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I was finishing my shower when the smell of coffee floated underneath the door and grabbed hold of my senses. I rinsed quickly, then shut the water off so there would be plenty of hot water left for Brynlee since she was already up. I pulled on a clean hoodie and a fresh pair of joggers and grabbed my dirty clothes. Brynlee stood at the counter, watching the snow fall out the window as the coffee brewed beside her.
“Good morning,” I said, surprisingly chipper, given how tired I was from not sleeping well last night.
“Good morning.” She looked over her shoulder, her green eyes catching in the light. “I’m making coffee if you want some.”
“Thank you. I would love a cup.”
I set my dirty clothes beside my suitcase, ensuring everything was out of the way before heading to the kitchen.
“How did you sleep?” I asked, filling my cup after she filled hers.
“Not great. I think I got an hour, maybe two at most. You?”
“Same.” I leaned against the counter and lifted the cup to my lips as she took a sip of hers.
“It sucks. I really needed last night to be a good night’s sleep,” she grumbled softly, looking out the window again. “I’m never going to make my deadline at this rate.”
“For a book?”
She nodded but didn’t look at me.
“I’m up against a tight deadline, too. When is yours?”
“Christmas Eve.” She sighed and pulled her lips into a thin line as she looked my way. “You?”
“New Year’s Eve.”
“Are you close to finishing?” she asked, taking another sip.
I shook my head and let a grin tug at my lips.
“I haven’t even started.”
Her eyes widened with surprise.
“How long is it supposed to be?”
“Full length, which for me is around 80-90,000 words.”
She set her cup down and pulled her phone from her hoodie pocket, her fingers moving quickly across the screen.
“It’s already the 15th,” she said in disbelief. “You have less than three weeks to write an entire book?”
“Yup.”
She blinked several times.
“I don’t know how you can write so fast. It takes me at least a month to plot a book, then easily four to five to write the first draft.”
“I can usually crank books out pretty fast, but even this is pushing it for me.”
“Why did you wait so long to get started?” she asked, lifting her cup back to her lips.
“I don’t know,” I sighed, scrubbing a hand down my face. “I tried starting it months ago but couldn’t get it going. Nothing I tried worked. I was struggling to find any creativity and felt like I was being smothered. My girlfriend broke up with me three days ago, and I decided that was it.”
“That was the motivation to get you to start writing?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.
“No, that was the motivation to take my life back.”
She pulled her brows together and listened.
“Mary Jane was like a wet cloth wrapped tightly around my face, smothering and keeping me from breathing. It was one of those relationships where you get so comfortable with being in one and don’t realize that neither of you is getting what you need. But we were both too busy with work to see that. When she broke up with me, I felt relieved. I packed my shit, got in my truck, and just left.”
“Where were you going?”
“I don’t know,” I laughed. “I had no fucking clue. I just threw my belongings in my truck and got the hell out of there. I ended up on the highway with my past getting smaller in the rearview mirror as my future suddenly became brighter.”
“Wow,” she said softly. “That’s quite the inspiring story.”
I scrunched my face in response.
“Not really. I didn’t get too far before that blizzard hit, and I got stranded here. In my mind, I was going to go as far as the road would take me, living my life without being held back or tied down to anything. I planned to stay in hotels or rent a cabin by the lake where I could write and not have to answer to anyone.”
“Well, technically, you’re still in a cabin. However, I don’t know if there’s a lake anywhere near here. I should probably look that up—you know, just in case you decide to go all Jack Torrance on me,” she teased.
“Who?”
“You know—Jack? Here’s Johnny?” She raised her eyebrows and waited. “From The Shining?”
“Haven’t watched it,” I admitted.
“Come to think of it, you kinda remind me of him,” she said, narrowing her eyes as she pointed a finger at me. “He was a writer too. Wanted some peace and quiet to get his book done...”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I don’t joke when it comes to horror novels,” she said with so much seriousness.
“Well, good to know. But on that note, I’m going to make some breakfast to get the day started. You want some eggs?”
“I already ate, but thank you.” She glanced at the box of granola bars on the counter.
“That’s not breakfast.”
“Yes, it is.” She laughed, giving me a puzzled look. “That’s what I always eat for breakfast.”
“You need more brain fuel than that, especially if you’re going to crank out some words today. How do you like your eggs?” I asked, ignoring her objections as I set my cup on the counter and opened the fridge. I was glad we hadn’t lost power, and from the looks of it outside, we might catch a break after all now that the wind had calmed down some.
“You don’t have to make me breakfast,” she insisted with a hand on her hip. “I’m fine.”
I closed the refrigerator door and turned to face her with folded arms.
“You and I both know that you’re going to struggle with writing today if you don’t have the energy you need. Given that we both slept like shit last night, we’re going to need all the fuel we can get. We already have coffee, so why don’t you tell me how you like your eggs so I can make us breakfast and we can get our day started?”
“What if I don’t like eggs?” she countered, taking a step closer and jutting her chin.
“Then I’ll make something else. What do you want?”
I knew she was trying to make herself appear tough and independent, but she was so damn adorable that I wanted to bottle her up in a little snow globe and keep her forever. And that had nothing to do with the fact that I kind of wanted to shake her for being so difficult over food.
She sighed heavily, her shoulders sagging as she gave up.
“Eggs are fine, thank you. But I’ll help you cook.”
“I’ve got it,” I assured her.
“You cooked dinner for me last night. And now you’re insisting on making me breakfast. The least I can do is help.”
“I don’t think it takes two people to make eggs,” I teased. “If you want to be helpful, you can... I don’t know. Umm... tell me about the worst date you’ve ever had?”
I grabbed the pan and put it on the burner as she watched me.
“Why would I do that?”
“For research. I need a terrible date story, and I’m drawing blanks.”
“Because you’re such a great dater you’ve never had a bad one?”
I could hear the teasing in her tone and loved it. At least she wasn’t going on about how she thought I would kill her anymore.
“No, I just don’t date.”
“What?”
“It’s true,” I said, rubbing a slice of butter into the pan as it melted quickly against the heat. I grabbed an egg, cracked it, and slowly poured it into the pan.
“What about your girlfriend?”
“Ex,” I corrected.
“Okay, what about your ex-girlfriend? Didn’t you guys date?”
“Not really. I met her at the coffee shop where I used to go to write. We spent so much time together there that we kinda just fell into a relationship.”
“How long were you together?”
“A year? I don’t really remember. Time just started blurring together, and before I knew it, we were living together and in a relationship.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.” I sighed, moving the eggs with the spatula. “I dated more in my early twenties, but once I entered my thirties, I just got tired of all the bullshit and games that came with trying to get to know someone. Then Mary Jane came along, and it felt easy. Probably because neither of us was in love, but it was nice having someone to go home to most of the time.”
“Well, I’m twenty-eight and don’t date, so I can’t help you either,” she said almost wistfully.
“No boyfriend back home?” I asked, passing a glance at her over my shoulder.
“Nope. I like my space. My routines. I don’t like having to justify why I like watching the stuff I do or why I write what I write. It’s not too surprising that men aren’t typically attracted to a woman who has researched a hundred different ways to kill someone and make it look like an accident.”
“It wouldn’t bother me,” I said before I could stop myself. I ignored the heat from her gaze as it penetrated the back of my head while I flipped the eggs.
“You say that now, but I’ve seen the look that crosses your face when I mention random facts about serial killers.”
I removed the eggs from the heat and started the next batch. I had no idea how many she would eat, but I enjoyed talking with her and didn’t want it to stop.
“I think anyone might look that way, given the topic,” I teased. “Just like if I started spouting off random facts about the stuff I research, I would surely get the same reaction—or worse—from you.”
“I doubt it. I have pretty thick skin. Not much bothers me. I can watch true crime shows while eating dinner and not even flinch when they show the graphic stuff.”
I cracked the last egg into the skillet and tossed the shell into the trash.
“That’s not the kind of stuff I research,” I said evenly, leaning against the counter as my eyes locked onto hers.
“What do you research?” she asked, her voice quieter than a few minutes ago.
“We’ll just say that I watch a lot of porn.” I winked and turned around to tend to the eggs while I let that simmer.