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finally got Claire to bed and had a few hours to myself to
relax. Dinner had been nice, well, more than nice, actually. Our conversation
had been easy and pleasant. We’d all laughed over our meal and enjoyed dinner.
He had stayed and washed the bowls even though I insisted he not. I stood next
to him the whole time explaining that I have a perfectly fine dishwasher. He
flashed his dimples at me and told me if he didn't wash, then I wouldn't dry,
and if that happened we wouldn't have any reason to touch. I’m sure I turned
fifty shades of red at his brazen compliment. When he finally left I felt kind
of let down that the evening was over. I was just about to start a movie when
Mom popped over.
     
    “Hi, Mum.”
    “Hey.” She plops down on the couch next to me. “What’s new?”
    “Nothing really. I was just going to watch a movie, what
about you?” I tell her.
    “I was just putzing around, Dex is visiting Uncle Mark for a
few days,” she says.
    “Jeez, how’d I miss that?” I ask her.
    “He only left this morning, you were probably still asleep ,”
she jabs.
    “Har har, Mum, I do not feel bad for sleeping in when I
can.”
    “I’m just teasing you,” she explains, although I already
knew it.
    “Was Jake here late today?” She raises an eyebrow at me.
    “Kinda, he finished up at five but I had him stay for
dinner.”
    She eyes me with interest but still a little warily. “Oh?
He’s awfully handsome, don't you think?” she probes. I throw my palm up to stop
her.
    “I’d have to be blind not to notice he’s handsome, but it
was just a friendly dinner,” I declare.
    “Uh huh.” She has a smug smile plastered on her face which I
ignore.
    “So…movie?” I ask her.
    “Sure, why not?”
    I pick up the remote, press Play, and Mom and I snuggle into
the couch in comfortable silence together. It’s nice to have a mom you can just
hang with sometimes.
    Monday and Tuesday fly by. Claire had started camp and I
locked myself in my bedroom while she was there both days to work on my book,
which I had been seriously neglecting. By the time four-thirty rolled around,
my neck was killing me from hovering over the laptop for hours. I have a bad
habit of forgetting to move when I’m writing. I sit and clickity-clack the
keyboard, zoning out for hours without remembering to eat, pee, or stand up and
stretch. I keep music playing loudly to drown out any distractions and just write.
By Wednesday early afternoon I’d finished the bones of the story and could take
a breather for the afternoon before revisiting it and turning it into an actual
novel.
     
    I walked to the kitchen around one to make some lunch. I was
starving from only consuming coffee and dinner the last few days. “Fancy
meeting you here,” Jake says as he appears from the bathroom. I jump and squeal
like a hog from being startled.
    “Jesus, you gave me a heart attack!” I complain.
    He throws his hands up in defense. “No harm intended.” He
smiles. “Where have you been this week?” he asks.
    “Holed up in my room, working. It’s...ah…too distracting
with you guys working upstairs to sit at the desk,” I tell him.
    “What exactly do you do?” he asks.
    I dread this question because for some reason I feel like
being a writer, especially writing mostly romance novels, is not an acceptable
career.
    “Ah, I’m a writer.” It comes out tentatively even though I
want to be proud of it. He raises an eyebrow at me and grins.
    “Like books?” he pushes.
    “Yeah. I write novels,” I tell him.
    “Anything I’ve read?” Oh boy. Here we go. I can feel the
heat creeping up my neck.
    “Probably not, no. I write more chick lit stuff.”
    “Chick lit?” he parrots.
    “Yeah, like chick flicks, but books,” I shrug at him.
    “Ahhh, I get it. Tell me the name of one, I’ll read it.” He
seems genuinely interested but I am not having him read a book meant for a
woman with sex scenes that I’ve written. I can feel my nose crinkle at