19. Chapter 19
Three days.
I have three days to finish this fucking book, and I feel like I’m drowning.
I wrote for hours after Oakley fucked me in the park and then left. Since then things have been … robotic. I feel like I’m writing what I should and not what the story actually is. It’s got all the pieces I usually put in, and yet I fucking hate it.
I’ve been taking things slow with Oakley as well. After our … park incident, things were intense, and I felt like I had too much going on all at once. We discussed taking things slowly, especially while I finished this damn book. But right now? All I want to do is walk down to Grind Time and be in the same room as him. I need to feel that sense of calm that only he brings me.
So, that’s exactly what I do.
Loading up all my shit takes far too long for me, and by the time I’m walking toward the coffee shop, I’m antsy and flustered.
“Good aft— Willow.” The relief and happiness on Oakley’s face make my heart rate speed up.
Taking things slowly was a terrible idea. Good job, Will.
“Hi.” I throw my hand up in an awkward wave. I take a quick look around and see two teens in one corner, but otherwise the place is empty.
Sure, we’ve talked, but it’s been a couple of days since we’ve actually seen each other, and it suddenly feels like this giant chasm is between us. I hate everything about it.
“What sandwich do you want today, Will?” he says softly, already working the espresso machine for my latte.
“Umm, surprise me.”
We stare at each other for a second before I shift and move to sit at a table in the opposite corner from the teens.
Oakley comes over five minutes later and sits down at the table.
“I’ve missed you,” he says with a smile. “How’s writing going?”
He’s been the most supportive person I could ever dream of. He’s been checking in but also giving me time to get into a flow without interruptions.
“It’s a nightmare,” I say, snagging the caprese panini he made me and taking a bite.
“Anything I can do to help?” I see his arm reach under the table before I feel his warm palm on my thigh. He gives me a little squeeze of support, and I realize maybe he is exactly what I need to get this damn book done.
“Can I stay after close?” I ask before taking a sip of my latte.
“You can always stay; you never need to ask, you know that.”
“I know, I just feel so fucking awkward right now and I don’t even know why. This book is kicking my ass. I thought staying home in my writing cave would help me figure it all out, but it all just feels wrong. And I missed you. So damn much.” I suck in a deep breath, wondering if my brand of manic is going to eventually run him off. All my anxious thoughts are spewing out, and I feel like a fucking mess right now.
“Okay, well, I close up in twenty minutes. How about you just relax, don’t think about writing or anything book related, and when I’m done cleaning, we can head upstairs and you can tell me everything you feel like you’re hung up on.”
I nod and feel my throat constrict with just how understanding he is.
He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met, and the fact that he just lets me be me makes me think this could be the real deal.
He stands up, leaning toward me to press a kiss to my cheek before standing to his full height and heading back to the counter. He wastes no time and starts cleaning, giving me plenty of arm candy to watch as he does.
An orgasm. Maybe that’s what I need to unblock my brain.
I shake my head, making a pact with myself that I can only have sex with Oakley if I hit my word count for the day. I need to keep my priorities, or I’ll end up in his bed all night and really miss my deadline.
God, I’m a disaster. I roll my eyes at myself and continue to watch Oakley close down the shop. Before I know it, he’s done and kicking out the teens before locking the front door.
“Ready?” I look down at the table and realize—sometime in my mindless thoughts—I finished my sandwich and coffee, and he somehow already cleaned it up. Which makes me sad because I didn’t even get to savor it, didn’t get to enjoy how freaking good it was. I can’t wait until this book is done and I’m able to get out of this damn funk.
“Ready?”
I take the hand he’s holding out, and he leads me to the stairs.
I sit on his couch once we’re inside and watch him as he fusses around, picking up things, getting me water, and overall being adorable.
“James,” I say.
His eyes lift to mine, and I pat the seat next to me.
“Sorry, I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”
I lean into him, cuddling into his chest and breathing him in. Instantly, my head is calmer and my racing thoughts mellow.
“I hate everything I’ve been writing,” I murmur.
“How can I help?” I love that he doesn’t offer immediate solutions; he just asks me what I need.
“I have no clue. I wrote a shit-ton after you— After we— After the time we were together that kind of sucked.” I wince.
“That’s a very nice way to put what happened. Continue.”
“I wrote all night. I had so many emotions to get out that I just threw them into the book. The next couple of days, I realized none of it worked with what I usually write, so I moved it into a separate document and moved on. Well, attempted to move on.”
“Why don’t you think it would work within the book?” he asks as his fingertips trail up and down my arm.
“It feels more … romantic. It no longer became about him killing and hiding it; it became a love story between him and his informant.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
I smile at his innocent question. Maybe I am just stuck in my ways and not being open to what the story could be. Too hung up on what works and not pushing myself to do something new.
“I’m not exactly sure. Everything I’ve been writing in the last week or so feels so canned. Maybe I do need to revisit it. Maybe this isn’t a true thriller,” I think out loud. “What if I don’t label it? What if I market it as a love story with a twist and just see where it takes me? I have a loyal fan base and if they hate it, they hate it. But somehow, my normal routine, normal approach isn’t working.”
“I love the way your brain works,” he whispers.
I look up at him and chuckle. “You mean, a mess of anxiety and a thought process that only makes sense to me? And even then, sometimes I don’t understand it.”
“Intelligent, on a whole different playing field, with no limitations—take your pick,” he says instead of letting me be a downer to myself.
“It’s not all that glamourous.”
“To you. So, how can I help? Do you want to go home and write all night? Stay here? I’ll cook you food and keep you sustained if you’d like.”
I let out a sigh and burrow into him more. “Can I set up shop here and just see where it goes? I promise not to interrupt your routine and all that.”
“Will.” He cups my cheek and draws it up so I’m looking at him. “Interrupt, please. Helping you is all I want to do, so whatever else I had going on—which, admittedly, isn’t much—is going on the backburner.”
“You’re like a mythical creature, you know that?”
His laugh is loud and strong, and it makes me smile. “How so?”
“You’re ready to drop everything to basically cater to my every need because I’m on a deadline of my own making. Do you see how rare that is?”
“I’ll be honest and say I don’t really keep up with how other people handle their relationships, but I do know that if you need help, whatever that looks like, I want to be the one to do it.” He shrugs.
“Just that simple?” I ask.
“Just that simple.”
I stretch up and kiss him hard. “Thank you,” I whisper against his lips.
“Anytime. So, what do you need, Trouble?”
I smirk at his rare use of the nickname he gave me our first night together.
“A place to set up? And possibly the use of your brain?” I smile cheekily.
“Done.” He presses one more kiss to my lips before shifting me so he can stand up. He moves to the little dining area he has near the kitchen and clears it off, before grabbing my laptop and notepad, laying them out nicely before turning back to me. I roll my lips inward to stop the smile on my face from spreading.
He really is too adorable.
Standing up, I sit in the chair he’s pulled out for me and start up my laptop.
“So, if I shift everything, do I keep the general storyline?”
“What would the endgame be if you move to a love story?” he asks thoughtfully.
“I mean, a happy ending, but more specifically, I think I would like to keep him as the killer and the barista as the informant. Maybe she figures out who he is and secretly loves it?”
“What if she not so secretly loves it and joins in?” He taps his lips with a finger.
“Joins in the killing?”
“Yeah, I mean, why not? If you want it to fundamentally be a love story, wouldn’t she be accepting of what he does to an extent? Or are you wanting him to get redemption because of her?”
“Well, damn, you’re good at this.” I’m stunned. Sure, he reads a lot, so I figured he could help me talk through this, but what I didn’t expect was him to break down how to write a love story like it was his job and then give me options.
“Am I?” He looks shocked.
“Oh yeah. I think I like the idea of her joining him. Giving him redemption feels too predictable.”
“Will what you wrote and then cut work with that, though?”
I think back to the pages I wrote, think about the emotions both characters went through, and realize this is exactly what I was leading to. I wrote about them getting close, sharing secrets, sure, but I also wrote about her realization that he wasn’t who she thought he was. It led to a lot of confusion on her end and even more questions, and I think I could absolutely have her realize that being with him is the right move for her.
“Yeah. Holy shit, I think it’ll work perfectly.” My mind starts working a mile a minute, and my fingers move to the keyboard without another thought.
A kiss to my temple is the only thing I remember as I buckle into an intense writing session.
A plate hits the table softly, and I see a couple of slices of pizza and a cup of water.
I eat it like I’m starving, and I probably am. I don’t know what time it is. I’ve switched my computer into focus mode so nothing distracts me.
I briefly look up and see Oakley looking at me with a small smile on his face.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
I eat everything within minutes and then go back to writing. Things are going well so far.
The next time I look up, the sun is rising. I look down at the document and realize I’m about two-thirds through. One more good day of writing, and I’ll actually make this deadline.
My eyes are bleary as I look around and realize I don’t see Oakley. Wondering if he’s still in bed, I stumble over to his room and find it empty.
He’s probably already at work.
I decide to lay down for a minute, and work up the energy to head downstairs to find him, maybe get some coffee in the process.
As my head hits his pillow, I think about how sweet he was last night. How much he took care of me when I zoned out and essentially ignored him.
The last thought in my head is how I think I could love him in time. Hell, I probably already do, and then I drift off to sleep.