That’s Amore

Chapter One

I need more suet.

It’s the thought that runs most prominently through my head as I sit at my desk, looking out the big picture window of my office and into my backyard.

Certainly a better thought than “What the fuck should I write?” which has been the mantra for the past several weeks and will absolutely take over my brain if I don’t work hard to focus on the birds.

Honestly, the amount of money I spend on birdseed and suet and peanuts in the shells for the squirrels (squirrels gotta eat, too!) and little dried out corn cobs is insane. I am single-handedly keeping the birdseed company in business.

I sit back in my very comfortable desk chair, pushing it back enough so my feet don’t touch the ground, and blow out a huge breath. I’m doing that a lot lately. The sighing. The pathetic sighing. I sound like a leaky steam pipe half the time because all I can think of now is what if I’m tapped out?

Oh, God, what if I actually am tapped out?

No more ideas. No more meet-cutes. No more dark moments.

No more happily ever afters. Maybe I have a limit.

A finite number of stories within me, and I’ve used them all up.

Maybe it’s time to look for a new career.

I could probably get a job bagging groceries.

Or maybe as the person that sprays down cars before they head into the car wash.

I always thought it would be fun to use that water gun thingie.

And I bet spraying off bird poop or caked-on mud is very satisfying…

“Oh my God, stop. Just stop.”

Reggie lifts his little head from his dog bed and gives me a look with his beady, marble-sized Chihuahua eyes. He’s as tired of my pathetic whining as I am, I’m sure. If he could roll those buggy eyes, I bet he would.

I gesture to my keyboard and say to him, “Listen, you’re welcome to give it a shot. Maybe you should start pulling your weight around here, you know? I don’t see you doing anything to contribute to the mortgage.”

He continues to look at me for a good five seconds, then puts his head back down and closes his eyes with a sigh that says he is a very put-upon dog.

“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.”

The cardinal couple is back. She pecks at the ground while he sits on the feeder and knocks seed down to her.

Now, that’s true love. One squirrel chases another away, and I raise my voice and tell them there’s enough for all of them, as if they not only hear me but understand.

My gaze wanders back to my computer monitor and its antagonizing goddamn blinking cursor and the field of white on the screen.

It does say, “Chapter One,” so I’ve actually written two words today.

Not bad for a day’s work.

A groan of irritation rumbles up from my throat just as my phone buzzes on my desk. A glance at it tells me it’s my agent. Great. I seriously consider not answering it, but he’s not only my agent, he’s kinda my really good friend. A text pops up on my screen.

Birds’ll wait…answer the damn phone.

Shit. I hate that he knows me so well.

“I’ll have you know the birds are far more entertaining than anything on my computer screen right now,” I say by way of greeting.

“Why would you tell me that? I don’t want to hear that.

” Scott’s teasing, but then his voice goes slightly soft.

“Still struggling?” And is that sympathy I detect?

I’m not sure, but it’s not what I expect from him.

He’s usually a slave driver, a drill sergeant, and a badass all rolled into one—which really is what you want in an agent.

But he can also be a teddy bear, which is a good quality in a friend, and he knows that I’ve never had this kind of problem before.

He doesn’t take it lightly, and I appreciate that more than he knows.

“A little, yeah.” That’s a lie. It’s not a little. It’s a lot. It’s huge. I have a block the size of Montana, and I have no idea how to get past it.

“Well, I have an idea.” Scott’s voice rises a little in tone, as if he can barely contain his excitement, and I’m already worried.

“Okay.” I draw the word out so it has about five syllables, unsure where this is going. Plus, I love it when people who don’t write give me writing advice. So awesome.

“So, I was talking to Devon last night.” Devon is Scott’s husband, a super sweet guy who owns a moving company.

“He’s too good for you.” My standard line when Devon is introduced into the conversation.

“Tell me about it,” Scott says, his standard reply. “But I was telling him about your struggle.”

“Oh, good.” I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I fail.

“No, hear me out. His sister got back from her honeymoon last month and can’t stop talking about it, how romantic it was, that it was the most romantic place she’d ever been.

And I got to thinking, what better way to inspire some romance?

Going to a romantic spot, so…how would you feel about a change of venue?

For a few weeks or even a few months. Could that unstick you? ”

“A change of—like, go someplace else and try to write?”

“Exactly.”

“Where was this most romantic place?” I brace myself, expecting him to tell me I need to go off into a cabin in the forest or isolate myself by some obscure lake on a mountain. Neither of which sounds terrible, mind you, but I’m already pretty isolated at my own house, and it hasn’t helped.

“Rome.” He’s practically giddy. I can hear it in his voice.

“Rome? Rome Rome? As in Italy Rome? That Rome?”

“Exactly that Rome, yes.”

Okay, so not isolated. Not close, either, not by a long shot. “Ugh. I don’t know, Scott.”

“Come on, Lils, all that history? The art? The food ? I mean, think of the wine, for Christ’s sake.

” We both chuckle at that, and he goes on, but his voice does that softening thing again, and it occurs to me that he might actually be worried about me.

“Don’t you think you could find some inspiration there? ”

I hate to let him down, as my agent and as my friend. And I am kind of stuck as to how I can break this block. “Lemme think about it?”

His relief is almost palpable. “Absolutely. In the meantime, I’ll send you some of the info Devon’s sister gave me. Places to visit, restaurants to check out. I even have a place for you to stay.”

“You’ve done some work on this already, I see.” I want to be mildly insulted, but I’m actually not. I’m not surprised either. Scott is good at his job because he’s always prepared. Like I said: He excels at badassery.

We hang up after I promise I will actually think about it, that I’m not just killing time before saying no. Using my toes, I spin my chair around so my back is to my desk, and I take a good look around my office.

It’s a sizable space because I live in a sizable house.

There are four framed movie posters hanging on the walls—four of my books have been made into screenplays.

There are awards on one shelf, polished and shiny, some glass, others brass or gold-plated, various writing awards.

Not bad for a romance writer. We don’t get a ton of credit, since we’re rarely considered “literary.” Which is bullshit, but don’t get me started.

That’s another topic for another day. I’ve got photos of Reggie everywhere, because he’s adorable, and also because I’m a childless, crazy dog mom who loves her pet more than life itself.

My desk is large, my laptop state of the art.

My chair is leather, ergonomic, and expensive.

I had shelves built on two walls and over and around the doorway, and they’re stocked with books.

It’s my favorite room in the house, truth be told.

I love the huge windows, especially in the winter, when I can sit at my desk and watch the snow fall as I write.

It’s peaceful and comfortable, this room.

Overall, it’s the office of a highly successful person.

I am a highly successful person. I am very good at my job.

Or at least I used to think I was.

I take in a slow, deep breath through my nose and let it out through my mouth.

“Rome, huh?” I say it out loud and the words seem to float around the room, hanging in the air like clouds.

I do actually think about it. For the entire day—the entire day of not writing, let me clarify.

When I’m not writing—and when I’m supposed to be, but struggling, I do other stuff.

Laundry, for example. I walk Reggie. I watch TV.

I bake. I surf the internet under the guise of “research,” but really, I just look for cool clothes and things for my house.

I would leave and go do stuff, except I feel like if I stay in my house, I’m at least trying to work.

This block is bad, though. Worst I’ve ever had.

I’m trying my best not to drown in concern, so I decide to scrutinize my own face in the mirror while I ponder Rome.

Why? Because I want to see what a procrastinating and completely creatively empty writer looks like?

I don’t know. Don’t ask me stuff like that.

It’s not a bad face, if I do say so, but it seems like there’s a new line every time I look.

My eyes are a pretty cool blue, and now they crinkle at the corners when I smile.

They didn’t used to do that. I’ve got decent teeth, an oval face, and a strong jawline, thanks to my dad.

Because of my amazing hair stylist, my hair is a nice rich shade of light brown, and I don’t have a single gray.

Today. Ask me again in about three weeks.

I always wanted to be taller, but I’ve had to settle for an average-to-shortish five foot five.

I tuck some hair behind my ear and tip my head as I stare at my reflection and think about how there are still only two words on my computer screen.

“Well, Lily Chambers, what do you think? Maybe we should go to Rome, yeah?”