Page 8 of The Story of Us
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 asking too much of a cat, though. Jamie would simply have to handle things on her own.
Chapter Three
Shortly before eleven p.m., Sawyerwheeled his suitcase into the entrance of Rick’s sleek contemporary-style house in downtown Waterford. After the meeting with Dana at Ridley, he’d tossed some things into a bag and headed straight out of the city. One of the wheels on his suitcase wobbled—probably from sheer exhaustion. It was a wonder his luggage had any fight left whatsoever after all the traveling Sawyer had done over the past several years.
Just a few more days.
All he had to do was stick it out until the town council vote, make a convincing pitch, get everyone on board, and then he’d be home free. No more travel. No more temporary design gigs. No more unpacked boxes stacked in the corner of his apartment in Portland. Once he was a full-time architect at Ridley, he could finallybuya place. A unit in the high-rise on the river. Or maybe a condo near the bike path and Tilikum Crossing. On warm-weather days, he’d walk across the bridge to Ridley’s office. He might even throw away his suitcase.
But first, he had work to do, right in his hometown.
“It’s about time you came back. I was scared you’d never show your face again after coming in last in fantasy football,” Rick said, grinning as he led the way to the modern, open-concept kitchen and filled a glass of water at the sink. The faucet looked like brushed nickel, and the sink was oversized, perfect for a chef.
“Remind me next time not to draft a quarterback first.” Sawyer parked his wheeled luggage and took a look around the space.
He’d never seen Rick’s house in person before, and it wasn’t at all what he’d expected. When he thought of Waterford, he pictured charming historic cottages with white picket fences and gingerbread trim. With its sharp edges and minimalist vibe, Rick’s home was the polar opposite in every way. It suited him, though, especially the killer kitchen.
