Sitting in front of a laptop with a blank Word document in front of you is terrifying. It should go up there with Jack Nicholson’s ‘Here’s Johnny,’ and the flash of a black and white Scream mask before Drew Barrymore and her cute hairstyle are stabbed to death. The blinking cursor was mocking me. Telling me, You’ll never write again, I’m happy to sit here forever, Miss No Words.

Urgh.

Pushing the laptop closed, I picked up a notepad and pen. I wasn’t a great outliner; I preferred to go by the seat of my pants, the clichéd route of ‘my characters talk to me.’ Usually, it was true. I could have conversations in the shower, play scenes out in my head on the commute to work. When I was fully immersed in a book, building characters and worlds, I’d wake up in the middle of the night dreaming of plot twists and plugging plot holes. I kept a pad and a pencil on my bedside table, and in the morning, wake up ready to start writing again. I loved piecing a book together. I felt compelled to get it right. Cover all the bases. Most of all, I wanted to take my readers to Swoony Swoonsville with a detour to Sexcapade City. In the early days of my career, I was told never to read reviews. The bad ones would destroy you; the good ones inflate your ego. I found I couldn’t keep away. I was like an addict needing my next fix. When a reader connected with one of my stories it propelled me to make the next book even better, the one after even better until I found the pace exhausting both creatively and physically. Down went the pen. The laptop stayed closed. I became empty.

I didn’t believe in writer’s block until it hit me on the head like a brick. Ideas just always seemed to flow. The notes in my app got bigger. I had a stack of notebooks filled with scribbles and unintelligible comments that made perfect sense to me. I took inspiration from everything. I couldn’t imagine never having a story to tell. Yet, here I was. Sitting at a desk on an island off the coast of Cornwall, tapping a pen on a piece of paper with the only words gracing it being, Write all the sexytimes with the hot pilot.

OK, Cal. Let’s think tropes. The trope is an excellent place to start. Childhood sweethearts. Focus, you’ve only met him today. Oooh! Maybe we could have a super-sweet storyline where they have no idea they had met before and then the mum finds a photo of the two protagonists line dancing when they were three. No. That’s been done. Colleen Hoover’s probably already been there and done a much better job than me. Must. Not. Plagiarise.

Groaning, I poured another glass of wine. Not only could Drew pick a great bottle of Chablis, he could also cook a great lasagna. Ha! What about a sexy chef? I’m thinking Gordon Ramsey without the shouty swearing and frown lines. A man who knows what he’s doing in the kitchen and the bedroom. Possible. More notes. Friends to lovers. Hopefully. Marriage of convenience. Always popular. Whoops, baby. I packed condoms. Always practical. What about the terribly insulting billionaire boss who changes his ways when his new secretary flounces in and gives him the best blow job of his life? Clichés, Cal. Every single one of them.

My mobile phone rang, startling me somewhat. This place was silent. It was the first noise I’d heard since the oven timer went off. ‘Hey, Gerry. How are you?’

‘Cal, how’s things? You arrived safely?’

‘Yes. Safe and sound. I’m just starting to outline a new book. I’m raring to go. Ideas are flowing through me like…water down a wonderfully beautiful…waterfall.’

‘I call bullshit. You’ve been there an hour. The place is amazing but it’s not that fucking good,’ Gerry replied.

‘I have some ideas, which is something.’

‘Ideas are good.’

I met Gerry, my publisher, two years ago. He was always looking for new talent, and kept a close eye on the indie publishing community through social media and regular checks of Amazon rankings. When I started self-publishing, I was lucky to get followers who loved my words, and with each book, the numbers began to fly. By the time I had published the third book, Gerry had already contacted me, offered me a great publishing deal, and I became a USA Today bestseller by the fourth. After finishing the series, the words dried up and Gerry became nervous. I’d been given a hefty advance and I wasn’t delivering the goods.

‘So, can I ask what your expectations are going to be at the end of the month?’ I asked, pulling my feet up on the chair and wrapping my arms around my body. He hadn’t answered yet and already I was nervous.

‘We agreed a standalone, Cal. Your series was a great success, but I think we need something to get new readers on board. Ones who will hopefully go through your back catalogue and then recommend it to their friends. I would expect your first draft to be completed by the time you leave. I’m happy to give you another couple of weeks if you need more time, but I need a manuscript, Cal. I’m counting on you.’

I cleared my throat, taking in his words and nodding to myself as the reality hit home. ‘I’ll have a first draft completed by the time I leave.’

‘As long as it has a start, middle and end. We can tidy it up when you get back to London, we just need something to tidy up,’ Gerry said.

‘Gotcha.’

‘I’m going to give you some advice, Cal. Don’t stay within the four walls of the cottage and expect to start writing the next Pride and Prejudice. Get out there, take in the views, be inspired by the place. Cornwall is so magical; you can feel it becoming part of you,’ he said.

‘Noted.’

‘I trust you’ve met Drew.’

I could feel my smile lift my cheeks. ‘Yes. He’s been very accommodating. Even left me a lasagna in the fridge in case I was hungry after the journey.’

‘He thinks of everything. A man of many talents,’ he replied. ‘Such a shame what happened. I thought they were well-suited, but there you go.’

‘Well-suited?’

‘Oh balls, hang on. Doing too many things at once and now I appear to have deleted a final copy of an autobiography I’ve just been emailed.’

‘What do you mean well-suited?’

‘Fuck and balls.’ I heard papers rustling and keys tapping manically. The sounds of chaos.

‘Are you still there or have I lost you?’

‘Hang on, Cal. Shit,’ he shouted. I held the phone away from my ear.

‘I’ll let you go, Gerry,’ I said, confused by his comments, but equally desperate to know more.

‘Keep me up to speed.’

‘Will do,’ I said as the phone went dead.

I took a sip from the glass and settled back into the chair. Well-suited? Such a shame? What did Gerry mean? Drew had been reserved, snappy even, when I asked about his family and running this place on his own. I didn’t expect him to run through his background history in detail, including a list of his allergies and blood type, but something more would have been helpful. Come to think of it though; Brian had mentioned something on the plane about Drew having a run of bad luck. Hmm. What was his story? I smiled at the parallels. I was outlining a new plot, but it felt like there was already a story to be told right here at Karensa.

The room was getting warmer now, the fire dancing, the crackles providing some noise in the silence. Everything seemed so…still. I leant my head back, trailing my arms behind me in a stretch as I let out a sleepy yawn. It was only nine o’clock but it could have been the middle of the night. The darkness was vast and deep, the need for time appeared insignificant here. I gathered up my Louis Vuitton blanket, turned out the light and went upstairs. Drew had carried up my bags and I found them huddled together in the bedroom. The room was decorated in neutral colours, light greens and greys with white bed linen that looked full and comfortable, I could imagine myself sinking into the duvet. A vase of lilies was on one bedside table, a lamp on the other. I turned it on, the small click amplified in the stillness of the room. I liked the light. It was just enough to read a book and not enough to take over. It created a warm glow that seemed to match the homely warmth of the place. I liked it immediately, imagining I would decorate my own bedroom like this, likening it to the colours I had chosen for my flat.

I sat down on the bed, the duvet swallowing me, almost like it was hugging me, telling me I was going to be fine here. That had been my biggest worry when Gerry suggested the idea. Would I get here and immediately want to go home? So far, the answer was no. I opened up the Book+Main app on my phone. Since writer’s block had settled in, I hadn’t felt able to read anything as I was concerned the words would influence my writing, and when they eventually returned I wanted them to be authentically mine, not an unconscious rehash of someone else’s. I did, however, enjoy reading Bites from my favourite authors. The snippets were just enough to quench my reader thirst but leave me wanting more. I settled back, the duvet creating an impression around my body and read through the Bites that had been posted since I last checked. The first one was tagged as a second-chance romance, a heat rating of five. There were already sixty-eight likes and twenty comments from readers highlighting how hot the Bite was, how they loved the book and wanted more. Romance readers were voracious. They could read fifteen books in a week, have another six-hundred-and-fifty lined up on their to-be-read list, and would count down on their calendar when the next book from their unicorn author would be released. I’d already received countless emails from fans asking what my plans are for the next year. I always replied and the answer was always the same: No plans set in stone, but my fans will be the first to know. How much longer I could use that line was still up for debate.

No matter how difficult things were for me, I still rooted for authors who were experiencing the highs of writing, whether that be their first book or their seventeenth. I had made some amazing friends over the last few years. Some authors I hadn’t even met, yet chatted with them over the internet like we were lifelong friends. One of them, Melissa Hawkins, queen of the sex scene, had just posted a Bite. Simply reading a Bite of hers with a heat rating of five could encourage an orgasm without being touched. Her words could hypnotise you and her most recent Bite was no exception. It was from her upcoming book, which I knew featured a M/M/F scene her fans would never recover from. When I read an advanced reader copy, part of my feedback was suggesting she include a disclaimer stating that readers should have a defibrillator, a glass of wine and a Hitachi magic wand on standby. She took me up on it and added a thank you in her acknowledgements.

I opened messenger and typed Melissa a message.

Me: Just saw your Bite! I’m so excited for your release! Not long now…

Melissa: Girl! What time is it for you?

Me: Just turned half nine. I’ve arrived at my island getaway. Let the words commence!

Melissa: Sending good fairy writing vibes. You got this.

Me: I have a muse…

Melissa: Hold up. He’s a sexy farmer, isn’t he? Or maybe a fisherman. He needs some lovin’ when he gets home from a long day at sea.

Me: He’s a wedding-venue running, kitchen fitter with a penchant for cooking lasagna. Oh, did I mention he’s a pilot in his spare time?

Melissa: You’re inventing a new trope, girlfriend.

Me: Lasagna love.

Melissa: Haha! Make the sex scene dirty. Tomato sauce on the nip. Cheese sauce across the stomach. He runs the tip of his tongue across the fleshy crease and the smell of the accompanying garlic bread takes his orgasm to far-reaching heights until he bursts, making his own special kind of sauce.

Me: Not quite what I’m going for.

Melissa: That’s my next plot outline right there.

Me: It takes a special kind of romance author to link semen to cheese sauce.

Melissa: You know I’m the woman for the job.

Me: Talk to you when you’re a bestselling author. Again.

Melissa: Talk to you when you’ve plotted your outline. Here to hash out any kinks.

Me: Love you.

Melissa: Love you, too.

I hoisted myself up, deciding that a bath and an early night would help the inspiration flow in the morning. I walked over to the window, pulled a curtain across and noticed Drew’s bedroom light was on in the cottage opposite. He appeared at the window, standing with his arms behind his head, stretching out his back before dropping them, our eyes connecting. He offered me a shy wave. Then a smile. I returned both and hung onto the curtain, waiting for him to close his curtains first, closing the light off and therefore the contact. His hand was on one side and slowly he brought the fabric across. He pointed at me, did an action with his hand where he pretended to pull the curtain, telling me to do it first like when you’re on the phone to your lover and a game of no, you hang up starts. I pointed back, dragged my hand across, mimicking the same action and loving the laughter it appeared to create. I imagined the sound, loud and strong, and ignored my sudden need to hear it. He held up one finger, then two and finally three, putting up his thumb when I nodded. One finger. Two fingers. Three. We closed the curtains together.

I was still laughing as the curtains settled, biting my lip and feeling sad that the small, silly connection had ended. I couldn’t help myself, I pulled one curtain back slowly, bunching the fabric in my fist to see if his curtains were still closed, only to find that Drew…had done the same.