Page 36 of The Bodyguard's Fall

“What would I use this for?”

“You can use it like a desk. Put it on your lap so you can write easier.”

“How is your butt these days?” I asked brazenly, glancing toward him. I could barely notice his limp.

“You tell me. You’re the one so interested in it.”

I shook my head at his low chuckle and settled the pillow onto my lap. If he was refusing to use it, then that was his problem. It would be a more comfortable position to write.

Write.

That thing a writer did when said writer had a deadline.

It was a simple motion, really. Normally, I’d have a computer on my lap, and thanks to implicit muscle memory, my fingers could remember exactly where to go to procure the letter they needed. All I had to do was think of something to say and start typing. Or in this case, writing.

Even one little sentence would work great. At this point, I’d gladly take a word.

One word, brain. That’s all I’m asking for.

ONE.

And yet…the notebook in front of me remained in a depressing state of white.

To be fair, I was used to writing in a more…cave-like atmosphere. These days, my apartment enjoyed a moody vibe, with the curtains shut and the glow of the lamps casting a mood more fitting for writing about crime or murders than romance. I thought that was the problem. But here, the sunlight glared in through the window. Instead of hoodies and sweats, I wore jeans with buttons that dug into my skin and clung unnaturally to my body after six months of being shoved into the back of my closet.

Something wasn’t working.

Perhaps it was the way my eyes kept noticing every shift in the air. Every bump in the road. Every flicker of muscle in Tate’s arms as he adjusted his position at the wheel. Writing in the same space as someone else was not for me.

“How’s it coming?” Tate said after some time of me staring out the window, not writing.

“I’m not used to writing romance. I’m having a hard time finding inspiration.”

He pointed at his chest. “Have you even looked at your boyfriend lately?”

I smiled and shook my head.

“What do you usually write?” he asked.

“Family crime dramas. Murder mysteries. Funny enough, I have even written about a stalker before.”

“How’d you catch him in the end?”

“The girl learned self-defense and took him out.”

To his credit, he looked mildly impressed. “Have any of your screenplays been made into movies?”

“A couple. They were collaborations with other writers. This is the first on my own.”

“Do you write the kind of movies where the writers get all the police stuff wrong?” he asked, amusement lining his face.

“That depends. You guys still eat donuts every day, right?”

“Of course. My favorite is when the results from forensic testing can either come back in one minute or two weeks, depending on the episode.”

I smiled. “That’s actually my specialty.”

He laughed. “And you like that kind of stuff? Murder shows?”