this dark romance novel I’m reading.”
“All right. See you soon.”
She got out of the car, and I watched her walk away and enter the apartment block. My eyes caught on a café next door. The Cyrillic lettering on the awning sign was faded, indicating the restaurant had been in business for a long time, but wasn’t so lucrative that the owners could afford to keep up their signage.
My mind went into writer-mode as I considered the place. Did the owner struggle to make ends meet? How well could a Russian café possibly do in this neighborhood? For that matter, who lived in this neighborhood? What were their lives like? Where did they work, what did they do for fun? Was there a sense of community, or did people keep to themselves?
I realized I was chewing on my pen cap, a bad habit I had when I was deep in thought. I took it from my mouth and touched the tip to my notepad, which was still in my hands from when I’d been taking notes on Sharon. I quickly flipped to a new page and wrote down all of my questions about the café.
My gaze found the faded sign again, and I began idly tapping the pen against my lips.
I’d never written a Russian character before. I didn’t know much about the culture. It would be an interesting challenge. Russian heroes were hot in the romance industry at the moment. Maybe I could try writing one.
This was an excellent opportunity for character research. I’d come to New York with the intention to work on my novels and my Latin Kings story. The latter was on hold for the moment while I waited for Sharon. Why not take advantage of the opportunity to enrich my fiction while I was in town?
My decision made, I tucked my notepad and pen back into my purse and got out of the car.
Excitement buzzed in my mind as I tapped into the creative part of my brain. I could be clinical, analytical when it came to journalism, but fiction was exploration, creation. It provided a special kind of high.
A bell dinged as I pushed open the glass door and entered the café. The place was almost completely empty. Either the morning rush had died down, or the restaurant wasn’t attracting the clientele it needed to stay open. That brought back all my questions about the surrounding community.
I’d get my answers soon. My eyes roved over the space, assessing. A man on the late side of middle age occupied a booth by the windows that lined the side of the restaurant that faced the street. A narrow aisle separated the booths from a long counter with barstools. A huge menu that I couldn’t even begin to decipher was scrawled in chalk on the wall above the counter.
I was aware of eyes on me; both the middle-aged man and the younger server behind the cash register had looked up when I entered. The place was silent save for faint instrumental music. It was rough with static, as though emanating from an aged record player. Or maybe it was playing on a slightly out of range radio station.
I absorbed all these details in less than thirty seconds, storing them all away in my mind for a setting description.
I smiled at the server and approached the counter with purpose, hopping up onto one of the barstools. He returned my smile, giving me a dazzling grin. I noted that he was young, attractive; maybe twenty-five, with dark, curling hair and a strong, square jaw. Muscles bulged against his tight white t-shirt as he wiped the counter with a damp rag. His dark brown eyes glinted with interest as they made a quick appraisal of my face, flicking lower to my body for half a second.
I didn’t mind. If anything, a little flirtation often got me more information. It was the easiest way to gather intel for my research. I quickly memorized his facial features. He was hot enough to be a romantic hero. My next character was standing in front of me. He was perfect.
“Hi,” I greeted brightly.
“See something you want?” he asked, his voice deep and his accent thick. His sly grin let me know he meant more than what was on
“All right. See you soon.”
She got out of the car, and I watched her walk away and enter the apartment block. My eyes caught on a café next door. The Cyrillic lettering on the awning sign was faded, indicating the restaurant had been in business for a long time, but wasn’t so lucrative that the owners could afford to keep up their signage.
My mind went into writer-mode as I considered the place. Did the owner struggle to make ends meet? How well could a Russian café possibly do in this neighborhood? For that matter, who lived in this neighborhood? What were their lives like? Where did they work, what did they do for fun? Was there a sense of community, or did people keep to themselves?
I realized I was chewing on my pen cap, a bad habit I had when I was deep in thought. I took it from my mouth and touched the tip to my notepad, which was still in my hands from when I’d been taking notes on Sharon. I quickly flipped to a new page and wrote down all of my questions about the café.
My gaze found the faded sign again, and I began idly tapping the pen against my lips.
I’d never written a Russian character before. I didn’t know much about the culture. It would be an interesting challenge. Russian heroes were hot in the romance industry at the moment. Maybe I could try writing one.
This was an excellent opportunity for character research. I’d come to New York with the intention to work on my novels and my Latin Kings story. The latter was on hold for the moment while I waited for Sharon. Why not take advantage of the opportunity to enrich my fiction while I was in town?
My decision made, I tucked my notepad and pen back into my purse and got out of the car.
Excitement buzzed in my mind as I tapped into the creative part of my brain. I could be clinical, analytical when it came to journalism, but fiction was exploration, creation. It provided a special kind of high.
A bell dinged as I pushed open the glass door and entered the café. The place was almost completely empty. Either the morning rush had died down, or the restaurant wasn’t attracting the clientele it needed to stay open. That brought back all my questions about the surrounding community.
I’d get my answers soon. My eyes roved over the space, assessing. A man on the late side of middle age occupied a booth by the windows that lined the side of the restaurant that faced the street. A narrow aisle separated the booths from a long counter with barstools. A huge menu that I couldn’t even begin to decipher was scrawled in chalk on the wall above the counter.
I was aware of eyes on me; both the middle-aged man and the younger server behind the cash register had looked up when I entered. The place was silent save for faint instrumental music. It was rough with static, as though emanating from an aged record player. Or maybe it was playing on a slightly out of range radio station.
I absorbed all these details in less than thirty seconds, storing them all away in my mind for a setting description.
I smiled at the server and approached the counter with purpose, hopping up onto one of the barstools. He returned my smile, giving me a dazzling grin. I noted that he was young, attractive; maybe twenty-five, with dark, curling hair and a strong, square jaw. Muscles bulged against his tight white t-shirt as he wiped the counter with a damp rag. His dark brown eyes glinted with interest as they made a quick appraisal of my face, flicking lower to my body for half a second.
I didn’t mind. If anything, a little flirtation often got me more information. It was the easiest way to gather intel for my research. I quickly memorized his facial features. He was hot enough to be a romantic hero. My next character was standing in front of me. He was perfect.
“Hi,” I greeted brightly.
“See something you want?” he asked, his voice deep and his accent thick. His sly grin let me know he meant more than what was on
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