CHAPTER TWO

Ophelia

“Austin, where are you?” I hollered through the apartment, hoping my cat will grant me the privilege of his presences, but no luck. He likes to play hide and seek with me, but the only problem is I can never find him. He decides when he is ready to come out.

Austin came with this apartment. When I moved in, he was hiding in one of the cupboards and refused to leave. Since then, he has been my constant companion, even though I never planned on having a pet.

Turning on the coffee pot, I walk toward the wall of floor to ceiling windows that surrounds my living room. This apartment is a result of all my hard work.  All those sleepless nights furiously typing on my computer and chasing the inspiration for the fictional world, and characters that have now become my family. My books have not been made into movies, I am not that big  of an author yet, but I have hit the New York Times Bestsellers List a few times, and that was enough for me to buy this apartment. When the coffee timer sounds, I fill a big cup to the brim and open the doors leading to my balcony. I walk barefoot along the cold tile floor. I am not a summer girl, I like winter, maybe because I was born in the winter.

Sipping from my mug, I roll my eyes at the sight of my neighborhood. The streets, buildings, and shops have all been decorated for Christmas, and it makes me want to puke. I don't understand the fuss about Christmas; maybe it’s because we never celebrated it like in the movies as a family. My parents are die-hard business professionals, both working in finance. Their focus was always on material things, like the dollar situation compared to pounds sterling or which the best way was to invest their client’s money. Christmas was just a ridiculous holiday for them, and me at the time. I also have another reason to dislike Christmas. Since my birthday is December 24th, people tend to buy me presents with a Christmas theme. I do not have one birthday memory that was not ruined by a Christmas themed scarf or socks.

I shake my head at the thought and take a deep breath of chilly air. It wakes me up and sets the inspiration company in my brain to work. When my coffee cup is empty, and my arms are covered in goosebumps, I walk inside and put my cozy socks on. I grab another cup of coffee, a granola bar for breakfast, and head toward my office. With a deep breath, I sit down at my desk and open my laptop. The blank word page is staring at me, holding unlimited possibilities, but I can’t write any of them because I have to write a Christmas story. Yes, me. Yes, I must write a Christmas story because my publisher demands it. A fucking Christmas story. I curse myself a thousand times that I did not pay attention to number 16 in my contract, which gives my publisher the right to choose my next project.

I’m a dark romance writer, and I have no interest in Christmas or writing a story about it. She wants a sweet, warm, and romantic story that is the exact opposite to my writing style, but she insists that this will be the best way to bring in new readers, and surprise my loyal ones.

I place my hands on the keyboard but have no words to type onto the blank page. Finally, I push away from the desk and rest my head on the back of the chair. Closing my eyes, I count to ten, and when I open them, I see the most handsome man I have ever seen. He has tanned skin, dark hair, tattoos that lick his muscles, making his arms pop, black-rimmed glasses… yeah, that are my neighbor. He is the inspiration for most of my fictional heroes.

My knowledge about him ends there, sadly. I’ve been living here for almost two years now, and I’ve been watching him from afar all this time, but we have never talked or even had a reason to. My stalker tendencies only include me watching him, and making him the star of all my fictional fantasies, or the ones I have late at night alone in my bed. He must be out for his daily morning run. I watch him until I can no longer see him. I decide to write until he comes back. As I start typing, I don't know what this story will turn into, but I just give up control and let it decide its future, and my own. 

After about an hour, I manage to write 1,500 words, much to my surprise, and if I wasn't so distracted by my sweaty neighbor’s return, I could have written more. I stand up and walk toward the window to get a better view with my coffee cup in hand. I freeze when he turns his face, and stares right at me. I cough as the coffee goes down the wrong pipe, shocked at being caught ogling him. I never thought he would see me, or even give me a second thought. When I manage to stop coughing, I look where he was a moment ago, and he is still standing there with a smirk on his face. My cheeks burn as I look at him like a deer caught in headlights. He winks at me before jogging into his building. I stare shamelessly at his ass. My hot neighbor caught me checking him out, and he winked at me.