Chapter 2
Two
Faye
I sit back in my desk chair and sigh.
I’ve just typed The End on the final book in the series and…
I’m unsettled.
It’s good.
Maybe the best thing I’ve ever written.
And I’m terrified.
Because it’s the end and I’m not sure it’s good enough.
No. It’s good enough. I’ve never worked harder on a book. Not ever.
So the terror is coming from…not being ready to let it go?
Or maybe a worry because once this series is complete, my readers will forget about me and won’t read another one of my books.
Ever.
Maybe they’ll even hate this one.
Maybe—
“Jesus, Faye,” I whisper, slamming the door on those thoughts and shoving in my keyboard. “Enough.”
It’s good.
My hero is swoony.
My heroine is confident and sassy—the type of woman I’ve always wanted to be (and won’t ever be, but that’s the beauty of getting lost in a fictional world, am I right?).
The steam is…off the charts, so hot I’m shocked the words even came from my brain because just typing them on the keyboard made me blush. Speaking them aloud is absolutely never going to happen.
And my favorite part?
The thing that ties all of my books together—from small town to sports to romantasy—is the way the hero sees something special in the heroine, something that may seem normal to the outside world, may even seem boring to everyone.
Except that hero. And those small pieces, the simple ones, the quiet parts that are so often overlooked…
those are the reasons he falls for her, why he thinks she’s the most beautiful woman in the world, why his heart is hers and hers alone, and why he would do anything—put his body between hers and a bullet, battle a mystical mage, hit an asshole on the other hockey team for besmirching her honor—all just to keep her safe.
Emotionally. Physically.
That’s the part I live for.
That’s what has tears clinging to my lashes as I write the scenes where he shows the heroine she’s not ordinary—not only because she can wield a sword or has magical powers the world has never seen, not because she plays a sport better than any other woman or has the business acumen to take on powerful billionaires.
Because she’s her.
And that means she’s perfect for him. That he’ll bend over backward to be the perfect man for her right back.
My book is that.
It’s more.
It’s one of the special ones, the book babies I’ve tinkered with, agonizing over each and every comma placement, trying to be intentional about adjective and word choice, making certain the dialogue is tight and snappy.
Some books come easy.
This isn’t one of them.
It was a struggle, a slog, a gritting my teeth and forcing myself to sit in my chair, to move my fingers on the keyboard, to push through the tough scenes…
And now I’m through to the other side.
And it’s beautiful.
But there’s no one to share this moment with.
No lover, no friend I’m close enough with to call and celebrate with.
My neighbors are nice enough to include me in their monthly Book Club, but that’s mostly just an excuse to drink wine and shit talk men.
Since I don’t have one of those, I usually stick to drinking wine.
My editor—speaking of whom, is waiting on the manuscript so I take the opportunity to email it to her—and I are in different countries and frankly, neither of us are the type to sit on the phone and chitchat.
So…it’s just me.
Me to celebrate.
Me to find peace.
Me to do something that isn’t sitting in front of my computer for another second.
I exhale and shove my chair back, pushing up to my feet and stretching out my sore back and shoulders.
My hands and wrists ache, my neck is tight.
Though I try my best to use all the ergonomic tools I’ve acquired in the years since I became a full-time writer, I regularly find myself hunched over my keyboard like a gremlin, jabbing away at the keys, trying to keep up with the rapid-fire way my characters talk to me.
My aching body at least gives me something to do.
I go to my closet, pull out my yoga mat, foam rollers, and massage balls.
Then I spend the next hour stretching and rolling out the sore spots, using my massage gun as necessary.
It’s exhausting, just stretching and rolling and massaging…or maybe it’s that sitting in my chair for six or eight or ten hours a day isn’t conducive to a well-conditioned body.
I should take up some sort of exercise that’s good for me.
Like walking.
I wrinkle my nose. Yeah, that’s not going to happen.
Or I could exercise by lifting my wine glass up to my mouth repeatedly.
Yeah, that sounds a lot more fun.
Grinning, I keep stretching and rolling and massage-gunning until my sore spots are no longer sore and my arms are crying out for a wine-glass-filled workout.
I stow my stuff, head down to the kitchen, sniffing slightly when I make it there. It smells almost like my heater has turned on for the first time during cold season—the faint odor of burning dust or whatever—and even though it’s spring, it hasn’t been what I would call cold. Not for weeks now.
Definitely not cold enough to warrant the heater kicking on.
In fact, the flowers are blooming and the sky has been clear.
The fog we sometimes get in the South Bay not even clinging to the early mornings like it can in the fall and summer.
It’s just…pleasant.
So pleasant, I take my wine into my back yard, staring up at the clear sky, watching the clouds float by, listening to the wind rustling through the trees shading my deck, lining my fence.
Pretty flowers. Old-growth trees. A narrow patch of grass. A tiny pond that used to be filled with koi fish when my grandpa was alive but is now just a water feature.
But a pleasant one.
I sit and listen and drink my wine.
And when it’s finally late enough to go inside and make dinner, I push up to my feet and do just that.
Alone.