Page 48 of Loved Out Loud
This frenetic energy is wild. It’s a high unlike anything I have experienced, not that I have many experiences with which to compare, but that’s besides the point. I felt similar to this when I was halfway through writing my first book. If I had to venture a guess I’d say it’s happening earlier this time because I’m not trying to adapt fan fic to an original work.
The problem with this high, though, is the drop that will eventually come. I’m well versed in depressive episodes, having gone through them regularly for the past decade, but familiarity doesn’t equal ease.
Fuck.
I shake the worries off and remind myself that it’s a problem for future Hazel. Today’s Hazel gets to think about how she dry humped the lead singer of Blue Sunday until he came in his pants. I should take myself out for a drink for that accomplishment.
I glance down at my clothes, not in the mood to change for a fancy place. Thumbing through the hotel’s guest information binder, I see there’s a small bar down in the lobby. A glass of wine sounds like a good way to relax and get myself ready to spend the night marathon writing.
I slip the key card in my pocket and grab my Kindle, leaving everything else behind. I’ll give myself forty-five minutes.
I opt for a table tucked in the corner of the bar by a window overlooking the courtyard. The server comes by and drops off a small bowl of pretzels before taking my order. In the short amount of time it takes him to get my glass of merlot, I’m already engrossed in the thriller I downloaded when I couldn’t sleep the other night.
I sip on my wine and occasionally glance up, looking out as the sun begins to set. A few groups trickle into the bar which increases the volume, but I’m so engrossed I hardly notice. When I get to a good stopping point, because if I don’t stop now I won’t stop until I read to the end, I set my Kindle aside and people watch. Charging the glass of wine to the room, I drain the last bit of wine and stand.
As I’m walking past a table of women, I hear my name called out. I turn expecting to see someone from the tour, but there’s no familiar face.
“Yes?” I stop beside the table.
“It’s really you. We weren’t sure.”
“Oh, yes. It’s me.” I’ve never been recognized and don’t know how to act. “How are you ladies?”
“We’re great.” One of the women reaches into her bag and pulls out a copy of my book. “I actually read it on the plane today. It was good. Will you sign my copy?”
“Of course, but I don’t have a pen on me.”
“I have one.” She slides me one over the table.
I stay and chat with them for a while. They’re in town for some sort of an annual conference. Each of them works in a different office for the same company, and they treat these weekends like a girl’s trip. I love that as someone who doesn’t have many friends.
My feet barely touch the ground as I go back up to my room, I’m so happy and content with how the day has gone. Being recognized makes me feel like maybe I deserve this type of success. Maybe it’s not a fluke or random stroke of luck.
I do a double take when I walk around the corner and find Stone sitting in front of my hotel room door. He’s leaning back against the wall and strumming his acoustic guitar with a pen hanging out of his mouth like a cigarette. No one should look as good as he does just existing.
“What are you doing?”
He looks up and lets the pen drop from his lips. “Waiting for you.”
“I see that. Why?”
He looks me up and down. “Where were you?”
“The hotel bar enjoying a glass of wine before I start writing.”
“Perfect. I need to work tonight, too.” He pushes to his feet with effortless grace. “My room or yours?”
I pause, my room is tight quarters when his proximity does funny things to my insides. I know he’s in a suite, so logically there’s more space in his room.
“Yours.”
Sixteen
STONE
You could knockme over with a feather hearing her say she wants to work in my room. The way she runs from me after every encounter we have is a clear sign that she’s fighting what she wants. And she wants me.
“Perfect.”
