With a sigh, I delete the last thousand words I’ve typed onto the screen and watch them disappear. Ed’s words about a car accident ruin anything I want to write.

I glance at my handwritten notes. During one night this week, I couldn’t sleep, and some good ideas came to my mind. So as not to forget, I jotted them down.

I’ve decided the brothers’ relationship needs to become the focus. They are going to stop doing their old tricks. It’s time to decide to do something bigger than they have ever done before.

My notes went on to describe how they masquerade as antique dealers to con this mega rich single woman into buying a very valuable manuscript from them.

I try again.

The car accident scene refuses to take shape. Any time I start with a car, it turns into an old antique thing—one this lady drives and the two brothers have their eye on.

I shake my head and decide there’s only one thing I can do right now.

When I come back with my strong hot coffee, I sit down and put fingers to keyboard again.

As I type the opening of the scene, I sigh.

Blast Ed into outer space, I think. Why is he trying to ruin my life? He and Ian, together they are the odd couple determined to make sure I fail.

I think about the last few days. It’s been great. Scott and I had amazing sex.

And then there had been the mind-blowing sex with Brad.

I shake my head as I stare at my screen, notes, and back at the screen again.

I slam my hand onto my desk. Fuck Ed, I think.

If there’s one thing I know, killing Brad and Scott is not the answer. And I know I don’t only hold this opinion because I’ve got feelings for both of them.

During my soul searching, I’ve realized I’m more professional than Ed. It might appear to Ed or some of the others that I am letting my feelings get the better of me, but I disagree.

And what had Ange said to me? It had been something about standing up for what I believe in.

I believe in Scott, and I believe in Brad, and more importantly, I believe in this show.

Drinking my coffee, I curse both Ian and Ed. Instead of sitting here and reveling in all the good things in my life, I’m sitting here being miserable.

This is a time when I should be enjoying falling in love with two men, and I should be drinking up my success in the screenwriting world.

Less than two years ago, no one had heard of Kayla, and now over a million viewers watch the show on which I’m head writer. Not that bad for someone who didn’t like English and whose fifth grade teacher told her to get ready for a career in hospitality.

I sigh.

I know what I must do. I must write the script the way I want to write it. And then somehow Ed needs to be…needs to be what?

It’s good neither one of them are here right now because I’m so tempted to lash out physically. I ache all over.

Next time Ian makes some smart-ass remark about my writing, I swear I won’t be held responsible if I hit him.

My gaze moves around the office. What suitable object could I use? I don’t want to hurt my hands or get blood on them.

I shake my head migthought. What’s happening to me? What level am I stooping to?

I don’t believe in violence.

And yet thoughts of smashing something heavy over Ed’s head are overwhelming.

With a sigh and another sip of my coffee, I straighten up and start typing again.

If I want to change the show, I had to get writing.

My eyes glance at the clock and the little reminder that has been bopping up and down in the top right-hand corner of my screen.

Shit.

I’m meant to be on set for filming. In my haste to get out the door, I knock my cup of coffee. Hot black liquid splatters everywhere. Some land on the ke“

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter and grab some tissues to wipe up the mess. Quickly I turn the keyboard upside down. Coffee drips onto my desk.

After I’ve mopped up most of the mess, I leave my keyboard upside down to make sure it dries out completely. I doubt the budget would allow for a new one, particularly if I have to confess to being responsible for its malfunction.

At the lift, I frantically press the down button. For some reason, it seems to take forever to come.

Why is it that when you are in a hurry, technology moves extra slowly? Newton’s law, or was the guy called Murphy?

With the elevator a no-show, I race to stairs. It’s probably faster to walk.

By the time I’m on the ground floor, my hair is in my face, little beads of sweat are rolling down my cheek, and I know my makeup will is smudged.

A glance in a mirror from another set confirms my worst fears. I look like a mess.

Breathing heavily, I arrive on set.

All eyes are on me as I open the door. Filming had not started.

“You’re late,” Ian says and sneers. He then looks at Scott and Brad. “Again.”

There’s that intense desire to hit him again. I brush the hair out of my face and

quash the temptation to plant my fist right between his eyes. Deliberate and slow, I walk over to Derrick. He greets me with a smile and a wave of his left hand.

“Don’t worry, Kayla. You’re just in time,” he says. “We’re about to start.”

With a nod at everyone else, I take up my seat next to the director.

Silently, I congratulate myself for not losing my cool and keeping it together.