She actually could go somewhere else and get lost without ever leaving her apartment. Her book! Chelle was almost done with book four, and getting back to it as her nymph assassin heroine took out the evil wizard would be the perfect escape for the mix of happy and sad sloshing through her.

She gave Groucho and Mary each a chew bone while Sir Hiss got a new catnip-stuffed plush carrot, and then she went to work. Everything at her desk was how it was supposed to be. Journals—half of which were blank because they were too pretty to write in—and pens on her right. Coffeemaker and pods on her left. Laptop dead center with her manuscript pulled up to the big climactic fight scene.

Yes. This was what she needed to get out of whatever funk was starting to descend whenever she realized something else that felt off because Nash wasn’t there. Writing had gotten her through the pain of growing up a Finch. It would definitely dull the ache of missing Nash.

It had to.

Three hours later, with enough caffeine in her system to superpower a dragon, Chelle reread her sixth attempt at the battle to end all battles. Then she let out a groan of defeat and let her head fall to her desk, her forehead landing on her keyboard and probably doing a better job of writing this book than she was.

Where there should have been swords clanging in an epic fight between good and evil, her main characters just ended up kissing. Heavily. And then getting naked. That was definitely not good battle etiquette.

When her heroine was supposed to deliver a rousing speech to her troops, she ended up declaring her love for the satyr who was her sworn nemesis, right up until they decided that their shared enemy, the wizard, was worse and they had to join forces to defeat him. That was not supposed to happen until at least book five.

And then, when everything was supposed to go sideways and it would look like all was lost, instead of coming together for one last underdog attempt at winning, the nymph and satyr sacrificed themselves for the other, leaving them both mortally wounded on the battlefield, holding hands as their troops seized victory.

There was only one explanation for it. Her brain was broken.

“Fuck me and the horse I rode in on,” she groaned.

“Well, that sounds exciting, but I’m just here for our catch-up before my car for Paris gets here, so time for a writing break.”

Chelle let out a scream and jumped out of her chair.

Karmel chuckled and held up a bottle of Bottle Rocket rosé, the extra set of keys to Chelle’s apartment jingling in her hand. After lowering her oversize black sunglasses, she looked down the hall toward the other bedroom. “Where’s Nash?”

“Gone.” She sank back into her chair, too deflated to stay standing.