Wait With Me (Wait With Me, #1)(63)

And then I turn my back and walk down the stairs away from the girl I thought I fucking knew but was, in fact, writing fiction the whole damn time.





You know that point in a romance novel where the girl bares her heart to the guy, and he tells her that he’s loved her since the first moment he laid eyes on her?

That’s not how my story with Miles went.

In fact, my story with Miles went from an epic love story to a tragic women’s fiction. Because what do you call a love story with no happy ending?

Fucking pathetic, that’s what.

There are two black moments to my story with Miles Hudson. And if I thought black moment number one—when he rejected me outside of Walrus Saloon—was bad, it’s nothing compared to black moment number two.

Make a note to never write another fight scene outside a bar in any book ever again.

I stare at the blinking cursor in my manuscript and will my fingers to begin typing. I shift uncomfortably in the beach chair on the back patio of Lynsey’s townhouse, just trying to find a sweet spot that’ll help things start clicking into place.

It’s useless.

I’ve tried every spot in Lynsey’s home to find my writing mojo again, and nothing is flowing. Nothing. And the fact that I can see Dryston’s stupid face upstairs in the window of the bedroom that I once had my mojo in makes me vibrate with rage.

I ended up giving Dryston the townhouse so he’d stop threatening legal action against Miles for punching him in the nose. It was a no-brainer because Miles would never have punched Dryston if it wasn’t for me. But now I’ve spent the past two weeks struggling to find my vibe while living with Lynsey. As far as roommates go, she’s great. But she doesn’t inspire me the way Miles did. Not even close.

Hell, I even went with Lynsey to the hospital cafeteria one day to try to find a new vibe. When that didn’t work, I tried hanging out at the bakery by Dean’s office.

Nothing worked.

Because I already found the place that I vibed in.

Tire Depot.

But I burned that bridge. Miles hasn’t returned any of my calls or texts, and that’s all there is to it.

In my mind, I am having a Rita Hayworth moment. She was a stunning, old Hollywood actress who said men would go to bed with Gilda, the beautiful icon, and wake up to the reality, a lot less glamorous version of the dream.

Mercedes Lee Loveletter is Gilda. Kate Smith is reality.

I wasn’t brave enough to find out if Miles would accept less than Gilda, and now I’ve ruined my chances of ever knowing for sure.

I slam my laptop closed and let out a mighty growl just as Lynsey and Dean come striding out onto the back patio with drinks in hand.

Dean smiles down at me as he hands me a margarita. “Drink up, it’ll help.”

I take the glass from his hand and watch Lynsey stride over to her tiki bar to set an enormous full pitcher of margaritas down. She looks at me excitedly and says, “We’re brainstorming!”

“Plotting,” Dean corrects with a wink and takes the beach chair beside me.

Lynsey flops down on the other one, so now I’m sandwiched between my friends with drinks in hand, a far improvement to my state only a few minutes ago.

“You guys are right,” I reply and take a sip. “Maybe a new book idea is just what I need to get my mojo back. Something about a pilot or a series that features British soccer-playing brothers, perhaps! You guys know I love a British accent.”

“Kate,” Dean cuts me off.

“Sorry,” I cringe. “It’d be football if they’re British.”

He rolls his eyes. “We’re not plotting a new book series. We’re plotting how you can get Miles back.”

I deflate instantly and take a sip. “That ship has sailed, my friends. Miles made that perfectly clear.”

“Oh, stop,” Lynsey chastises. “He was upset. Guys don’t like to be made a fool of, and you made him feel like an idiot. He’ll get over it.”

“He’s not returning any of my calls,” I correct. “It’s been two weeks.”

“That’s because you haven’t made your grand gesture yet,” she says, pulling her sunglasses down off her head and over her eyes as she sits back.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Kate!” Lynsey exclaims, hitting the side of her chair in frustration. She flails her hands out to gesture while she continues, “You write this shit, now you need to live it. You need to make a grand gesture that shows your hero you care in a deeply personal way that makes it clear that while you know you fucked up royally, you still know him. You know him and care about him, and the grandness of this gesture will prove that.”

“Wow, that was a mouthful,” I quip and take another drink.

“She’s right, Kate,” Dean interjects, and I look over and see the seriousness in his eyes. “You know he cares about you, so just talking to him isn’t going to be enough. You have to make it big.”

I bite down on a chunk of ice for a moment while pondering this. “In erotica, the grand gestures are usually like a power flip. Like, oh, okay, I’ll let you put a horsetail butt plug in me just this once.”

Lynsey and Dean erupt into laughter, and I frown back at them, stating, “I’m serious.”

They roll their eyes, and Dean says, “Think more romantic, less farm animal.”