Year of the Chick (book 1 in the "Year of the Chick" series)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The ride to my hotel was quiet. I had no idea what was going through his head, and he kept it to himself so I did the same. Couldn’t we just stay here forever? Perfect days like this came around maybe once in a blue moon, and well…hadn’t I earned the right to turn it into a lifetime? Couldn’t I just get on the plane with him and go to England, meet Mum and Dad, eat crumpets and sip tea? I could even learn to understand soccer, it was just two teams right? How hard could it be? What was his favorite team again - Chelsea? And music – yes music, I could listen to Robbie Williams all day…but did he even like Robbie Williams? Or we could share dusty old books by DH Lawrence, before heading back to the sun and blue seas of Barcelona. But if he ever comes near me with those green olive things we are going to have a problem.

“We’re here sir.” The driver looked back for instruction.

NOOO!

“Thank you Martin. Do you mind waiting here for a bit?”

“No problem.”

We climbed out of the car and into the hotel lobby.

Why had the day slipped by so incredibly fast?

“Come up and meet Laura?” I asked, as we stood on the shiny marble.

James pointed at a big leather couch near the elevators.

“Do you mind if we sit here for a moment?”

I shrugged my shoulders and we sat. The lobby was empty, except for the night concierge and a cleaner at the other end.

“I wanted to give you a little something,” he said. “It’s a Christmas present.”

He pulled a small rectangular-shaped object wrapped in green paper from the inside of his coat.

I was in shock. “You actually got me a present?”

He smiled. “It’s nothing lavish or anything. But open it.”

I studied the package. “How did you even fit this inside your coat?”

“Well Roms, men’s coats aren’t made with tiny pockets.”

I burst into laughter. My laughs echoed all through the lobby, and it felt so good that I almost forgot he was leaving. And then a second later I remembered. Dammit.

“By the way my name is Romes, not Roms.” I rolled my eyes at him, before ripping open the package then stopping in my tracks. I froze. It was a book entitled “Writing a Novel,” written by Nigel Watts.

“It’s nothing big or flashy,” he quickly said.” “But it remains one of the simplest and easiest-to-understand guides to writing a novel. The fundamentals should you ever get stuck.”

I shook my head in amazement. “You really think I’m going to do this don’t you…”

“And you don’t think you are?” He rested his hand on my shoulder. “Roms, it’s not my expectation that you write a novel. That can only come from you. Just don’t forget there’s a story inside you kicking and screaming to get out.”

It was too late to be a tough girl now. The pathetic little tears started dripping, but now they were falling for a totally different reason.

James put his face close to mine and I could feel his concern. “Hey, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” I managed to say. “I’m just happy.”

“Happy? This is you when you’re feeling happy?” He couldn’t help but laugh.

I smiled through the tears. “You know what I mean! But anyway thank you.” I stared at the book for a little while longer, then turned to place it safely in my bag. And that’s when I remembered.