Bookworm and the Beast: East by Tru Taylor

Author:Tru Taylor [Taylor, Tru]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oxford South Press
Published: 2021-07-26T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixteen

When In Rome

Bonnie

Lifting my pen from the page, I shook out my sore hand.

I hadn’t written longhand since middle school. At first it had felt strange, but now, other than the occasional muscle cramp, I actually liked it.

Something about putting pen to paper seemed to activate my brain in a different way—making me more creative and more prolific.

Without the distraction of the internet, I was working faster than I ever had in my life. In the past week I’d finished reading and reviewing all the books Charlotte had Fed Exed to Rhode Island.

The article on Jack was coming along. I’d even begun jotting down some ideas for a new book of my own.

Getting up to stretch my legs, I strolled around the perimeter of the library. Maybe it was being surrounded by the words of all these great authors. They’d written everything long-hand, hadn’t they? Maybe they knew something we modern-agers didn’t.

Though I was still highly annoyed at my imprisonment here in the “Beast’s castle,” as I’d come to think of Jack’s house, I had to admit it wasn’t all bad.

This room for instance. I loved the library and spent most of my time here. The whole atmosphere was inspiring and, well, homey. The cozy ever-burning fireplace, the warm glow of the lamps, the scent of leather and books.

I stopped in front of one of the shelves, perused the titles, and selected one. Carrying the hardbound book to one of the big comfy leather chairs in front of the hearth, I sank into its welcoming plushness.

Yep, things could definitely be worse.

Other than missing my father, staying here in Jack’s house hadn’t been too much of a hardship… not that I’d ever admit it to Jack.

Of course, there hadn’t been a chance to say anything to him. True to his word, he’d avoided me like the plague. I only caught glimpses of him in passing every once in a while. He was like a shadow moving through his own house.

I hoped he was writing. I feared he wasn’t.

Writer’s block could be insidious, brought on by any number of causes and turning into a vicious cycle. No doubt his dated back to his girlfriend’s betrayal and the leak of his original outline.

It appeared he’d basically dropped out of life since then, staying holed up here alone except for his staff, apparently not writing at all. What I’d done probably hadn’t helped the situation.

A guilty ache curled through my stomach—about that and about dropping out of my own life to spend the past week in what amounted to my own personal Wonderland. My room was incredible, with an unobstructed view of the Atlantic Ocean and what had to be the world’s most comfortable bed.

Never in my life had I lived in a place so luxurious or eaten three meals a day prepared by an award-winning French chef or taken a daily walk on a gorgeous beach—or spent hours at a time reading anything and everything my heart desired.

I drew the line at wearing the clothes Jack had ordered for me from an Eastport Bay boutique called Saltwater Style.

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