camera like “I want to have my way with you, you sultry vixen…”
Oh yeah. That would make readers one-click, just to own the damned shot of him.
Better yet, have him in my bed, naked and ready. He seemed fit and looked like he could screw until I saw stars and turned into a puddle of flesh. A strong orgasm usually helped with insomnia. And I hadn’t had any—orgasms, not insomnia—in a while.
Still, I reminded myself he was likely a terrible human being I shouldn’t fantasize about. Why else would he be holding on to my ice cream?
“Let go,” I said in my no-nonsense tone, the one that used to put fear into people before I’d quit my corporate job to be a writer.
He cocked an eyebrow. “You let go. I touched it first.”