“Fine,” Rory huffs. Yawning, she rests her head against Dean’s shoulder. I slowly drink my beer, watching the lake whiz by, and the hot air slaps us in the face when we slow to make our way through the other part of the lake.

Rory pokes me, getting my attention. She points to a coastal-style house along the lake. It has a private dock, and a woman is lying out on it, long legs stretched out on her lounge chair. Her dark red hair is gathered up in a messy bun on the top of her head, and she has a book open over her face, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“I think that’s Chloe!” Rory whispers, though there’s no way the woman on the dock can hear us…I think. Almost choking on the mouthful of beer I just took, I cough, sputtering to turn and inconspicuously stare at the woman on the dock.

It is her. It has to be. And—fuck—even from here, I can tell time has done Chloe well.

“What makes you think that?” Dean asks, thankfully since I’m still not able to find my voice.

“Her dad lives in that house,” Rory says, continuing to whisper. “She bought it for him a few years ago.”

Right as we’re passing by, Chloe sits up, blinking in the bright sunlight. My heart skips a beat in my chest, and I don’t know what I want more: for her to look our way or completely ignore us. She reaches down and picks up her sunglasses from the dock and puts them on. She’s smiling, I can tell from here, and stands, bringing her phone to her ear.

Fuck, she looks good, and I feel like I did the summer I turned eighteen and Chloe went boating with us. I was so attracted to her it was hard to be around her. She was sixteen. I was eighteen. I knew I couldn’t pull her around to the side of the boat and kiss her like I wanted to, and as a horny teenager, the sight of her in a yellow bikini was enough to get me hard. I avoided her the best I could, and she cried the next day, thinking I didn’t want to be her friend anymore.

If only she knew.

Chloe brings one hand to her face, shielding the sun from her vision, and looks out at the lake. Rory makes a move to stand and wave to her, but Chloe turns at the last second. Relief washes over me, quickly followed by disappointment.

What the fuck?

I tell myself it’s a good thing. That I really do want her to completely ignore us because there’s no fucking point in a forced and awkward hello.

But even I’m not buying that lie.

Chapter Seven

Chloe

“That wasn’t very nice.” I throw my pen down on my open notebook and flop back onto the lounge chair. I’m hot, sweaty, and want a drink, but I was determined to stay out here on the dock until I came up with a detailed outline for the next two chapters of my book. I got one chapter written in the early morning hours, after waking up at four AM with my characters talking in my head so loudly I couldn’t not get up and write. I went back to sleep around six-thirty, woke up around ten, and have been out here, making myself suffer as punishment.

Because my characters are going in a totally different direction than I originally anticipated, throwing even me for a loop, which is why I’m speaking harshly to them right now. Trading my notebook for a paperback copy of the very first book in the series, I randomly crack it open and start reading, going over the details and plot I love so very much.

Three chapters later, I lie back, put the book over my face for shade, and get some sun before it starts to storm. Only about ten minutes later, my phone dings with a text, and I smile when I see Charles’s name. Like me, he doesn’t like to talk on the phone, yet we send each other voice messages via text message all the time.

No matter what someone says, it’s different. Yeah, we’re talking, but not in real time. And if I leave an awkward message, I can delete and try again. Which I do…all the time, even though I feel just as comfortable around Charles as I do around Farisha. But if anyone can second-guess any single little thing they say or do…it’s me.

A boat passes by, and I divert my eyes from the lake to my phone, bringing it closer to my ear so I can hear.

“We just wrapped up another day of shooting,” Charles says. “And I was thinking, because I know you’re working on the next book, you should really write in a scene where Marcus has to sword fight someone.”

I let out a snort of laughter and hold down the little record icon on my text message. “Marcus is a vampire. Why in the world would he fight with a sword? He’s kind of made it a point to show off his fangs throughout this whole thing, if you haven’t noticed.” I send my voice message and gather up my stuff, needing a break from the sun. I get to the end of the dock when Charles sends another message.

“Maybe he and Kellie come across demons that can only be killed by consecrated silver?”

“Okay, I kind of like that idea,” I send back as I let myself through the gate. Balloon, inside because of the heat, jumps up and down at the glass door as soon as he sees me. “Give me a day to work it into my outline. But why swords?”

I hang my towel, which is more damp with sweat than lake water, on the fence and go into the house, letting out a sigh of relief when the cool air hits me. Dad is over at Wendy’s today, repainting the upstairs bedrooms. They’re unofficially getting things one step closer to opening the house up to renters, and I’m enjoying the quiet of the house.

My phone vibrates in my hand, and I press play on Charles’s message. “We had some spare time on set, and I messed around with Kellie’s sword. If she has one, makes sense Marcus would be well-versed in how to use it.”

“It does,” I send back. “I’m going to think on this, but fuck you for messing with the flow of the story,” I add with a laugh, though my story isn’t flowing very well at all, and I hate how I’m stuck. I know what needs to happen, and I can see the ending unfolding in my head. It’s just getting there that’s tripping me up, and every time I start writing, my mind wanders, but where it’s trying to go…I don’t have a fucking clue.

“Hungry?” I ask Balloon, dropping my sunglasses, notebook, and book on the kitchen counter. “I’m starving.” I go to the fridge, pulling up a text message to Marcy, the owner of the posh stable my horse, Spartan, is boarded at. He’s the only pet I have, and I miss him dearly already. He’s an off-the-track thoroughbred, rescued six years ago from an abusive life on the racetrack. He slipped in the pasture on a rare rainy day recently, and we’ve been taking the last few weeks off from riding, making my escape from Los Angeles a bit easier than it normally would be. He’s well taken care of, and when I’m busy touring the world, a few girls who come to the barn for riding lessons brush him and feed him way too many treats.

Marcy texts me back only a minute later, while I’m still standing in front of the fridge looking at the vast array of food but not able to decide what to make. Spartan is doing just fine, and she adds a picture of him being loved on by three little girls. I feel a tug on my heart, missing my big beast. He’s a character in my series, though unlike the fictional Spartan, my real-life horse doesn’t have magical powers.

Settling on a block of cheese and a carton of strawberries, I plop down in front of the TV, watching a show about people with nasty wounds on their feet while I eat. Half an hour later I shower and move into the little-used office in the lake house, trying to force myself to write.