Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 130255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
That was a very long-winded way of explaining that I just didn’t understand Max.
The writer in me wanted to. Grumpy heroes were the best heroes, after all, and my favourite stories to write were the ones where the grouchy hero slowly falls for the bright, optimistic heroine.
Don’t get me wrong, I had no fancy ideas of that happening in real life.
I wrote fiction.
I wasn’t sure that kind of thing happened in real life.
If it did, it wasn’t going to happen to me.
Yes, that was at odds with my optimistic outlook, but romance was where I was a bit of a realist. My dating life had given me plenty of inspiration for my novels, but that was about it, sadly.
Actually, calling what I had a ‘dating life’ was peak optimism.
I had… a few random coffee and dinner dates that ended in either awkwardness, catfishing, or finding out the guy was already in a relationship.
Megan had told me I was no longer in charge of finding myself a boyfriend. She was, apparently.
She’d had about as much success as I had until she’d met her boyfriend, so yes. My realism as far as real-life romance went had a solid foundation.
I tapped my fingers against my desk. What did Max have against me? I wasn’t sure I’d been particularly rude to him. Sarcastic, yes. Snarky, yes, but rude? I hadn’t outright insulted him that I was aware of, and even if I had, he struck me as the type of person who didn’t get offended easily.
Not to mention that every conversation we’d had had pretty much been touch-and-go from the start. He was alone every time I saw him, and I’d been surprised when he’d walked into the pub in Windermere last night and sat at the bar.
It’d made sense when he’d said that Penny was his cousin. They got on almost as if they were siblings, and I wondered if he was that close with her brother.
It was none of my business. I really shouldn’t be wondering about that kind of thing.
The Duke of Windermere was none of my business.
Said the woman writing a book where the hero was essentially based on him.
Maybe it was time to go back to London.
Ugh, but then I’d just end up with writer’s block again.
Sigh.
My phone buzzed, drawing me out of my head. And thank God for that—it was a mess inside my brain today.
ABBY: Did you send the right document?
I frowned.
ME: Yes? It’s the one I’ve been working on. I saved it in a new file to make sure.
ABBY: Right. Ok. Did you send that to Kim, too?
ME: Yes. You were cc’d on it.
ABBY: Mm. Have you checked the title?
ME: It doesn’t have one yet. She knows that.
ABBY: Yes, Ellie, but the document is saved as “THIS SHIT NEEDS A TITLE” and the title inside the document is “Max IS A DICK.”
ME: Ah.
ABBY: You might want to send Kim a follow-up.
ABBY: And who is Max??? And why is he a dick???
Bugger it.
I really screwed myself over with this one.
Why on Earth hadn’t I changed that title? Or the document name? What was wrong with me?
I ignored her last question and typed out a quick follow-up to my editor with an apology for my mishap. She replied quickly.
LOL, Ellie, I’m not surprised at all. I was waiting for this email. Did Abby make you send it?
And who’s Max???
Why did everyone want to know who Max was?
I told her the same thing I was about to reply to Abby: nobody special. It wasn’t a lie. He wasn’t special. He was a pain in my arse, both fictionally and in real life, and I really never should have written his name in that book.
Or based the main character off him.
At least the heroine wasn’t a redhead.
I had that going for me.
She was blonde all the way.
I had to have a little separation, you know?
I needed some fresh air.
I scooted the chair back from the desk and got up, then headed outside. I was only going to sit on the doorstep. There was less of a chance of me running into my grumpy, secret muse that way.
Plus, it was all I really needed. There was a great view of the lake, the flowers made it all smell pretty, and there was just enough shade from all the trees that I could sit there without dying in the heat.
And if I sat in the doorway, I could still supervise Winston who was sitting in the window chirping at the birds.
Perhaps I’d take the keys and close the door behind me.
Yeah. I’d do that.
I grabbed the keys from my bag in the hallway and stepped outside, quickly pulling the door shut behind me as the sound of Winston’s paws hitting the wooden floor reached my ears.
That cat could hear a door opening from miles away. He was more attuned to it than he was to a bag of treats, and that was saying something.