One of my favorite things about writing is being in “the flow zone.” It’s the time where your characters have so much going on in their lives, and so much to say as your writing their story, you get lost in it with them. By the time you come back to the real world, your manuscript is done. That’s what happened when I was writing Claimed by the Bad Boy. I sat down to write Ryker and Molly’s story, and stayed in the zone.
What’s the down side? Things like dishes piling up in the sink. Wearing some crazy outfit that’s been in your closet since the 80’s because you’ve been so busy writing you haven’t done your laundry and it’s the only thing clean. Figuring out you haven’t been to the grocery store in a while when you see exactly one egg, a jar of pickles, something which was take-out, but now it’s suspiciously close to a moldy science experiment, and a bottle of ketchup in the refrigerator.
Now it’s time to share the outcome of being in my flow zone. So, while you read, I’ll go tackle all the dust bunnies that procreated while I was busy writing.
Something always brings him back to her...
What am I doing? Molly leaned a hip against the counter in the restroom at the office, holding her phone in her hand, and staring at the text she’d sent, which indicated it had been read. She’d excused herself in the middle of great conversation while eating some freaking awesome dumplings with Jack to sneak in here and hide out like a criminal. Why? Because she felt compelled to answer a text from someone she shouldn’t be giving the time of day. Or night, as the case may be.
Tapping her foot on the tiles, she closed her eyes. She was going to give Ryker to the count of ten to respond. If he didn’t. Well, even better. She’d forget about her poor judgment. Forget he’d texted. Continue to stop thinking about him, and go back to finish her dinner with a man who was interested in being with her.
By the count of nine, she was one second from turning her phone off when the dweedle-deet had her eyelids fluttering open.
Molly glanced down and tapped the screen.
I’m home. Sitting outside, texting you.
Molly’s heart sped up as though she’d just crossed the finish line at the Boston marathon. Ryker was home. In Denver. Oh my God. She took a deep breath and typed.
When did you get back from Singapore?
She pressed send and waited. And waited. And waited….
Biting her lip, she read.
I’ve made a few short trips here since Singapore. Went to a software convention in LasVegas, took a trip to Detroit. Dallas. Seattle. Then I decided to come home. I got here a few days ago.
He’d decided to come home? What did that mean? Molly typed.
How long you home for?
The time seemed to tick by in agonizing slowness, allowing her mind to conjure up a picture-show of the last time she’d seen him. He’d been glowering at her—the fury rolling in akin to a storm about to break within the depths of those ocean-colored eyes. She even recalled the deep resonating tone of finality in his voice.
Leave, Molly. Or I will.
She blinked, letting the memory slip away like little granules of sand from her hand, too difficult to hold onto, and stared at the phone in her palm.
Not sure. I may stay.
An unwanted tear trickled down the contour of her cheek, slid over her mouth, and dripped off her chin before she swiped the moisture away and typed.
I have to get back to what I was doing. It was good hearing from you, Ryker. Goodnight.
Where to find London: