“What makes you think—” Josh didn’t bother finishing the question. Even Russell had caught on that he was unhappy with his writing, which meant he was being pretty damned obvious about it.
He shifted so that his face was turned directly into Melanie’s shoulder. It felt as if he could hide there. Her well-defined collarbone lined up with the bridge of his nose. His nose snuggled into the softness of the muscle just below, his lips on the first suggestion of the rise of her breast. She still rested her cheek atop his head and he could feel her hair sliding over his arms and bare back like a cloak of safety.
“I’ve had this idea since forever. A foodie mystery. Hercule Poirot meets, I don’t know, Julia Child. But every time I try writing, it just sounds contrived or pompous. I write, wrote f
