up the third bedroom for you?"
He considered it for a moment and then nodded. "Yeah I think that would be best. However, I noticed that there was a bedroom in the basement with a bathroom. I’d prefer to use that."
"It’s not furnished," I argued.
"I’ll take care of it. Just go write."
I nodded and then immediately shook my head at this entire situation. "Yeah, ok. I’ll see you in a few. Yell if you need anything."
It took me a few seconds to realize that I was being followed. I looked over my shoulder and nearly screamed. Scooter had turned into a Beagle and was panting after my heels, following me to the house, his little tail wagging back and forth.
"I hope he’s house trained!" I yelled as I stomped through the back door, ignoring that the clicking of its metallic nails against the hardwood made me move just a little faster.
Chapter 8
I'd like to say that I took my training - pre-training, really - like a man, but I'd be lying. I'd start out stoic, but it always ended the same way - with me blubbering and hiding.
At one point, I'd run away to the neighbor's to escape Drew and the torture he considered training. He found me a few hours later and my punishment was a work out that left me too tired to climb the stairs. As if the agony I felt with each step wasn't enough, he'd then set Scooter on me. I survived, but still had 2 bites and a gash on my thigh by the time I made it to my bedroom.
It was an improvement, but I still hid under my bed – shaking - for 20 minutes.
I was grateful he'd taken over the cooking and cleaning because I no longer had the energy to do much of anything. Training started as soon as I returned from dropping Dylan off at school and didn't end until he came home. Then there was homework, family time, dinner, and finally more work finishing the book.
It was finally almost complete. Drew had written the love scenes and I'd handled the rest. Marisol and my editor had never been so happy, which led me to wonder whether he was that good or I was that bad at the hubba hubba.
It really says a lot when Marisol actually leaves me alone to write. She'd once been so worried about an impending deadline that she'd chartered a flight into Colorado Springs so she could sit next to me - for three days straight - and make sure that I was writing, not goofing off.
During our last conversation she’d expressed her joy that I’d found a good man to help "take the edge off" and that my love scenes had never been so steamy. Great, maybe it was time for me to pick another genre.
We’d gone an entire month with no further incidents. No major storms, earthquakes or melting phones. Drew figured it was because I was too tired to get angry. I couldn’t disagree.
The only thing that kept nagging at me was my lack of communication with Rose. We’d talk on the phone, but Drew didn’t think that it would be a good idea for her to come over and interrupt the routine right now.
"Think of it as a stint on The Biggest Loser," he’d joked. "You’re at the ranch and nobody is allowed in or out."
I knew - even over the phone - that she could tell something was up. The prospect of seeing her and telling her about everything that'd been going on was what kept me going. She was my best friend, but I knew that she'd think I'd finally taken that final icy plunge into Lake Crazy when she heard the story. Eventually she'd get it. She had to get it. She was my link to normality, and not having seen her in weeks was stretching the link pretty thin.
I sucked at lying, so keeping her at a distance was the best way I could deal with this. My male live-in was cause for concern. When she'd finally seen Drew, she'd asked bluntly if I was having a mid-life crisis.
How had she seen Drew? Oh, right - SHE SCHEDULED A FUCKING INTERVENTION - something about the possibility of me being either an alcoholic or a late-in-life drug addict. I still smiled at her reaction when I'd
He considered it for a moment and then nodded. "Yeah I think that would be best. However, I noticed that there was a bedroom in the basement with a bathroom. I’d prefer to use that."
"It’s not furnished," I argued.
"I’ll take care of it. Just go write."
I nodded and then immediately shook my head at this entire situation. "Yeah, ok. I’ll see you in a few. Yell if you need anything."
It took me a few seconds to realize that I was being followed. I looked over my shoulder and nearly screamed. Scooter had turned into a Beagle and was panting after my heels, following me to the house, his little tail wagging back and forth.
"I hope he’s house trained!" I yelled as I stomped through the back door, ignoring that the clicking of its metallic nails against the hardwood made me move just a little faster.
Chapter 8
I'd like to say that I took my training - pre-training, really - like a man, but I'd be lying. I'd start out stoic, but it always ended the same way - with me blubbering and hiding.
At one point, I'd run away to the neighbor's to escape Drew and the torture he considered training. He found me a few hours later and my punishment was a work out that left me too tired to climb the stairs. As if the agony I felt with each step wasn't enough, he'd then set Scooter on me. I survived, but still had 2 bites and a gash on my thigh by the time I made it to my bedroom.
It was an improvement, but I still hid under my bed – shaking - for 20 minutes.
I was grateful he'd taken over the cooking and cleaning because I no longer had the energy to do much of anything. Training started as soon as I returned from dropping Dylan off at school and didn't end until he came home. Then there was homework, family time, dinner, and finally more work finishing the book.
It was finally almost complete. Drew had written the love scenes and I'd handled the rest. Marisol and my editor had never been so happy, which led me to wonder whether he was that good or I was that bad at the hubba hubba.
It really says a lot when Marisol actually leaves me alone to write. She'd once been so worried about an impending deadline that she'd chartered a flight into Colorado Springs so she could sit next to me - for three days straight - and make sure that I was writing, not goofing off.
During our last conversation she’d expressed her joy that I’d found a good man to help "take the edge off" and that my love scenes had never been so steamy. Great, maybe it was time for me to pick another genre.
We’d gone an entire month with no further incidents. No major storms, earthquakes or melting phones. Drew figured it was because I was too tired to get angry. I couldn’t disagree.
The only thing that kept nagging at me was my lack of communication with Rose. We’d talk on the phone, but Drew didn’t think that it would be a good idea for her to come over and interrupt the routine right now.
"Think of it as a stint on The Biggest Loser," he’d joked. "You’re at the ranch and nobody is allowed in or out."
I knew - even over the phone - that she could tell something was up. The prospect of seeing her and telling her about everything that'd been going on was what kept me going. She was my best friend, but I knew that she'd think I'd finally taken that final icy plunge into Lake Crazy when she heard the story. Eventually she'd get it. She had to get it. She was my link to normality, and not having seen her in weeks was stretching the link pretty thin.
I sucked at lying, so keeping her at a distance was the best way I could deal with this. My male live-in was cause for concern. When she'd finally seen Drew, she'd asked bluntly if I was having a mid-life crisis.
How had she seen Drew? Oh, right - SHE SCHEDULED A FUCKING INTERVENTION - something about the possibility of me being either an alcoholic or a late-in-life drug addict. I still smiled at her reaction when I'd
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