The Story Of Us - Teri Wilson Page 0,8
much longer was this going to last? A man could only make so much risotto.
“Oh, boy,” she mumbled to herself.
Why did she get the feeling that if unrequited love had a flavor, it would taste exactly like a creamy Italian rice dish with generous amounts of shaved Parmesan?
Later that night, Jamie wrapped her coziest cardigan around herself as she stood in front of the microwave oven in her kitchen, watching her Lean Cuisine spin round and round. She would’ve killed for a plate of Rick’s infamous risotto right then, but alas, the only thing she had on hand was a frozen dinner and a nice bottle of red. At least the Lean Cuisine was spaghetti, her favorite. She’d simply have to wait until the next time she ate at Rick’s restaurant to dive into a plate of unrequited love.
It wasn’t so bad, really. She loved quiet nights at home. Plus, her dream of becoming a novelist wasn’t going to happen without spending some quality time crafting her prose. When the microwave dinged, she removed the plastic tray containing her meal and inhaled the yummy scents of oregano and marinara sauce. Right on cue, Eliot appeared from out of nowhere and began rubbing against her legs.
Meow.
Honestly, his begging was shameless sometimes.
“Eliot. I just fed you.” She speared a fork into the tiny pile of spaghetti and shuffled toward the dining room in her sweatpants. Eliot followed her but abandoned begging for food in favor of chasing after the pompoms on her slippers as she walked.
Jamie’s laptop sat open on the dining room table next to a yellow legal pad and a pile of discarded balls of paper, each one representing a failed attempt at chapter one of a new manuscript. But the night was young. She still had plenty of time to make some real progress on a fresh story.
Jamie had been toying with an idea for a cozy mystery with a rom-com twist for days but couldn’t seem to get going. It was beyond frustrating. She loved books. She lived and breathed them. How could writing one be such a struggle?
She took a sip of wine and looked over what she’d managed to type so far. It didn’t take long.
Love Can Be Murder
Chapter One
Maria paced across the kitchen floor, eyeing her phone. She paused in front of it. Started pacing again. Another pause.
Should I call him? Was it too soon? Too late?
Jamie set down her wineglass, took a deep breath and added another sentence.
She let out a sigh.
Not exactly riveting. She frowned at the screen, deleted the sentence and tried again.
She exhaled.
Groundbreaking. Next, she should probably start working on the acceptance speech for her Pulitzer.
She jabbed at the backspace key until, yet again, a blank screen stared her in the face. Somehow it felt as if the little blinking cursor was mocking her. How did actual authors do this?
Maybe she just needed a little inspiration. Or maybe worrying about Ridley Property Development’s plan for the business district was messing with her creative flow.
Her jaw clenched. Definitely the latter—yet another reason to turn up at the town council meeting and let them know exactly how she felt about any plans to overhaul Waterford’s most charming neighborhood.
She closed the laptop forcefully, just shy of slamming it shut.
Take that, mean blinking cursor.
The book she’d started reading a few days ago was right there next to her half-eaten dinner, practically begging to be read—a cozy mystery with a strong, brilliant heroine who became an amateur sleuth after serving as a spy during World War II. Just the sort of can-do character who’d never let some horrible property developer ruin everything she held dear.
Jamie grabbed the novel and headed toward the living room. “Snuggle time on the couch it is.”
Meow.
Eliot trotted after her, vocalizing his ardent approval of the sudden change in plans for the evening. Next to accompanying her to the bookshop and begging for people food, cuddling was his favorite hobby.
Jamie dropped onto the sofa and mentally scored another point on the tally in favor of her dating hiatus as Eliot curled into her lap and kneaded at her sweatpants with his front paws—“making biscuits,” as Aunt Anita always called it. She smiled as he started to purr.
Less time spent on relationships doomed for failure meant more time for her only truly loyal male companion. If only he could help her come up with a plot for her novel and stop whatever disaster was awaiting the business district, he’d be perfect.
That was probably