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of coffee is downright irresistible.



Chapter Thirteen
    Madonna
    I’m tapping away at my keyboard, wondering why I’m still ghostwriting, why I’m continuing to use my talent for someone else’s benefit. More and more lately, I feel like I’m writing for all the wrong reasons. Am I just writing for a paycheck? Am I afraid to explore what I have to say as a writer? Or, deep down, am I worried that I have nothing to say?
    Writing should be sacred. Writers are supposed to create beauty that connects with people. But here I am, spending countless hours creating someone else’s dream but ignoring my own. The epiphany comes out of nowhere and hits me hard: I’m tired of living someone else’s dream. When I finish this project, I’m going to tell the publishing agency goodbye and focus on writing my own book.
    I’m a big believer that, when you’re faced with an important choice, you should try the decision on first. Just to see if you like it. Usually, you have some flexibility to change your mind and try on a different decision for a while. But I don’t need a trial run with this decision. It fits me perfectly, like it was made for me, the way a good decision is supposed to feel.
    A weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I link my fingers and reach toward the ceiling, stretching from side to side in an effort to unkink my stiff muscles. The thing I love most about my apartment is the view, especially on a day like this where there isn’t a cloud in the sky and the street below is teeming with activity.
    There’s no sign of my hooded stalker, which is more of a relief than I like to admit. Why would he want to kill a complete stranger? If there’s anything I’ve learned while volunteering with the mentally ill, it’s that trying to understand someone else’s motivation is often fruitless and a waste of time.
    My glance drifts over the trendy little coffee shop on the corner. I do a double take when I spot Dr. Chambers sitting at a tiny outdoor table near the entrance…and he’s looking up at me. Rather, he’s looking into me, like he has peeled back all my layers and can see into my soul in a single look. What is he doing here? Does he know where I live?
    To my surprise, I don’t feel violated or spied on. In fact, his piercing scrutiny makes me feel…safe. I don’t think of myself as a lonely person – solitary, yes, but not particularly lonely even though the personal connections in my life so far have been, at best, superficial. The people I knew during my childhood were social workers or employees of the children’s home, people whose job it was to look after me. My few friendships with other kids were never particularly deep because, let’s face it, once we were old enough to get out on our own, no one was going to want to get together to reminisce about the bad old days.
    For the first time, someone is taking a genuine interest in…me. I get the sense that this isn’t anything new for him, that this isn’t the first time he’s peered up at my window. The simple fact that he knows I’m here, and that it seems to matter to him that I’m here, is profoundly moving to me. I press my hands to my wet cheeks, wiping away the evidence of my raw emotions.
    How can it be that this man has managed to do in a matter of seconds what I’ve been unable to do in a lifetime—take my fear of abandonment and replace it with something beautiful? Perhaps Dr. Liam Chambers has his own set of issues that are drawing the two of us together. He couldn’t possibly know about my creepy hooded stalker and his death threats, but I wish he did. I could use a friend right now, even an overbearing, pompous, arrogant one.
    I smile tentatively down at him and he smiles back, lifting his chin in greeting and confirming what I already know -- that we each have something the other needs. He has taken an interest in me, to the point that he has found a way to be near me. Following me. Watching me.
    I don’t know what I can