Hey, did you guys know I’m writing a novel? Really, I am. You see, I thought fifteen minutes of free time a week was too much. So I decided to write a book. After all, you can’t call yourself a copywriter unless you have an unpublished novel or two in your nightstand.
So, since I can’t stand to leave this little blog of mine un-updated for more than a few days, I’m going to share a little snippet with you. Constructive criticism is welcome. “You suck” comments will be answered with an angry middle finger.
At the end of every date, she told him she couldn’t possibly see him anymore.
“But babe,” he’d whisper, his chocolate brown eyes inches from her own, “why not? You know we’re perfect together.” And then he’d kiss her, his powerful lips soft with need.
“Mark, stop. It’s not right. You’re my boss!”
So he’d draw back, groaning. “Damn girl, you’re going to be the death of me.”
“No. You’re going to be the death of my career,” she’d snap and bolt from the car before she had time to think about how much she’d rather not.
She’d march into the office the next day determined to make it business as usual. To ignore his smoldering glances. To say no when he asked her out again.
But then he’d slither into her cube and stretch out in the guest chair—his designer jean clad legs almost too long for the small space—and stare.
Often she’d pretend to work, bopping her head to the music in her headphones as if she didn’t even know he was there. But she could feel the heat from his gaze dripping down her back, and eventually she’d turn.
“What is it now, Mark,” she’d sigh, pretending to be annoyed.
“I was just thinking about how beautiful your hair looks in this light.”
“Really? Those florescent bulbs do good things for me?” she snickered.
“Becky, you’d look stunning in any light. You’re gorgeous.” And the sincerity in his smile would turn her brain to goo.
So when the inevitable invitation worked its way out from his poison lips, she’d have no choice but to say yes.
That was how she’d found herself sitting in his dining room—heart fluttering in time with the dancing candlelight.
He cooked for her. Homemade fettuccini alfredo and fresh garlic bread. Frank Sinatra played low on the stereo and rain pattered on the roof. It all combined to make her feel deliciously intoxicated—even before she had a sip of the expensive red wine he served her.
Then, as they were giggling together about some silly stunt someone had pulled at work, Mark took her hands gently in his and said, “Damn you, Becky Logan, you’ve made me fall in love with you.”
Shocked, she met his glittering gaze and fell—drowning in the passion she saw there. When he lifted her into his arms and carried her upstairs, she didn’t protest. Instead, she let her head fall back and lost herself in the feel of his lips…
Yes, kids, I’m writing a chick lit novel. It’s refreshingly far removed from my own life. Nothing like writing your own piece of escapism. So tell me…what do you think?