I uncross my legs and tilt my head from one side to the other, working to relieve the kinks in my neck.

Half of a chapter down.

Checking the large, round, wall-mounted clock, I smile. I’m way ahead today. The buzzing of my phone against the wooden tabletop gets my attention. The vibration causes it to skitter across the surface and bump the side of my laptop, and the noise fills the air within the entire resort library. The teenage girl two tables from me looks up at me for a second before returning to her reading. She tucks her mess of chestnut brown hair behind her ear and plays with her double pierced ear, seeming to ruminate on whatever she’s reading on her tablet computer. For a second I wonder why she’s in here instead of out on the slopes, snowboarding and skiing like every other tourist at this Mount Charleston resort.

Every tourist but me.

I’m not from Mount Charleston, but I also can’t call myself a tourist per se.

Because I’m not here for winter fun.

I took a four-month hiatus from my life to make a dent in completing the most significant romance book deal my agent, Greta Phelps, has ever found me. Pitching her my idea for The Billionaire’s Man Cave Duet was a godsend. Greta went to bat for me, and after much negotiating, we signed with Pitch Black Publishing. Their twenty-thousand-dollar advance gave me everything I needed. I temporarily left behind my friends, my family—comprised solely of my mother, as I lost my older brother and father years ago—and my sorry-ass cheater of an ex-boyfriend who still refuses to believe I can do anything on my own, let alone survive without him. With everyone over an hour’s drive away in the Las Vegas suburbs, I can hunker down here in Mount Charleston to finish both books.

I enjoyed my time away from it all, but I’m also thrilled that it’s almost over. At this point, I have a month to spare. I’m coasting through the last four chapters of book two. By next week this time, I’ll be able to type The End and shoot off the manuscript to my editor. Best of all is I have a lot more than half the money sitting in my savings account because, well, I’ve learned a few things in my four years of being a writer. First, the next deal could be years off. Second, not every book is destined to be a blockbuster bestseller. Third, to survive in between book releases, it helps to make do with less, and more importantly, to make every penny count.

This library has been my writing cave for a few months already. One reason I come here is the tuck shop next door has the best coffee on this side of the mountain. It’s also the only coffee on this side of the mountain, other than the sad brew that the outdated coffee machine at my cabin makes, but it’s still pretty good. And it’s a must for my mandatory six to seven hours a day, five days a week writing marathons to get this romance duet finished ahead of time.

Today, aside from the one librarian who works here, the teenage girl and I are the only two people in here.

But apparently, it’s not enough for my phone to be on vibrate. The librarian shoots me a disapproving look above her horn-rimmed glasses from all the way over at her desk. Shifting my ass around on the uncomfortable chair just from that glare, I unlock my phone and switch the volume setting to silent mode.

You’d think that she’d give me a little leeway considering that I’ve been coming here five days a week for all this time. I know her on a first name basis now. But then again, I can’t fault her. I chose this spot for precisely the same silence she’s scolding me for disrupting.

Not that it’s quiet all the time, but the ambient noise in this space is perfect for me. I love how the fluorescent lights tend to hum on occasion. The odd times a rare patron or ski resort staff person would clear their throat or flip well-worn pages of a book they’re browsing. The shuffling of the librarian’s feet when she pushes her sorting cart down an aisle, or the dragging of a chair against the wooden floor when a patron is restless or getting ready to leave. Those small sounds are part of my routine. They help keep my mind relaxed, my fingers tapping, and my story flowing.

And soon, because of this ideal spot, I’ll be able to write ‘the end’ on this baby and get back to civilization.

I just wish I can keep ignoring the fact that my phone screen keeps lighting up. Someone really wants to reach me. If it weren’t for the thirty-minute drive to the resort library from the secluded cabin I’m renting while I write this book, I’d leave my phone at home.

Making a mental note to keep it in my pickup truck for all future visits to the library, I lock my laptop screen, grab the damn thing, and head to the back hallway near the restrooms. It’s out of earshot from Mrs. Herman, far enough away that I can at least check my text and voice messages, and return a short phone call if needed.

Another text message comes in as I’m unlocking the phone. It’s my agent. Then I see that so are all the other texts, and by the looks of it, the missed calls too.

God. I’m nervous.

How can I not be a little freaked out right now? Six or seven missed calls and messages from my literary agent can’t be good. Can it? I’m tempted to phone her back but decide against it. I can’t handle hearing bad news from her. Reading it would be a little easier. I wouldn’t have to fake a professional tone of voice or reply sweetly while crying on the inside. I decide and key in a quick reply by text.

Me: Hi Greta. Sorry I missed your messages. What’s up?

I stare at the phone for about half a minute before the screen lights up with her reply.

Greta: OMG, Elle! I was so worried. Hang on I’ll call.

Fake voice it is, then. The phone lights up again in a minute or so, this time with her actual phone call.

“Hi, Greta. You should know that I’m nervous as hell right now,” I tell her. “You realize this may actually be the first time we’re speaking live, right? Wait. No. It’s the third time.”

“Aww, honey,” she chirps. “If this is only my third call, then we should really do this more often. My bad, darling.”

“Okay. So, is everything good?”

“Yes of course. No, it’s nothing like that, so you can stop worrying.”

“That’s great,” I tell her as relief washes over me. I fill my lungs with air and can breathe easier now. “So you were calling to say hi?”

“That and to check in on you. We’re close to the book deadline, and as you’ve been more or less off the grid, I wanted to have a sense of your progress…”

The pause at the end of her sentence leads me to believe there’s more. Unless this is the way she always speaks. I don’t have enough context, based on the two prior conversations we’ve had. “And you know from my last email that I’m way ahead, right?” I ask.

“Yes, yes. It’s fantastic that you are.”

“And…is there something else? You can tell me.”

“Darling, there really isn’t. I’ll be honest and confess that it’s usually at this juncture…about a month before a deadline…that authors tell me they need more time to finish. I’ve built on a calendar item for all my authors as a result, and as this book deal you have is pretty major, I thought I’d push a little harder than usual to reach you live.”

High-strung much? I think to myself. Yes, multiple texts, calls and voicemail messages would definitely fall into the category of pushing a little harder. More than a little, but I keep that piece of feedback to myself.

“I’m glad we were able to clear that up, Greta. Well, I’m actually at the library working on a new chapter, so how about I email you next week? I’m pretty sure the manuscript will be off to the editor by then.”

“That sounds fabulous! Yes, please do. And you know, there is something else. Nothing huge, but the national weather channels have been going on and on all day about the unsettling weather in your area. The Mount Charleston area and most of those mountains around the Mojave Desert. As soon as it popped up on my phone alerts, I thought of you. And as you were on my check-in list, I may have become a little more worried than normal. Especially since you’re all by your lonesome up in that secluded little cabin, you’re renting while you write.”

“Awww, that’s sweet of you. I heard about that storm system coming in too, but this is ski country up here on the mountain, and they’re all set up for snowy conditions. Trust me, I’ll be safe. My apartment is only an hour down the mountain, and my mother also lives down in the Vegas suburbs.”

“That’s right,” she says in her cheerful voice. “Okay love. I feel a lot better now that we’ve connected. Go on back to your writing and email me when you’re back to civilization.”

“I will. Thanks for calling, Greta.”

“Bye now. Be safe.”

My mind is set at ease after I hit the end call button on my phone. Greta’s calls were no need for alarm. Shutting my phone completely off, I head back to my laptop. My agent’s mention of the unstable weather coming our way causes me to instinctively look toward the nearest window. It’s overcast outside, but the snow hasn’t started to fall.

I work on this part of the story for another few hours as planned, and feel the excitement build as I hit save and close the file on my laptop, almost another complete chapter is done. To say that these words are flowing is an understatement. But then again, I adore writing romance, and this particular one is based on a dark time in my past. The darkest time. And isn’t that what they say? Write about what you know? Well, as I’m writing about what I’ve personally lived through, wrapping my heroine’s story around one of the most difficult periods of my life, there’s no doubt in my mind that readers will feel it too.

As I turn on my Wi-Fi to upload my progress into the cloud, Mrs. Herman approaches me.

“Hello dear. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I need to close the library a little early today. It’s that bad weather. It’s about to hit us hard, and the resort wants to ensure that all guests are safely off the roads before things become intolerable.”

“No problem, Mrs. Herman,” I say, closing my laptop lid and slipping it and my notes into my work bag. I gather the rest of my things and slip each hand into the light fall jacket I wore today. There isn’t time to do a full backup here, but I can do it at the cabin for a change, even though it’ll take a while longer with the slower internet connection on that side of the mountain.

“Are you sure, dear?” she asks.

I smile and nod as I push my chair away from the table and get to my feet. “I was just wrapping up before you came by. Thanks for letting me know.”

She walks with me to the front entrance, and the jingle of a set of several keys in one hand tells me she’ll be leaving soon too, right after she locks the door behind me. “It’s already coming down pretty hard now,” she remarks, squinting to look through the glass double doors at the front.

She’s not exaggerating. “Wow. It really is.”

You have a safe drive and enjoy your weekend.”

“Thanks, and same to you.”

I head down the front library steps to the small parking lot out front. It’s a shared lot, adjacent to the resort grocery store. Well, it’s more like a convenience store on steroids. I go there every Saturday morning to stock up on supplies, but as tomorrow’s Saturday and this bad weather is on the way, grabbing what I need now makes more sense. Unlocking my pickup truck, I fish out my wallet and phone from my work bag, set the bag down behind the driver seat, and hurry into the store. On a typical day, speed shopping’s my thing. I’ve never been one to peruse, so I grab my groceries with purpose, ignoring the other shoppers, including one that I accidentally bump the shopping basket in my hand with another customer’s as I turn a bend to the canned food aisle.

“So sorry about that,” I say, my voice brimming over with extra sincerity to make up for the fact that I don’t stop to look at the man. The only reason I know the person’s a guy is I sense the height difference and vaguely saw the red plaid flannel outer jacked in my peripheral vision as I passed him. Ten minutes later, I’ve paid the cashier and am back in my truck and on the road heading home.

Except the snow’s really coming down now.

I turn on the windshield wipers to push aside the big puffy snowflakes that stick to the glass on impact. It’s barely four-thirty but it’s almost dark out, with the only light seeming to come from what bounced back toward me when my front high beams hit the falling snow. The roads are usually quiet, but at the moment, it’s deserted except for me. I shudder slightly, a little colder and maybe a bit nervous because of the eerie silence caused by the thick blanket of snow on the ground.

For a moment, I contemplate shifting gears to activate my truck’s four-wheel drive feature, but honestly, I can’t say for sure it’ll help me get home any faster because I’ve never tried it out before. Plus the road doesn't feel all that slippery. Not yet. The poor visibility is the real issue.

I mouth the words “thank goodness” when I finally turn onto my driveway and roll up to my little cabin in the woods. I made it. Jumping out of the driver seat, I walk around to the passenger side for the groceries. A strong gust of wind hits me hard as I remove the three shopping bags, and pushes the door toward me, hitting my right shoulder. It’s not painful, but it’s enough to make me pick up the pace and get my ass inside.

Getting the fireplace going is the first thing I do after setting down the groceries. That wind is sure to make it feel a lot colder in here. Once that’s done, I put away the food and head back to the front door to grab my work bag.

But it’s so much worse outside. The intense winds whip heavy snow around. It’s kind of pretty out there, but I can hardly see the outline of my truck from the front door, and it’s not like I parked that far away. Shivering, I shut the door again. I can use a break from reading and rereading my story—and from phone calls. Tonight, I’ll make a simple dinner, enjoy a glass of wine, and I’ll read on my tablet computer for a change.

And I’ll go to bed early.