The Price of Inertia (The Seven Sins #4) - Lily Zante Page 0,24

written more today than I have in the entire month.

Picking up my plate, I start to eat but the story is so fresh and vibrant, I can’t eat for long. I begin typing up the longhand notes and adding to the first draft of my story. The words fly from my fingers faster than I can type them.

This is what it’s like when the words flow; when everything comes together and the story pours out of me. It’s a wonderful streak, and one that probably won’t last for long; it’s as rare as it is satisfying. But I’m going to go with this. I know from experience how elusive such things are, so I will ride this out for as long as I can.

When I look up again, it’s almost midnight. I finish off what’s left of my lunch and I’m so hungry that eating it eight hours later makes no difference to how it tastes.

There’s an odor in the room. I sniff. I haven’t showered today either and the blinds are still drawn.

Feeling more like a slob than ever, I stand up and roar. It’s an animalistic sound but as I walk around, flexing my fingers and loosening my arms by shaking them, my body is tighter than ever. I feel closed up and rigid.

I haven’t even walked around the house much, moving from the TV room to the kitchen is what I usually manage.

I run my hand over my flabby belly and cringe. A physique likes Trevor’s is what I want. I had it before and I don’t see why I can’t get it back.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll head straight to the gym and do a short workout on my own. I fired the trainer but there’s no reason I can’t use the gym.

Today has been a good day. I need to shower and go to bed. Just as I’m about to leave my study, I see my plate lying on the table. It’s a habit of mine to leave things lying around. But for some reason, I pick it up and head over to the kitchen then stop.

The housekeeper sits at the island with her head in her hands. Her posture is slumped, she looks resigned. I seem to have caught her unawares, in an unguarded moment. She hasn’t even seen me, and I don’t want to interrupt her because she looks deep in thought. But I’m inside the kitchen now. I tiptoe over to the sink and set down my plate on the countertop. When I turn around, she’s looking at me.

“You’re up,” she says, sounding surprised.

“You told me not to wait up, but I couldn’t help myself,” I reply dryly.

She gapes at me in confusion yet seems a million miles away. “Your note,” I remind her. “You said don’t wait up.”

“Oh.”

I wait for her to ask me if I liked the quiche, or the salad, or anything else. I wait for small talk, only, she doesn’t say anything. She’s not her usual talkative self. She gets up from her stool and says ‘goodnight’ and leaves.

The next morning, something isn’t right. I think I’m coming down with something because my first thought of the day is to head to the gym.

As I pass by the kitchen, I contemplate having a strong cup of coffee and maybe a donut or two. I’ve still got some left over from the box Mari gave me. Writing is damn hard work. Some like bars of chocolate, some like alcohol. Me, I like a box of donuts.

I should hit the gym first, then I can reward myself with coffee and donuts. Having made that executive decision, I head into the gym but the sight which greets me is that of Mari, or rather, her upturned butt, high up in the air. I stop in my tracks. She’s in a V-shape posture, with her feet and hands planted on a mat and her face turned down. She hasn’t seen me, but I have a pretty good view of her. She looks good.

Her butt looks great.

She’s wearing a crop top and I can see the sheen of perspiration on her back.

Blood rushes from my head straight to my groin and I feel lightheaded for the few seconds it takes her to notice that I’m gawping at her.

She stands up immediately. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here.” The disappointment in her voice is hard to ignore.

My body responds to her in a way I am ill prepared for. Excitement darts through me. I want