August 9, Friday

HI, brUCE. I wanted to let you know my laptop died and I lost all the pages of the manuscript I'd written. I'm going to need more time.

I nervously waited for him to text back, hoping for No worries, take your time.

Instead my phone rang and Bruce's name appeared on the screen.

I sighed, then connected the call. "Hi, Bruce."

"Josie, what this? I'm desperate for the manuscript and you tell me the dog ate your homework?"

I winced. "More like a goat."

"Are you having a nervous breakdown?"

Maybe. "This place is more remote than I counted on. The power transformer blew and fried my computer. I'm still waiting for the new one to be delivered."

"You didn't back up your files?"

"No." And I didn't want to tell him it was only six pages.

He sighed. "Darling, I'm getting the feeling you don't want to write this book."

"No, I do. I need to." For the money.

"Okay, then do . I expect the first three chapters by Monday."

"But—"

"No buts."

The call ended and anxiety welled in my stomach.

I reached for the notebook and a pencil, massaging my temples. Deep down I knew what had inspired the brief bout of productivity I'd experienced to create the pages that I'd lost, but I didn't want to go there: Sawyer King. The man had been grist for the backstory for Logan, the hero in my book.

I was getting a little too comfortable with having Sawyer around on weekends… was starting to look forward to seeing him.

And I didn't want to be that woman… again.

On the other hand, if the handsome, outdoorsy man who was good with his hands could get me over the, um, hump , of my writers block, maybe it was okay to dwell on his… physical gifts.

For the sake of literature.

Unbidden, my pencil started to move.