Read Online While You Were Writing: Watkin's Pond, Book 2 by Virginia Nelson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Virginia Nelson
Tags: Contemporary, Contemporary Romance, small town, snark, Watkin’s Pond, Virginia Nelson, recluse
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simple, not just release. She wanted to scrape off the mask, find the scarred man underneath and bare him to the harsh light of reality.
He wasn’t sure he could bear to remove the mask.
He’d written a character once, scarred by war and battle worn, who feared showing the world the man he’d become rather than the one he’d been—not feeling whole, broken both inside and out by the things he’d seen and had to do to survive. Somehow, Radcliffe would almost prefer to be physically scarred rather than to be so damned damaged he’d literally repulsed his own bride. That he wished he was a broken character in one of his own books pissed him off to the point that he punched his desk.
Instead, he sat staring at the blinking cursor and tempted to delete the whole damned file of the newest book in frustrated fury.
What right did she have to pick at him, to come here from who knew where and try to change him? What right did she have to push him and offer up her sexy little body like the gold at the end of some rainbow…impossible to attain, if temptingly close all at once? Opening a new file, he began to let the words of anger flow onto the page instead of battling each other in his head like angry rodents with only one scrap of cheese between them and starvation.
Who was she to try to rip the bandage off a wound he hadn’t even acknowledged for so long he’d thought it scarred over and buried in the past?
His world made sense, had symmetry, before she’d bounced into it with her perky little ponytail and equally perky tits. He might have been suffering from writer’s block, but wasn’t that preferable to a stiffie so hard he could probably hold up a tent with the damned thing?
Sex. It kept coming back to sex. Maybe if he tasted her, just enough to take the edge off—
It bordered too close to an addict, again, needing one more hit to go on.
He’d been in the office for hours, he acknowledged, and accomplished nothing more than a ranting page of angry babble about how much she’d grated on his nerves.
The fiancé. Preston, according to both the obituary and her own verbal slip. If she wanted to pick at scars, she had a few of her own he could pick back at and Preston seemed the key to her own hidden pain.
Standing, he poured himself two fingers of whiskey. Draining the glass in one gulp, he braced himself against the slow burn. Instead of cooling his ardor and anger, the beverage added lubricant to his already shaky control so he poured and downed more. Perhaps if he drank enough, he could forget her, at least for a while, and get some work done.
Hemingway said, “Write drunk,” after all.
Two more glasses, each a bit more full than the last, joined those first ones and then he lost count. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of his office, drunk before noon, he scowled at the bottle which offered up neither solace nor answers.
Because she had the answers. Only one way to get them. Snagging the bottle and bringing it with him, he went off in search of his roommate—to beard the lioness in her den, so to speak.
As if to add fuel to the fire that burned in his chest, she wore the paint-spattered shirt he’d found her in when she’d painted Mina. Instead of only the shirt, this time she’d worn shorts—as if she knew she wouldn’t be alone for the day. It taunted him with the flesh she’d hidden more than when he’d been able to see it. His mind supplied what the clothing hid, vividly.
He chugged the last of the fluid from the bottle. She seemed oblivious to his presence. He focused on her work—a very angry and bloody toothed squirrel if his drunken eyes didn’t mistake her furious paint strokes. She ignored him.
Throwing the bottle as hard as he could, he didn’t stop a satisfied smirk when she squeaked and ducked to avoid the shrapnel as the glass shattered on the far wall. No glass actually came near her, but the sound of it breaking satisfied some childish part of him almost as much as her
He wasn’t sure he could bear to remove the mask.
He’d written a character once, scarred by war and battle worn, who feared showing the world the man he’d become rather than the one he’d been—not feeling whole, broken both inside and out by the things he’d seen and had to do to survive. Somehow, Radcliffe would almost prefer to be physically scarred rather than to be so damned damaged he’d literally repulsed his own bride. That he wished he was a broken character in one of his own books pissed him off to the point that he punched his desk.
Instead, he sat staring at the blinking cursor and tempted to delete the whole damned file of the newest book in frustrated fury.
What right did she have to pick at him, to come here from who knew where and try to change him? What right did she have to push him and offer up her sexy little body like the gold at the end of some rainbow…impossible to attain, if temptingly close all at once? Opening a new file, he began to let the words of anger flow onto the page instead of battling each other in his head like angry rodents with only one scrap of cheese between them and starvation.
Who was she to try to rip the bandage off a wound he hadn’t even acknowledged for so long he’d thought it scarred over and buried in the past?
His world made sense, had symmetry, before she’d bounced into it with her perky little ponytail and equally perky tits. He might have been suffering from writer’s block, but wasn’t that preferable to a stiffie so hard he could probably hold up a tent with the damned thing?
Sex. It kept coming back to sex. Maybe if he tasted her, just enough to take the edge off—
It bordered too close to an addict, again, needing one more hit to go on.
He’d been in the office for hours, he acknowledged, and accomplished nothing more than a ranting page of angry babble about how much she’d grated on his nerves.
The fiancé. Preston, according to both the obituary and her own verbal slip. If she wanted to pick at scars, she had a few of her own he could pick back at and Preston seemed the key to her own hidden pain.
Standing, he poured himself two fingers of whiskey. Draining the glass in one gulp, he braced himself against the slow burn. Instead of cooling his ardor and anger, the beverage added lubricant to his already shaky control so he poured and downed more. Perhaps if he drank enough, he could forget her, at least for a while, and get some work done.
Hemingway said, “Write drunk,” after all.
Two more glasses, each a bit more full than the last, joined those first ones and then he lost count. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of his office, drunk before noon, he scowled at the bottle which offered up neither solace nor answers.
Because she had the answers. Only one way to get them. Snagging the bottle and bringing it with him, he went off in search of his roommate—to beard the lioness in her den, so to speak.
As if to add fuel to the fire that burned in his chest, she wore the paint-spattered shirt he’d found her in when she’d painted Mina. Instead of only the shirt, this time she’d worn shorts—as if she knew she wouldn’t be alone for the day. It taunted him with the flesh she’d hidden more than when he’d been able to see it. His mind supplied what the clothing hid, vividly.
He chugged the last of the fluid from the bottle. She seemed oblivious to his presence. He focused on her work—a very angry and bloody toothed squirrel if his drunken eyes didn’t mistake her furious paint strokes. She ignored him.
Throwing the bottle as hard as he could, he didn’t stop a satisfied smirk when she squeaked and ducked to avoid the shrapnel as the glass shattered on the far wall. No glass actually came near her, but the sound of it breaking satisfied some childish part of him almost as much as her
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