"That's right. You don't know," she said. "Lovemaking like that can't just be performed on a whim. It takes preparation and the right frame of mind. I had the candles lit and the music playing, and she was about to ride him like a stallion. You've set me back hours at least. How would you like it if someone kept ringing the doorbell right before you were about to have an orgasm?"
He swallowed hard and dropped his clipboard. "I . . . I wouldn't." He bent down to pick it up and then shoved it and the box at her once more. "I'm sorry for interrupting. But you're the last house on my route. I've got to get it delivered and signed for so I can go home."
She sighed and scribbled her name in the little box and then took the package. "Next time do us both a favor and sign it for me and put it on the rocking chair. I won't tell anyone if you don't. And I also won't want to kill you, which is what I want to do now."
"I appreciate your restraint," he said, swallowing again. "Sorry about that. I guess I'll uh . . . let you get back to . . ." He gestured with his hand, and she realized what he thought she'd been doing and what she'd actually been doing were two very different things.
"I'm a writer," she said by way of explanation.
"Right," he said, looking skeptical.
She ran her fingers through the rat's nest on her head and two pencils fell on the porch. Her shoulder slumped in defeat and she turned back into the house, leaving the pencils on the ground and dead-bolting the door behind her. The UPS man was still standing there. He was probably reevaluating his career choices.
There was no point trying to get back to work. The moment was broken and the mood was gone. Besides, she'd had the opportunity to smell herself and feel the rumble in her stomach. A shower was in order, followed by whatever she could find to eat in her kitchen. Writing wasn't a pretty profession. When she was in the trenches of a story she often forgot to tend to day-to-day life. Sometimes, the story took hold of her and wouldn't let go, and that's where she'd been the last several days.
She tossed the package on her entryway table on top of the mail that had been accumulating for the past week. Her housekeeper, Julia, came in every Tuesday and Friday, but she knew better than to knock on her office door and disturb her, so she put the mail on the table and cleaned around her office. She also made sure Miller didn't leave the coffeepot or stove on and burn the house down.
The mail was the least of her worries. The bills were all done automatically online, so she assumed anything in the stack wasn't urgent. She caught her reflection in the mirror as she headed back up the stairs and had to do a double-take because she thought a stranger was following behind her.
"Yikes," she said, grimacing.
She looked bad, even by her usual definition of deadline-crazy. She needed desperately to get her roots done and have her color touched up. It was rare she kept it the same color for a long stretch of time, and it was currently black with bright blue highlights. She looked like a cross between the Cookie Monster and Don King.
Her face was pale and there were dark circles under her eyes. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been out in the sun or to the gym. And Lord, her eyebrows needed a pair of tweezers.
Since work was over for the moment, she decided to do damage control and transition back to human again. When she was writing, she could stay cooped up and alone for days without noticing, but eventually she'd feel the loss of human interaction. She was a people person. Watching them and being around their energy always filled her with ideas and creativity. And maybe that was just what she needed to get back into the groove of things and not leave her poor characters on the verge of orgasm. She'd been there. It wasn't a fun place to be.
Maybe that's what she needed to get back in the mood. It had been weeks since Elias Cole had left her high and dry, and her pity party had lasted long enough. Sex was sex. It was a natural human function, and she could always call up an old boyfriend or two and see if someone would be willing to scratch her itch.
It didn't matter that the only person who came to mind was Elias. She knew her own ego well enough to understand that the reason she couldn't get him out of her head was probably because they'd never done the naked tango. Fine. He'd changed his mind and it was time for her to move on.
She hurried the rest of the way up the stairs, her mind on him instead of the work she was abandoning, despite the mental pep talk she'd just given herself. The majority of her adult life had been spent writing the romances women dreamed about, but Miller was more practical than that. The kind of love she wrote about-that soul-deep connection to another person-wasn't something she expected to find for herself. It wasn't something she wanted to find. That depth of love could be devastating, and it wasn't worth taking the chance. She much preferred for her relationships to be fun while they lasted, for the sex to be great, and to part as friends in the end. She'd never had her heart broken, and she had no plans to.