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She’d need to be at the airport by six AM , so the best thing she could do was change into her pajamas, order some room service, and get eight hours of sleep. As she reached into the tote and pulled out her tablet, the small wireless keyboard she’d been traveling with for the past month or so brushed against her fingertips.
    She’d been writing off and on since childhood. She kept a journal, which she’d switched from paper to digital a couple of years ago. She wrote short stories, letters to the editor, anything that might help her express herself. The crazy “book” she’d written about Grant Parker was the longest manuscript she’d attempted. She dropped the tablet on the bed next to her and let out a groan.
    She shouldn’t have pushed Publish. She should have kept it all to herself, because it was inevitable that he would find out who wrote all this crap about him. Why couldn’t she have chosen something safer and less ridiculous, like writing erotica about some woman who had a fling with a dinosaur? She wouldn’t have to worry about facing a pissed-off dinosaur. It’s not like they still walked the earth or anything.
    If Grant Parker discovered who she was (and that she’d written an appallingly explicit description of everything she’d like to do to him and with him), she’d—well, her life would be over. The worst thing about all the crap she’d written, besides the fact she’d bared her soul, was the knowledge that she wished she had the guts to start a manuscript she could admit to.
    Daisy wasn’t sure she wanted to write anything literary, but she could certainly write about the crazy things she’d seen while doing her job over the past ten years. She couldn’t use her real name, and she’d have to change names, locations, and other identifying information, but it might be fun to write a memoir of sorts.
    The idea had taken root and blossomed over the past several years. She could write on her off-hours and keep her stories to herself or publish if she wanted to. The choice was up to her. Mostly, she wanted a little more from life than she had right now.
    She’d have to start to make any attempt at all, though. She pulled the keyboard out of her tote bag, reached out for the bedside telephone with her other hand, and brought the receiver to her ear.
    â€œRoom service, please.”

Chapter Seven
    T HE SUN WASN ’ T yet over the horizon Thursday morning when Daisy scrambled into the shuttle that would take her to LAX, but she felt warmth in the air. The only good thing about being on the road at four AM was the fact that Los Angeles’s infamous traffic was somewhat lighter. LA was a paradise of palm trees, cloudless blue skies, and eighty-degree weather. Surprisingly enough, though, she longed for the overcast skies and cool, clean, pine-scented air of Seattle.
    Her phone vibrated as the shuttle pulled up to the curb. She grabbed it out of her pocket as she moved through the electronic doors and found a seat in a waiting area. It was her roommate, who’d arrived home from London yesterday.
    â€œAren’t you supposed to be sleeping or something?” Daisy joked.
    â€œThere’s a woman on the Today Show claiming that she wrote Overtime Parking .”
    â€œSeriously? What? Who is she?”
    â€œShe’s from California. She says she got the idea after she slept with Grant Parker a few times.” Daisy got up from the seat in the waiting area and headed to the gate area.
    What the hell? Daisy wasn’t sure how to react—should she be mad because someone else claimed her book or relieved that nobody would know she’d written it? Letting someone else claim it as her own work was the easy way out. But the relief was short-lived. She also felt a hot stab of jealousy over the fact the book-stealing woman claimed to have slept with Grant.
    It was ridiculous to feel jealous over some guy