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I knew he was watching, staring at my face for some sort of reaction. It was unnerving to know I was being seen, observed, without being able to meet his stare. To read his body language or his expression. All I had was that weird humming sensation against my skin.

I tried not to let anything show as I took in what he’d written.

WANT TO TALK TO YOU.

I sucked in a sharp breath, tracing the uneven tiles he’d put together. My smile was tentative, almost hesitant, when it came.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay. Then what do we need to do?”

Wind tore through the room, ruffling all the papers I had taped to the walls and spread across the table. I laughed as my hair blew across my face, pages circling around and around like my own personal storm. I thought I saw him in the mess, grinning at the sight of what he created.

When the papers settled, only two remained on top of the table.

The church ruins a half hour from here and all the instructions for a successful séance.

“Looks like we have a date on Friday, Wolfe.”

The fire in the grate flared and for a moment, I swore I saw his eyes in the flames.

I spent Thursday trying to write.

I sat in Wolfe’s study with a fully-charged laptop and nothing in my head.

I used my morning walk to think about what moved me as a person. What plot I wanted to explore. Was it family ties? Long lost loves? Hidden powers? Secrets? Vampires? There were too many avenues to go down, too many stories that needed to be told. Grasping one was like fishing with my bare hands with my eyes closed. They were nearby—I could feel them—but no matter how many times I grasped for them, they slipped away from me.

My romance novels before were sweet, full of happily-ever-afters and men who were certainly not found in real life. I had heroines who were brave and strong and always spoke their minds. Who fought for what they wanted. Who belonged.

“Ugh!” I threw my hands up. “Come on, Av. Think. Think.”

I stood from the chair, pacing to the windows. Outside, the sky was purple with the oncoming storms. The sea was rough, roaring up the stone in the distance.

I didn’t have historical fiction in me. The dates, the events, blending reality with make believe. Though… I did love the idea of a crowded ballroom, locking eyes with someone across the way and feeling the world simply…stop.

Just me and them, nothing else.

The music faded in the background, falling in time with the beat of my heart. Steps that came on their own, fingers shaking. Reaching for someone who was already reaching back. Finding a sliver of companionship in the middle of a crowded room. Cold night air, rose bushes, a full moon.

I could almost smell it—the sweet petals, the clean-and-crisp scent of the night air, the traces of my perfume mixing with his.

When I turned toward my laptop, it all faded.

I could try my hand at a thriller, maybe. Write about a woman on the run with nowhere to go. An unsolved death, maybe? Shifters? I pressed my forehead against the glass, eyes sliding shut.

“I’ve got nothing.”

The familiar sound of tiles moving across the wood caught my attention and I listened, wondering if he was sitting on the couch or standing. Wondering if he enjoyed watching me spiral.

I wished I could ask him his opinion. If he had any ideas rolling around in that brain of his. Instead, I pulled away from the glass and made my way to the coffee table.

BREAK.

I propped my hands on my hips. “Like take a break? Or break something? Either would do.”

A puff of air hit my ear and I took it as a laugh. The romance book Tommy had lent me moved on the table.

“Ah, like a break break. I see. I came here to write, you know. Not to vacation.”

The book moved again and then the tiles started moving, weaving in and out of each other.