was a definition, not a speech. But I’ll remind you what I said about talking out the plot. Discussing the hero’s goals. His mind-set since we last saw him.”
“Any thoughts on that?” He all but growled those words, as if his asking-for-assistance muscles were rusty.
“Yes. But feel free to tell me I’m full of it. The point is to toss out ideas and see what feels right in your gut.” She slid her fingertips into the pockets of her jeans. “Mac had no emotional growth in the first book because he went into fight-or-flight mode almost right away.”
“So he’s still aimless.”
“Right. Unless he’s independently wealthy, he has to have been thinking about what he’ll do to support himself since leaving the military.” Her mind was spinning. “Come to think of it, we don’t really know why he left. He was a career soldier and his reasoning could be explored in this book.”
Jack nodded absently. “Yeah.”
That was encouraging, she thought. An affirmative instead of sarcasm. She dipped her toe in a little further. “When we get back, it might help to just talk it through and you could take notes. Or record the conversation if you’d rather. Instead of jumping straight into the writing, you can figure out the inciting incident that sets the story in motion, then some loose turning points as a structure for the story.”
“And tomorrow there will still be a blank screen.”
“Give yourself permission to write badly,” she suggested.
His look was wry. “Yeah, because that’s what I learned in the army. Permission to be a screwup, sir.”
“Maybe it sounds crazy, but you might find it surprisingly freeing.”
“And that’s supposed to be creative?” he asked skeptically.
“Won’t know unless you try.” She thought for a moment. “Some authors start their day by jotting down stream-of-consciousness writing.”
“You mean gibberish?”
“Probably not something you’d publish,” she admitted.
“Then I guess you could say I’ve already done that. The pages you read are unpublishable and probably fall into the stream-of-consciousness category,” he said sarcastically.
“That’s not what I meant. You just write whatever pops into your mind,” she explained.
“Sounds like a waste of time if you ask me.”
“It’s just an exercise.”
Erin glanced up at him and felt a little flutter around her heart, the one that made it hard to take a deep breath. The way his biceps strained against the material of his black T-shirt made her want to touch and find out for herself what they felt like.
It was obvious that Jack was in excellent physical condition, which meant he’d retained habits from his time in the army that kept him in shape. She knew he ran three or four times a week. There was workout equipment in the upstairs bedroom. One didn’t just jump into a fitness regime. Maybe she could explain this to him in a relatable way.
“What do you do before a run?” she asked.
His gaze narrowed on her. “Why?”
“Bear with me. I have a point.” Their shoulders brushed as they walked. Personally she was glad the bushes and trees around them weren’t tinder-dry because the sparks would have ignited them. She drew in a breath. “What’s your preexercise routine?”
“I stretch out. Warm up.”
“Exactly.”
He looked at her as if she had a snake draped around her neck. “I thought you had a point.”
“Stream-of-consciousness writing is like stretching your muscles for work.”
“Shouldn’t I put that energy into something productive?”
“The point is to not think about work. Free your mind and let the ideas flow.”
His expression was still skeptical, but he asked, “What should I write about?”
“Like I said. Anything that pops into your mind.”
Jack looked down at the dog, who had thrown himself on the ground at his feet. Automatically he picked up the animal and rubbed his hand over the hairless back. “I still say it’s a waste of time.”
This man was results-driven. He’d spent over a decade in an organized, mission-oriented environment. The creative process was the polar opposite. But if she could give him a focus, he might be more inclined to give it a try.
As they headed back to the house, she watched him with the dog. His protectiveness with the animal. The way he automatically picked up Harley when he got tired. Jack had done the same thing that first day when she’d arrived. There was a bond between the two and that homely little creature might just be what he cared about most in this world.
“Write about Harley,” she suggested.
“What?”
“Stream-of-consciousness warm-up exercises. Think about your dog and jot down whatever comes into your mind.”
With the dog curled happily in his arms, Jack stared at her for several moments. She wondered how it would feel to be safely tucked against his wide chest, wrapped in his strong arms.
Then he shook his head. “It’s official. You’re crazy.”
About you, she thought.
For a moment Erin was afraid she’d said that out loud. Fortunately, the words stayed in her head, where they belonged. He already knew she was attracted to him. If she confirmed it he would say I told you so and send her packing.
* * *
Erin didn’t want to get out of bed after a lousy night without much sleep. And that was all Jack’s fault. He was a bundle of contrasts. Gruff and argumentative with her; tender and protective of his unattractive pet. He measured out a quarter cup of organic chicken or grass-fed beef for Harley’s meals! He was a really off-putting combination of macho and mush.
And she knew very little about him. Was there a girlfriend? Wife? But those questions fell into personal territory, which technically made it not her business. And don’t even get her started on the geographical situation here. Last night she’d heard him pacing like a predatory tiger.
Back and forth. Back and forth. At least an hour. Maybe more.
Then it got quiet and she’d waited for him to come downstairs to bed. That kept her tense and wide-eyed for a long time. Her body tingled and her skin was hot whenever he was in the master bedroom just across the hall from where she slept. She would challenge anyone to try sleeping when every nerve ending was sparking like a live electrical wire.
After starting a reread of his bestselling book, she finally fell asleep sometime after one o’clock. Now it was six in the morning.
