The Prince's Cinderella Bride by CHRISTINE RIMMER

Author:CHRISTINE RIMMER
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2014-06-24T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Monday, Lani’s plan was to write at least eight pages by two in the afternoon, and then to put in another couple of hours researching websites and web designers.

But she woke up groggy from spending most of the night wide awake thinking about Max—about how wild she was for him, about how she felt she knew him to his soul. And, at the same time, that she didn’t know him at all. She worried about next Sunday and the family breakfast. She obsessed over the incident with the paparazzo, over the pictures online of her and Max together, over when her mother or father would call her and say they’d seen the pictures and...well, she had no idea what they would say after that.

She sat down to her laptop at nine.

At eleven, when she had barely written half a page, Max called. The first thing he asked was how the work was going.

She grumbled, “I’ve gotten stuck on a certain sentence. I think I’ve rewritten it twenty times.”

“Leave it. Go on to the next sentence. Sometimes you have to keep moving forward.”

“Good advice. Now to try to make myself take it.”

He laughed, the sound warm and deep, reaching out to her through the phone, wrapping around her heart, making her so glad he’d called. “Is that whining?” he teased. “There’s no whining in writing.”

“Not for you, maybe. I have to whine constantly. It’s part of my process.”

He laughed again. Then he said, “I’ll let you get back to it, but I want to see you tonight.”

“Yes,” she said, without even stopping to think about it. Because she wanted to see him. Because every time she saw him, she only wanted to be with him some more. And all the other stuff, all her worries and doubts? Lately, all that stuff was starting to feel like lead weights pulling her down, trying to drag her back, to keep her from finding happiness. Maybe she only needed to let go of them, to stop giving them such unnecessary power over her. “How’s Connie?”

“Dr. Montaigne says she can go to school tomorrow.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear—and about tonight?”

“You already said yes,” he reminded her gruffly. “You can’t change your mind now.”

“I have no intention of changing my mind.”

“Now, that’s what I wanted to hear.”

“I have a request, though.”

“Name it.”

“I don’t feel like going out. Would you come here and we could stay in?”

“I’d like that. I’ll bring dinner.”

“I think you just might be the perfect man.”

“Hold that thought. I’ll see you at seven.”

She hung up, smiling, and went back to that awful, unworkable sentence. And what do you know? There was nothing wrong with it. She kept going, pressing ahead as Max had suggested, refusing to edit or second-guess herself.

By one-thirty, she had nine good pages, which got her thinking that she had to stop staying up all night worrying. Having an actual love life could be good for her writing, if she would only allow it to be.

After

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