Page 2

His stormy blue eyes lock on mine, and I know without a doubt: He’s finally taking what he wants.

My pen stops so abruptly, a tiny dot of black ink blooms where the story should continue.

I stare at it.

Then at the sentence above it.

Stormy blue eyes.

My stomach drops.

Oh, hell no.

My pen hovers over the page as I stare at the last sentence bleeding across the pale blue-lined paper. I draw a thick line through it. Then another. And then I scribble over the words until they’re nothing but a black smear.

This is why I really should use a computer, like most writers. But Jane Austen wrote Pride and Prejudice with a quill pen; surely, I can manage one decent chapter with a three-dollar felt-tip pen.

Deep breath.

I reread the paragraph. His hand is still under her sweater, his mouth is still on her neck, and he still has stormy blue eyes.

“Not again.” I drop my pen with a Regency-worthy sigh and slowly read it over and over again. Apparently, my completely fictional, absolutely-not-based-on-anyone romance hero has developed an infuriating amount of familiarity over the past few pages.

I flip back further. His blue eyes flash with amusement.

No.

Another page.

He leans one shoulder against the doorway, looking entirely too pleased with himself. My eyes are torn between his Cheshire cat grin and the V pointing to the waistband of the gray joggers slung dangerously low on his hips.

“Come on.” I close my eyes, and there he is.

Broad shoulders, floppy blond hair falling over his forehead, and those piercing blue eyes that always seem to know when I’m staring… even when I’m definitely not staring. That irritating little half-smile I’ve somehow managed to describe three pages earlier without realizing exactly where my traitorous brain stole it from, complete with dimples and–nope.

We are absolutely not discussing the V.

Oh, for freak’s sake.

I slam the journal shut.

Mr. Darcy’s head snaps up from where he’s sprawled in the middle of the open suitcase on my bed, and his gray eyes narrow.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Darcy blinks in that slow, judgmental way a fourteen-year-old grumpy cat does.

I glance down at the battered pink composition book on my desk, then back at him.

“It’s not like I did it on purpose.”

Another blink.

“Don’t argue with me.”

Darcy proceeds to lick his paws, as if to say he expected better from me.

Same.