Page 8 of Cupid's Beau

“Working on the concrete wall?” Jack rumbles.

I glance up, surprised he’s initiating conversation. “More like staring at a blank page and questioning all my life choices.”

He pours his coffee, his mouth twitching with amusement. “That bad?”

“Worse.”

Without answering, Jack turns to leave.

“Wait-” The word escapes before I can stop it. He pauses, cup halfway to his lips. “I just… thank you. For being so nice to my parents last night. For the dance and everything. You didn’t have to do that.”

He nods. “They’re good people.” Then he’s gone, taking his coffee and his walls with him.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Outside, the sun continues its slow rise over the bay, painting the water in shades of pink and gold. Somewhere upstairs, a door closes.

My cursor blinks on the empty page.

“Focus,” I tell myself firmly. “No more thinking about Jack Ellis’s ass in his running pants, ugh.”

Just then, the kitchen door swings open again, and I nearly jump out of my skin, but it’s just my mother.

“Was that Jack I heard?” She’s already pulling out pans for breakfast, moving with her usual pre-dawn energy.

“He was getting coffee.”

She hums. “And?”

“And nothing, Ma. He barely said two words.” I stare at my laptop screen like it might suddenly write my book for me. “And, I’m working.”

“On your empty document?” She peers over my shoulder. “Very minimalist.”

I playfully nudge her. “I’m thinking.”

“About blue-eyed movie stars?”

“About my story,” I lie. “Don’t you have breakfast to make?”

She laughs, but mercifully turns to her pans. The familiar sounds of her morning routine fill the kitchen - the click of the stove, theclink of bowls, the soft melody she always hums while cooking. Usually it’s the perfect background for writing.

Usually I’m not distracted by footsteps overhead, wondering if he’s up there looking at the bay, if he’s remembering whatever brought him here as a kid, if he’s naked in the shower - all that tall, bulky pile of muscles covered in soap, hot water making his tanned skin glisten…

I almost fall off my chair when my phone buzzes. It’s a text from my agent.

Where are my chapters, babe? Don’t make me come up there.

I groan and let my head fall on the table. My mother swats my shoulder with a dish towel. “No sleeping on my clean table.”

“I’m not sleeping, I’m despairing. There’s a difference.” I lift my head to show her my most pathetic expression. “What if I never write again? What if my last book was it? What if-”

The kitchen door swings open again, and this time it’s my father, already dressed for his morning walk on the beach. “Who’s not writing again?”

“Your daughter,” my mother supplies helpfully. “She’s too busy thinking about-”

“Breakfast!” I interrupt loudly. “I’m too busy thinking about breakfast. Is that coffee ready?”

My father looks between us, clearly sensing he’s missing something. “Right. Well, I’m heading out for my walk if anyone wants to join…”

“Yes!” I’m already closing my laptop. Fresh air. That’s what I need. Clear my head, reset my brain, definitely not think about certain guests and their running gear. “Let me grab my coat.”

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