Page 27 of Raised On It

Earlier in the evening, hearing him talk about the redhead inPendleton brought up a flash flood of Grant’s cheating ways, but they had vanished by the time we hit the dance floor.

So why did they have to come rushing back on the porch? Why did I pull back from the most romantic encounter I’ve ever experienced?

Because it felt too good? Too right?

Because it scared the hell out of me.

I could feel my heart breaking already.

I know how I felt when things ended with Grant, so the moment my lips touched his, I knew immediately how things would feel at the end if I fell for Miles. I already know my ending with him would hurt so much worse than the pain my ex had inflicted on me.

Even though staying in to write today was a lame excuse not to accept his offer, I really did intend to work. But that was before he kissed me. Okay, technically,Ikissed him, but I’ve been rattled ever since.

After staring at my computer for far too long, it’s time to wave my white flag and accept the fact that I am getting nowhere, and I need to get out of the house.

I may live on the “other side” of town, but the heart of Eastlyn is only a mile or so away, so I grab my camera and my bag and head out into the hot August sun to find some inspiration.

The first business on my end of town is a quaint little antique shop and as I snap my first picture of the awning I decide I’m not just taking pictures outside today, I’m going to go into every place I haven’t been to yet.

I spend the next hour and a half stopping into every business on Main Street. The entire time, I picture Miles growing up in this idyllic town with his idyllic family and lifelong group of friends who are just as close to him as his family.

I can see him running around causing havoc all over town.

With every picture I take, I see Miles.

The steps of the Eastlyn Community Church at the end of Main Street.

The striped pole outside Mel’s Barber Shop.

The wooden benches in front of The General Store.

The Eastlyn Brewing Company is represented everywhere you look. The iconic green and white logo, featuring a dock with two empty Adirondack chairs facing a lake is featured in the windows of The Verdict, The Jury Room, The General Store, Ken’s Pizzeria, and just about every other business in town in some way, shape, or form.

The town is proud, as they should be.

The focal point of town is the courthouse. For such a small town, the courthouse is much bigger than I would have expected. But it does house all the government offices with the police station right next door. Fittingly, there is a donut shop next to the police station called Holding Cell Donuts.

I’m sure Miles has eaten his share of donuts from the Holding Cell, but I can’t help but wonder if the town playboy has also spent time in anactualholding cell at the police station. I know he’s eaten plenty at the diner across the street and had his fair share of beer at the bar on the other corner of the street, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he rounded out his time spent with all four corners of Main and 3rd by spending a night or two with the Eastlyn P.D.

I find it hard to believe his charm works oneveryonehe meets.

With every picture I take, my decision to come to Eastlyn is reaffirmed. This quaint little town feels like it was pulled right out of my imagination. It’s exactly what I was thinking of when the idea for my latest romance series came to my mind. Only the man at the center of my story wasn’t a blond farm boy who looks good in backward baseball caps and kisses like a lothario.

I think I’ll be scrapping my small-town judge idea and change directions when it comes to the hero of my story.

Feeling inspired, I pop into The Jury Room, and funnilyenough, I get seated at the same booth where Miles and I had lunch. Pulling my journal out of my bag, I begin spilling words onto the page like a woman possessed. Snacking on my fries while burning through the pages of my outline, I’m excited to get back home to my laptop.

Too excited to wait for the check.

Dropping a twenty to cover my five-dollar snack, I have a new spring in my step when I leave the diner. I’m anxious to get home and get to work. When the words come, there isn’t anything I can do, I have to write!

The moment I walk through the door, I change into my customary all-night writing uniform of leggings and an oversized sweater. Thank goodness Katie has air conditioning because Eastern Oregon is an oven in the summer, and there’s no way my writing attire would work if not.

I plot. I drink wine. I outline. I drink more wine.

I write all night long, finally calling it quits around four o’clock in the morning, so when I hear a lawn mower at ten o’clock, I’m far from pleased. Especially when it sounds like it’s coming from right out in front of the house. Please tell me Katie doesn’t have a landscaper she forgot to tell me about.

Pausing long enough to make sure I’m fully dressed, I march to the front of the house and nearly blind myself when I rip back the curtain and the blazing summer sun attempts to burn my corneas and leave me blind.

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