Page 7

Dylan

“ Hmmm …” I muse.

I sit at my desk, the soft glow of my laptop screen washing over my little study room, a sanctuary I’ve carved out in this cottage.

It’s my favorite space—small but perfect, tucked off the living room with just enough room for a desk, a bookshelf, and a faded armchair I scored at a flea market last month.

The walls are a pale lavender, a color I picked to soothe my nerves, and I spent a whole weekend painting tiny daisies across them, each petal a little lopsided but charming in its own way.

The curtain at the window is flowery too—white with pink roses, fluttering gently in the breeze that sneaks through the cracked pane.

A chipped ceramic vase sits on my desk, stuffed with wildflowers I gathered from the overgrown patch behind the house, their sweet, earthy scent blending with the lavender candle flickering on the shelf.

A string of fairy lights drapes over the bookshelf, casting a warm twinkle across the spines of my favorite novels—Anne Tyler, Stephen King, a dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre .

It’s calm here, quiet, a flowery cocoon designed to coax my imagination to life, to make the words flow for this novel I’m supposed to be writing.

But today, it’s failing me…

“ Pffft ,” I groan, inspiration nowhere to be found.

The cursor blinks on the screen, mocking me from the middle of a half-finished sentence in Chapter Five.

I’ve been parked here for over an hour, my coffee long gone cold in its chipped mug, my fingers hovering uselessly over the keys.

The story’s there in my head—a man fleeing his past, a man on a motorcycle who could be his savior or his downfall—but it’s stuck, the words knotted up somewhere I can’t reach.

I’ve tried everything—re-reading my outline, sipping water, pacing the room—but they won’t come.

They’re trapped, elusive, and every time I type a line, it feels flat, lifeless.

I lean back in my chair, the old wood groaning under me, and press my fingers to my temples, a headache throbbing faintly behind my eyes.

My publisher’s deadline is six months out, but at this pace, I’ll never hit it.

The advance they paid me—modest but real—sits in my account, a lifeline that’s starting to feel like a noose…

What if I can’t do this?

What if I’ve got my shot, my dream on a platter, and I’m choking because I can’t string a sentence together?

I close my eyes, letting my mind wander back to simpler days.

When I was a kid, this was all I wanted—to be an author, to weave stories that’d live on shelves and in hearts.

I’d sprawl across the living room rug, my knees stained with grass, filling spiral notebooks with wild tales.

Pirates battling storms, princesses outsmarting dragons, detectives cracking cases in sleepy towns like this one.

I’d stay up past bedtime, a flashlight tucked under the covers, scribbling until my hand cramped, dreaming of the day I’d see my name in bold print.

My mom would find me in the morning, pages scattered around me like fallen leaves, and she’d laugh, her warm hands ruffling my hair.

“You’re gonna write a bestseller someday, Dylan,” she’d say, her voice full of that quiet faith I clung to.

I believed her—through the awkward years of middle school, the late nights in high school crafting short stories for the literary magazine, even the grind of college and the city, where I chased deadlines instead of dreams.

And now here I am, twenty-six, with a contract from a small press, a cute study in a cottage I can call mine—and might even own one day— and I’m terrified I’m blowing it. All those years of wanting, and I might let it slip through my fingers because the words won’t cooperate.

The panic creeps in slow, a cold tightness spreading across my chest. I picture the call to my editor—his polite disappointment as I admit I’ve got nothing, the advance wired back, the contract shredded.

This cozy life I’ve built—the cottage, the wildflowers, the quiet—unraveling because I can’t deliver. I open my eyes, staring at the screen again, willing the story to move.

Maybe if I just push harder, force it out, something will click. But the cursor keeps blinking, relentless, and the worry kicks into overdrive…

What if I’m not good enough?

What if I’ve fooled everyone—my mom, my editor, myself—into thinking I could do this?

What if?—

A low rumble cuts through the spiral, vibrating up through the floorboards and rattling the vase on my desk. I freeze, my breath catching as my hands drop from my face. I know that sound—deep, throaty, a growl that’s as familiar as my own heartbeat.

A motorcycle. And not just any motorcycle. Clay .

Excitement surges through me, hot and electric, washing away the panic like a summer storm clears the air. I’m out of my chair in a flash, bare feet slapping the wood as I dart to the window.

I nudge the curtain aside, my heart pounding, and there he is—pulling up outside my house, the Harley gleaming black and chrome in the afternoon sun.

He swings off the bike, all leather and muscle, his chestnut hair a mess from the wind, and even from here, I can see the look in his eyes—green, piercing, brimming with a lust that sends a shiver racing down my spine.

My skin prickles, my pulse leaping as if I’ve just downed a triple espresso.

The study, the novel, the deadline—it all fades, drowned out by the wild, reckless pull of him…

I’m at the front door before he’s halfway up the walk, my fingers fumbling with the knob in my rush.

I fling it open just as he hits the porch, his boots thudding on the steps, and up close, he’s overwhelming—broad shoulders filling out his jacket, stubble darkening his jaw, that look in his eyes burning hotter now.

He’s close enough that I can smell him—leather, road dust, a hint of sweat—and it’s like a match to dry tinder, igniting something deep in my belly.

My breath becomes fast, shallow, and I can’t look away, can’t think past the way he’s staring at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

“Dylan,” Clay says, his voice rough and low, gravelly in a way that makes my knees weak. “We need to talk.”

I should agree—nod, invite him in for coffee, sit him down on the couch and hash out whatever’s simmering between us.

We’ve got history, baggage, a mess of feelings that need sorting.

But right now, with him standing there, all heat and want, talking feels like a waste of time.

My body’s buzzing, alive with the memory of the forest—the press of his hands, the taste of his mouth—and words can’t touch that. I step closer, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, and shake my head.

“Later,” I say, my voice steady despite the storm inside. “We can talk later. Right now, it’s time for something else.”

His eyes flash—surprise, then hunger—and that’s all it takes.

I close the gap, my hands fisting in his jacket as I yank him down, and our lips crash together.

It’s passionate, fierce, a collision of need that steals my breath and sets my blood on fire.

Clay groans into my mouth, a low, primal sound that vibrates through me, and his hands slide to my hips, pulling me hard against him. I can feel him—every hard line, every insistent press—and it lights me up, a blaze spreading fast from my core.

We stumble backward, my shoulder bumping the doorframe as he presses into me, his lips moving with a hunger that matches mine.

My fingers dig into Clay’s shoulders, tugging at the leather, and he kicks the door wider, guiding us inside. It’s a clumsy dance—my bare feet slipping on the floor, his boots thudding heavy—and we’re through the threshold, the cottage swallowing us whole.

I break the kiss just long enough to shove the door shut, my hand fumbling with the latch until it clicks, locking the world out.

It’s just us now, the quiet hum of the house drowned by the sound of our breathing, the heat of our bodies filling the space.

He’s on me again before I can blink, backing me against the wall, his mouth dropping to my neck. His teeth graze my skin, just enough to make me gasp, and my hands slide under his jacket, finding the warm cotton of his shirt, the solid muscle beneath.

I pull him closer, needing him flush against me, and he growls low, his hands slipping under my sweater, rough palms skimming my bare sides.

The sensation’s electric, sparking through me, and I tip my head back, giving him more, letting him take it.

“Dylan,” he mutters against my collarbone, voice thick with want, and it’s like gasoline on the fire already roaring inside. I don’t answer—just grab his face, dragging him back to my mouth, kissing him deeper, harder, pouring everything into it.

The past, the hurt, the years apart—it’s all here, tangled in the way we fit, the way we always have.

We’re a mess of motion, stumbling through the living room, my hip catching the couch, his elbow knocking a lamp askew.

Neither of us cares. It’s just him, me, and this—this thing we can’t stop, won’t stop, not now.

The front door’s shut, the lock engaged, and the world’s gone.

It’s Dylan and Clay, and whatever comes next is about to be hotter than the sun…