So far I’ve made it up Dark & Early each day this week, but I admit I haven’t been the most productive today.  I wrote myself into a hole earlier than I expected last night, so I’m still sorting out whether the scene can stay where it is…or if I need to add more sparring between the hero and heroine in between.  We’ll see.  For now, I’ll embrace the words I have and move on as though it’s going to work.

This story feels like it’s going to be longer than I originally intended.  I’m guessing 40K or so, but we’ll see.  I broke 25K in the story last night (not all of that for NaNoWriMo) and I’m now into the unrequited desire stage.  I’m not sure how long this will play out yet.

NaNoWriMo count (as of last night):  19,335 words

Snippet:  this bit is just too fun not the share — the fall out the next morning after Yiorgos realizes what Clare did to him.  *giggles*

The swinging door slammed against the wall with a crash that froze the entire kitchen.

At the stove, Clare didn’t even turn around.  Her nerves sang with heightened sensation, energy leaping about her like lightning.  This morning when she’d arrived, the restaurant had welcomed her with open arms. It’d certainly alerted her to the approaching storm.

“You.” Yiorgos Michelopoulos stomped over and clamped a hand on her arm, whirling her around to face him.  “What have you done?”

She smiled brightly.  “Good morning, Mr. Michelopoulos.  I assume we’ll be open for business tonight, right?”

Unshaven and still in the incredibly tailored suit he’d worn last night, he glared down at her.  Eyes blazing, lips tight, nostrils pinched, he looked like he desperately wanted to wrap his big hand around her throat and throttle her.

“Out.”

Since he didn’t release her or look away from her face, she assumed he meant everyone else but her.  She was actually rather impressed that he kept his tone even and controlled despite the fire flickering in his eyes.

“Do you care to explain what happened last night?”

She batted her eyelashes at him.  “Isn’t that supposed to be the woman’s question when the man slips away before making her breakfast in bed?”

His eyes narrowed to obsidian slits.  “Like I’d be interested in a woman like you.”

Her heart stuttered, skewered by a pain so severe that he might as well have picked up the butcher knife and stabbed
her in the chest.  I knew it was impossible from the very beginning.  If he found me even the least bit attractive, this whole adventure would be pure hell.

She let out a little laugh that she hoped was carefree and lighthearted.  “Of course not, Mr. Rich Beyond Belief.  You were too busy devouring my cake to spare a single thought about me.”

His fingers tightened on her arm hard enough that she let the pain flicker across her face.  Not that he cared in the slightest.  “You drugged me.”

“No,” she said evenly, refusing to drop her gaze or show any alarm or concern. “I bespelled you.”

He snarled.  “There’s a difference?”

“Surely a man knowledgeable enough to approach the Wizard Council would know that there’s most certainly a difference
between a drug and a spell.  You knew exactly what I was before you ever summoned me to Remy’s.  You even ordered me to cook for you.  What did you expect a kitchen witch to do?  Skin you with my knife instead?”

“What did you do to me?”  His voice rose with each word until he roared loudly enough to rattle the stemware.

“I gave you a dose of your own medicine, Mr. Michelopoulos.  I beat you at your own game.”

He let go of her arm.  By the way he flexed and clenched his fingers, he’d released her before doing serious harm.
“What the hell does that mean?”

Wincing, she rubbed her biceps, making sure he saw exactly how he’d hurt her. “You deliberately wrote up a ridiculously meticulous contract meant to bedazzle me with terms and money, while waving the deed to Remy’s beneath my nose.  You thought I’d be too stupid to see your game.  Ply the little lady with some wine, pay a few compliments, smile seductively, and she’ll fall head over heels into your schemes, right?  Well, wrong. You picked the wrong patsy this time, Mr. Michelopoulos.”

“I didn’t agree to a modification to the terms.”

“I asked you if I could modify the agreement in front of a witness.  Shall we call Dmitri back in here?  If I need
him to testify in a court of law, I’ll subpoena him.”

“I was under duress.  No court in the world would award rights to a witch who’d deliberately bespelled her target by plying him with…with…”

“Chocolate cake?  Oh, how dreadfully sinister of me.  Seriously, do you think your high and mighty reputation can withstand such a ridiculous case, Mr. Michelopoulos?  I can see the headlines now:  Tycoon bamboozled by kitchen witch; claims the chocolate cake did him in.”

He slammed his fist down on the island so hard that a stainless steel bowl fell off and clattered on the floor, spilling sliced potatoes all over the spotless tile.  “Hear me now, witch.  I cannot…will not… give you that damned ring.  Never!”

 

A week+ into NaNoWriMo, you might be hitting a wall.  You might be falling behind.  You might be second guessing the whole commitment.  50K in a month?  Are you kidding me?  Even if you’re on track, you might be having a serious attack of the doubt monster, inspired by posts like NaNo No No.

Please don’t give up.  Don’t use the doubts and naysayers as an excuse to quit.

Does a lot of dreck come out of frantic November writing?  Sure.  If all you care about is hitting 50K and “winning” then this post isn’t for you.  Good luck and I’ll cheer you all the way to the finish line.

If you’re writing something that you want to publish, then keep doing what you know is right and comfortable for you in your heart.  Now is not the time to give up on your dream of finishing your project.

I’ll be the first to admit that I may not win NaNo this year.  I didn’t last year.  NaNo can be more than writing 50K in 30 days.  It can be a chance to commit to yourself and your writing.  If you want to work on a new, exciting project, great.  If you want to commit to finishing the current wip that you stalled on last month *raises hand*, then NaNoWriMo may be the kick in the pants that you need.

There’s no need to throw your process to the wind and write crazily without thought or preparation.  You can still plot (or however you “pre-write”) a story and start now (I have a friend who’s doing just that).  NaNoWriMo isn’t an excuse to throw out good structure and characterization just to write crap — unless you truly do just want to write crazily and wildly with joy and abandon.

That’s the beauty of NaNoWriMo.

I plotted my story extensively.  I have a mind map, a scene outline, and a synopsis already written.  Not just for this story, but also the other one I plan to work on when I finish this one.  In other years, I’ve written into December in order to finish the book — because 50K may not be anywhere near what you need to finish.

What I’m trying to say is use NaNoWriMo to succeed at your goals — whatever they are.

You might write a book that needs lots of revisions, even if you’ve plotted extensively beforehand.  (THE BLOODGATE GUARDIAN, my first NaNoWriMo book.  Please don’t ask how many times I survived Revision Xibalba.)

You might write a book that needs very little revisions and flows from beginning to end like a dream.  (RETURN TO SHANHASSON, my second NaNoWriMo book, not an outline or synopsis in sight — but I’d been dreaming the story off and on for years.)

You might finish a book that you’re having problems with.  You might finish short projects.  You might use NaNoWriMo to push through the Dark Moment of your book.  (Vicki’s YOURS TO TAKE, last year’s novel that I finished even though I didn’t win NaNoWriMo, coming soon from Samhain in May 2012).

It is possible to write a publishable novel via NaNoWriMo and we are not the anomilies.  Stay true to your process — or explore a new process.  Write by an outline — or fly in the zone, no holds barred.

In the words of Tim Gunn, “Make it work, people!”  Make it work FOR YOU.

Harness some of this frenetic energy and use it to meet your goals, whatever they may be.

After a busy weekend, I’m just barely ahead of my NaNoWriMo word count goals.  I wrote in the car on the way to Papa’s on Saturday, but Princess decided she was going to do NaNo too and stole my little netbook on the return trip home.  (Plus I was too tired to complain anyway.)  Sunday was church and laundry and a very poor Chiefs game.  🙁  I managed about 1K each day but that’s it.

Today, I returned to the Evil Day Job after a week of vacation.  To keep up on my goals, I made myself get up Dark & Early this morning.  I prepped the coffee pot last night and made it to bed between 10-10:30.  I really need to be in bed BY 10 PM, but last night was an improvement.  I made it this morning and netted about 1K.

I plan to do some more timed writing stints tonight, but first I have to get dinner on the table and help the monsters with homework.

NaNoWriMo count (as of this morning):  12,444 words

Snippet:  Continuing the scene from last time…in which Clare totally tricks the hero into getting what she wants.  This is truly rough, first draft quality (snort) stuff.  I’ve even got a few [notes] to fix later.  But I thought oh well, I’ll just leave it this way for now.  This scene is fun despite the question marks I need to go back and fill, and since it’s long, I won’t be doing another longer snippet from now on.  Just a line here and there.  So enjoy!

Smoothing the suspicion from his face, he tapped the manila folder on the table beside him.  “If your food passes my inspection, I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a contract for you, Ms. Remy.  I think you’ll find it most satisfactory, while allowing me to protect my interests. Shall we…?”

She picked up her spoon and dipped into her steaming bowl of soup.  “I never negotiate on an empty stomach, Mr. Michelopoulos.”  Holding the spoon in front of her mouth, she gave him a challenging glance.  “Unless you’re afraid I’d try to poison you or something…”

“Fine.” Warily, he studied the bowl for a moment.  He didn’t really care for watery squash and it was a rather revolting orange color.  It smelled nice, though, and his mouth watered despite the feared texture.  He picked up a spoon and shoveled some of the soup into his mouth, intending to get it down as quickly as possible.

Velvety warm bliss exploded on his tongue.

He’d eaten in the finest restaurants all across the world, and he’d never tasted anything this good.  Smooth and creamy, sweet and savory, so many flavors filled his mouth that he couldn’t keep up with the sensations.  Soup slid down his throat like a warm, fine wine that spread glowing heat all the way down into his stomach.

Food just didn’t taste like this.  Not like sex and happiness and love all in a tidy little package that made his stomach gurgle with pleasure.

Impossible.  Nothing tastes this good.

He took another bite, telling himself that this spoonful wouldn’t be so good. His taste buds would be used to the complex flavors, and he’d be able to find some element that wasn’t right.  A jarring hint of pepper, or a bit of squishy squash that hadn’t been perfectly blended.  Something.  Anything.

But it was magical.  Bite after bite melted on his tongue, satisfying his senses yet still managing to stir his hunger for more.  The spoon clanged on the bottom of the bowl,
and it took him a few moments to realize he’d emptied the entire bowl.

It was all he could do not to pick up the bowl and lick it clean, or growl at Dmitri when he arrived to whisk the dish away.

Then he caught the scent of roasted lamb and Yiorgos forgot all about the soup.  He made himself wait, enjoying the aroma for as long as possible.  The potatoes on top were crusty golden and he could almost taste the cream and butter.  Which vegetables had she mixed into the meat inside?  Peas, carrots, it didn’t matter.  He would love them all.  Hell, if it smelled this good, she could put broccoli in it and he’d still gobble it down.

“Why don’t I take a look at the contract now, Mr. Michelopoulos.”

Raising his head, he blinked at her, surprised.  That she was still here?  That didn’t make sense.  His stomach fluttered briefly, almost anxiety or a remembered plan of action, but the inviting scent of food wrestled his attention for dominance.  Graciously, he slid the folder across to her, trying not to act like a raving lunatic clutching his bowl and howling at anyone who threatened to interrupt his feast.

When his fork broke the perfect crust of potatoes and the rich scent of lamb fully hit his nostrils, he couldn’t help but let out a low groan of appreciation. Flushing, he chanced a quick glance at Clare to see if she’d noticed, but she was too busy scanning the documents.

He barely suppressed a smirk.  His attorneys had been most diligent in drafting his little agreement.  She’d be so busy trying to understand the legal jargon that he’d probably be able to eat her shepherd’s pie too before she noticed.

This time, he slowly placed the first bite on his tongue, braced for the explosion of taste.  He was determined to savor that first wondrous bite as long as possible, because he knew it was going to be incredible.  The meat fell apart in his mouth, tender and juicy without being too greasy.  She’d managed to give it a fire-pit roasted flavor in that simple little kitchen, in a matter of hours.  This tender and succulent, the meat tasted like it’d cooked all day.

Seasoned perfectly.  The vegetables were diced uniformly.  Gorgeous.  Not too big or too small, each cube added color as well as flavor.  Tender green peas so bright they couldn’t possibly have baked along with the meat. Onions, garlic, rosemary, a hint of wine.  Magnificent. And oh, the potatoes!  Such a basic, ordinary staple for any meat lover, these potatoes managed to convey richness without heaviness.  Light and fluffy yet perfectly creamy, they softened the hearty broth.

His foodie heart wanted to sob when he realized he’d eaten the last bite.  He cast a hopeful glance at her plate, but hers, too was empty, although she continued to read the contract.  Her mouth moved slightly, endearing in an odd way.  Her nose was too small for her face, he decided.  And her mouth was too large.  She smiled unevenly, curling the right side more than the left.

“Mr. Michelopoulos?”

He feared she’d been repeating herself for quite some time.  He tried to feel horrified, but his stomach was too sated with complete bliss to allow him a moment of embarrassment or remorse.  “It’s wonderful.  I’ve never
tasted anything better in my entire life.”

He couldn’t even find the will to curse himself for revealing his hand so easily to her.  He ought to have drawn out her unease, allowing her to believe he was displeased with her results.  He couldn’t have her thinking he was too eager to bring her into Remy’s.

“Wait until you taste my chocolate cake.”  She smiled wider, evening out that lopsided grin into something even more wickedly endearing.  “I’ve been reading over your offer, and I’m quite delighted with it.”

He laughed, and the sound shocked them both.  Eyes wide, she searched his face and he felt the passing of her gaze like a scalding heat.  Damn, it’d been years since he’d actually laughed.  No, chuckled.  Laughter didn’t convey the amount of merriment he’d heard in his own response.

What the hell’s wrong with me?  Has she drugged me?

Not in a million years would he behave so stupidly at a business meeting, and this was certainly a meeting of the highest priority.  His entire life depended on its success.  He must have Clare Remy at his side.  She would break the curse.

She must.  She’s my only hope.

Despite that thought, he couldn’t feel alarm.  Not with the sinful promise of dessert that might be even better than the first two courses.

“However, there are a few items I’d like to discuss further with you.”

“Of course.”

She beamed at him.  “I’m so glad you’re not going to be difficult to handle.”

He frowned.  Difficult? Toddlers were difficult.  Calculus was difficult.  Yiorgos Michelopoulos was formidable.  A force to be reckoned with.  Not tolerated.

She waved her hand and Dmitri appeared, once more whisking away the dirty dishes.

Oh, bliss, Yiorgos could already smell the earthy scent of chocolate, promising sin and dark luxury, a hint of berry.  Maybe raspberry?  Just a thin layer, he thought.  Too much chocolate, surely.  She wouldn’t be able to give it any depth.

“I must warn you before I allow you to taste my dessert, Mr. Michelopoulos.”
Very solemnly, she leaned forward, assessing his face.  Did she think she could gain his secrets so easily?  He had to admit that with that temptation making him drool like the zombie hidden by the ring on his finger, she might.  The scent of chocolate held his attention like a dog obsessed with its ball.  At this point, she could balance the damned plate on his nose and he’d sit here obediently, waiting for the first bite.

Irritated, he reached for his own plate.  She closed her hand over his.  Surprisingly strong despite her smaller size, she held him firmly, keeping him from sliding the dessert plate closer.  “I’m serious, Mr. Michelopoulos.  I wouldn’t have you accuse me of trickery later.  This cake is dangerously good.  I call it ‘Death by Chocolate’ for a reason.”

Until Dmitri let out a snort, Yiorgos hadn’t even realized he was still standing at their table.  “Fine,” he said sharply, keeping the man under close watch to ensure he didn’t try to remove the dessert plates too quickly.  The man was a damned whirlwind when it came to cleaning tables.  “Dmitri is my witness.  I heard your warning and
I’m not afraid of your cake, Ms. Remy.”

“And you’ll allow me to write in a few changes to the contract you so generously offer?”

“What changes?”

She smiled apologetically.  “I told you that I wasn’t completely pleased with a few of the stipulations.  On page three, you state that I should be compensated at the rate of one hundred thousand a year.”

“Fine, fine.”  He waved a hand at the paper.  “Double it. Next?”

She blinked, opening and closing her mouth as though he’d managed to shock the sense right out of her.  “That wasn’t what I meant, sir.  I thought it way too high.  My father never took home such a [high] salary.”

“You cook like a maestro.  You’re worth it.  Next?”

“One page four…”  She flipped through the contract.  “You failed to detail which of us would be responsible for maintaining the restaurant’s larder during this period of
employment.”

“Of course I will.”  He gave a hard push against her grip, keeping her attention on his right hand, while he reached over with his left to snag the plate.  The Remy ring glinted in the candlelight, casting a blood-red glow on her face.  For a moment, he swore her lips tightened and her eyes flashed with raw emotion. Hatred, retribution, condemnation. He couldn’t be sure, although it was harsh enough that some of the bliss created by her food faded.

Until he took the first bite of that dangerous cake.  Damn it, he’d forgotten to go slowly, to savor that first bite. Already the chocolate melted on his tongue, a molten heat spreading down his throat.  She had to have drugged it somehow.  The chocolate slipped deeper into his body, cascading alarms throughout his nervous system.  His brain went on high alert.  Overloaded.

Too many layers.  Too many fabulous sensations for his tongue to keep up.

Actually that was the problem…or the beauty…in her dessert.  She’d managed to create thin layers of chocolate cake, varying by texture and type of chocolate,
so that one bite carried dozens of flavors at the same time.  Milk and dark, fruit and cinnamon, sweet cream and sharp bite mixed with just enough raspberry to give it that extra kick from “too sweet” to “perfect.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but it took him several tries to get the circuit from his brain to his mouth to work.  “What else?”

She listed off some other nonsense about dress code in his restaurant, the number of employees she’d supervise, and most of all—at least as far as she would ever comprehend until it was too late—the crux of the contract.  She would help Remy’s win that coveted gold star this year…or suffer Michelopoulos’s wrath.  Which meant she’d lose everything.

Something that might have been guilt bubbled up in his stomach like corrosive acid, but quickly disintegrated beneath the next bite of chocolate cake.

AsI’ve lost everything that truly matters to me thanks to her father.

“May I? Mr. Michelopoulos, didn’t you hear me? I really need to know if that’s acceptable to you.  If not, I’m really afraid that we can’t do business together.  I’ll have to leave no matter how much I want to stay and help you.”

He pulled the plate closer and used the fork to gently lift out the top layer so he could sample it alone.  “Yes, yes, whatever.”

Dmitri gasped like a girl.  “Yiorgos!”

Unbelievable.  The top layer of thick buttercream frosting was good enough he’d like to paint her entire body with it so he could lick it off.  And he hated frosting.  “Have you forgotten who gave you this job, Mr. [name, what’s his last name?]?”

His old friend stiffened like he’d punched him.  In a way, he had.  “Of course not, Mr. Michelopoulos.  May I be of any further service, sir?”

“Not unless you’re going to bring me another piece of cake.”

Clare gently shook her head.  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Michelopoulos.  It’s too dangerous.  Why, think of your blood sugar!  The calories!  You’d hate me tomorrow, and if we settle this contract, then we’ll be stuck with each other until Remy’s is awarded the star next month.”

“I don’t give a damn about the calories.”  He carefully lifted out a bite of the next layer.  Sugary, almost crispy.  How’d she do that without making it soggy as it baked?  If she’d baked each layer individually, it’d be impossible to fit them all together seamlessly.  It looked like one sinfully delicious cake, not twenty individual thin cakes.  “You
must work here, Ms. Remy.  I need you.  So signed the damned contract and eat your cake, or I’m going to.”

She smiled warmly and squeezed his right hand.  Had she been touching him this whole time?  He couldn’t remember.  She scribbled a few lines on the contract and then pushed it over to him.  With a flourish, he signed below her name and shoved the papers aside.  Some of them fluttered to the floor but he didn’t care.

Not with Death by Chocolate Cake calling his name.

 

Another slow day but I kept chiseling bit by bit until I cleared over 1800 words.  I was hoping to break 10K but I just ran out of gas.  Tomorrow for sure.

Emotions are building.  The first kiss is just around the corner.  What’s hilariously ironic — I don’t have any of this part plotted.  It just happened and I like it, so I’m keeping it.

NaNoWriMo count:  9,130 words

Snippet:  I ADORE THIS SCENE.  It’s hilarious and wonderful the way the heroine tricks the hero to get what she wants.  Unfortunately, this scene is rather long for snippets and I don’t want to give *everything* away.  So I’ll pick a few fun pieces to give you an idea of the direction.

He allowed a smug smile to flicker on his lips, deliberately trying to antagonize her.  “I hope your meal lives up to my expectations.”

She smiled back at him, amusement glittering in her eyes.  “My food will exceed your wildest dreams.”

“What’s on your menu, then?”

“Roasted butternut squash soup, followed by shepherd’s pie.”

He arched a brow at her and curled his lip with even more disdain.  “Peasant fare.”

She leaned forward slightly and lowered her voice to a husky timber that made his body harden with interest.  “Delicious peasant fare.  I caramelized the squash in the  oven and roasted the garlic until it’s sweet and melt-in-your-mouth delicious.”

The tip of her tongue teased the corner of her lips, and he swore she gave a little sigh of pleasure.  She gripped the snifter of dark amber liquid in front of her, stroking her fingers over the glass until he had to shift in his seat.

“The ground lamb is lean and browned, yet not dry.  Rich gravy flavored with wine, carrots, fresh rosemary.  Topped with whipped mashed potatoes rich with real cream and butter.”

She let out a long, slow breath and raised the glass to her lips.  He’d filled her glass with a healthy dash of Metaxa Private Reserve, not waiting to see if she could stomach such liquor or not.

She threw it back with practiced ease, her eyes falling shut.  Licking her lips, she gave him a smoldering smile and set the glass back down.  “And I haven’t even gotten to dessert yet.”

Oh yes she had.  The Metaxa made her already sensual voice rough and deep.

When the bowl suddenly appeared in front of him, he jumped, shaken out of the sensual web she’d woven about him by the arrival of the first course.  Dmitri served them himself, and he gave a knowing wink before disappearing back into the kitchen.

Yiorgos scowled.

“What?”

Eyes narrowed, he searched her face, his hackles rising.  The witch was cunning, he’d give her that.  She’d been weaving her magic since the first moment she’d walked in, dressed like a frumpy old maid but swaying her hips and wielding that husky drawl like a weapon.  Who knew what manner of spells she’d already cast against him?

He couldn’t even fire her.  She hadn’t signed the contract he’d drawn up yet, and she certainly hadn’t broken the filthy curse her father had thrown at him in desperation.  Assured of her powers, Yiorgos stoked the hope burning in his heart.  She will break the curse.  I will be free.  Then she can burn Remy’s down for all I care.

I struggled with my focus today.  I feel the end of my vacation looming like a thunderstorm on the horizon, that low rumble reminding me that Monday I’ll be back to the daily grind.

Instead of feeling motivated, then, to write harder, I find myself tempted by Netflix.  I so adore watching cheesy horror movies!  Today, I watched Hisss.  I also got caught up on my reality show fixes, like the Project Runway finale and the opening session of Top Chef Masters.

I realized by the time I get the last kids to school (they start at different times) and leave to pick the first one up in the afternoon, that I only have 6 hours.  They go by soooo fast.  Tomorrow I’ll only have 5 hours (they get out early on Fridays).  Saturday we’re hoping to drive up to my Dad’s again, so I might have some car trip time…or we might have guests in the car and I won’t get a thing done because I’ll be visiting.

So it’s going to be a struggle from here on out — as I fully expected.  My best bet is to get up early and get the first 1K before work, but I must be getting old.  I’m having a really hard time getting up on time, let alone early.  Sigh.

Anyway, it’s been a good week off and I’m happy with my 7314 NaNoWriMo count.  Even more, I’m extremely happy with the story itself.

Here’s the first scene with the hero and heroine on stage together.  First draft, subject to heavy revision later.

Yiorgos had doubled his fortune twice over by acting on his gut instincts, and first impressions were everything.  Staring at Remy’s daughter—the key to his salvation—he couldn’t help but curl his lips in what he hoped was not too obviously a sneer.  This will be ridiculously easy.

The only word to describe her appearance was frumpy.  If he hadn’t known her age,  he would have guessed her to be closer to forty than not yet thirty.  Why on earth would a woman deliberately age herself so drastically?   The shapeless skirt and baggy suit jacket would have been more attractive on a rubbish heap.

“Mr. Michelopoulos.”

That quickly, she rocked him back on his heels.  A woman in an ugly brown suit and a tight bun should have a prim little voice, not this husky vibrato more appropriate for whispered innuendoes and sweaty sheets.  Eyes narrowed, he ran his gaze over her again quickly, looking for something he’d missed.

The old fashioned A-line skirt might hide shapely full hips.  Perhaps the jacket was baggy on purpose, to disguise her lush breasts.  And while that tidy bun did make her look like a schoolmarm, he had to admit the toffee color was quite pretty.  Pulled back from her face, her hair couldn’t detract from the sculpted bones of her cheeks and her full mouth.

Intrigued by the inconsistencies, Yiorgos gave her a slow, smoldering smile.

The little witch stiffened like he’d called her a vile name.  Instead of blushing or flirting, she brushed past him without another word and strode into the kitchens as though she owned the place.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said dryly, slowly following her through the swinging door.  Unfortunately, he didn’t expect her to stop just inside, so he nearly flattened her.
He closed his hands on her hips to steady her, and yes, he might have pulled her back against him a moment or two.  Her curves made a very nice handful, an unexpected pleasure after dating tall and slender women for years.

For the barest moment, she softened against him, nestling in like a kitten.  Then she inhaled sharply and leaped away like he’d goosed her.  Cheeks on fire, she waved a hand at the sinks loaded with dirty dishes.  “This is a disgrace!  My father’s probably rolling over in his grave!”

“Indeed,” Yiorgos drawled out in his most charming voice.  Remy will rot in hell for what he’s done to me!  “We’ve had a bit of a… problem.  That’s why I contacted you, Ms. Remy.”

“This isn’t a problem.  It’s a travesty.  No wonder you’ve been having issues—this kitchen is filthy!”

The few remaining kitchen staff stood frozen like deer in headlights.  No one  had ever stood up to him…in his own kitchen, no less…and survived.  Clenching his jaws to keep from barking out his demands, he simply waited to see what she’d do.

He didn’t have to wait long.  She marched over to the wall and pulled down a fresh apron hanging on the line of hooks.  She removed her misshapen suit jacket, revealing an ugly pink blouse the color of Pepto Bismal, and snapped the white linen apron into place.  Rolling up her sleeves, she gave an accessing look to each of the staff shaking in their boots.
“You.”  She pointed a finger at the chef paid a small fortune to fail so dismally.  “Clean the stoves.  And you,” she jerked her head at Dmitri, “assign a crew to start mopping the floors.  We can’t possibly hope to cook anything in a kitchen so wretchedly filthy.”

When she walked over to the sink mounded with stainless steel pots coated with grease and baked on gunk, Yiorgos could only stare.  He’d assumed she’d give the hard jobs to his people and take the supervisory role, getting in her digs verbally as many times as  possible.  But she tackled the nastiest job with nary a complaint.

In fact, he’d be damned if she wasn’t happy.

The whole atmosphere already seemed different.  The air felt lighter, cleaner, as though the restaurant recognized her in some way.  Maybe the little witch was already working her magic on Remy’s.

If so, she’ll be working on me as soon as I can learn how to break this curse.

Yesterday’s total ended at 4185.  Whew.  I don’t normally see numbers like that!

Today I’ve been busy with errands and anxiety.  I had a dentist appointment.  Need I say more?  So once I survived that, I sort of vegged this afternoon instead of writing in order to recover.  All good news at the dentist thankfully.  I need some fillings, but nothing like I feared with a broken tooth!  I had visions of root canals, dry sockets, surgery, etc.  (A writer’s imagination can be a dreadful thing in such cases.)

Anyway, I’m at 5129 words right now but hope to at least get the min daily count later tonight.  I was lying awake last night worrying about the middle of this story — which seemed rather light to me — and I realized I had a perfectly good real life event I could use to improvise into the plot.

I haven’t shared a snippet in a while (here’s the opening scene, the only snippet I’ve posted), so here’s the scene introducing the heroine, Clare Remy.  Remember this is a category romance spoof — with zombies! — so I had two major things to figure out.

1).  How did the hero become a zombie?  and 2). What’s a logical reason for the heroine to remain a virgin?

The two are intricately connected.  I said to myself…  “Self, if the hero is a zombie….why not make the heroine a witch?”  So of course my working title is The Billionaire Zombie’s Virgin Witch.  *laughs*

First draft only, subject to heavy revision later.

Stirring the simmering lentil soup, Clare Remy tried to ignore her mother’s constant harping.  The familiar warm tingle in her fingertips promised her magic was working, despite whatever Selma had to say about her cooking.

“There’s still something missing.”  Although that didn’t keep her from eating the whole bowl Clare had ladled out for her. “It’s not as good as what your father used to make.”

No.  She smiled sadly down at the rich soup that had always been his favorite.  It’s better.

He’d be busting at the seams with pride if he were still alive.  Instead of cooking at home, she’d be sweating in Remy’s bustling kitchen, exhausted but elated by their customers’ glowing praise.  Instead, her only customer was her mother who couldn’t ever be pleased.

“At this rate you’re never going to pass your trials next month,” Selma continued, her voice sharpening with every word.  “If you don’t pass, you won’t be accepted into the Wizard Council’s teaching program.  Whatever will we do then?”

Clare could only sigh.  She understood the worry, because the daily stress of carrying the entire family’s success on her shoulders was getting to her, too.  “We’ll get by like we’ve been doing the past two years.”  She fought for an even tone of voice.  “We’ll have jobs like normal people.  The house is paid for.  If I can’t cook for some reason, then I’ll…”

“We’re not normal people!”  Selma tossed the bowl into the sink with a clatter.  “We’re wizards, descended from generations of extremely powerful wizards. We can’t be reduced to menial labor!”

Clare preferred to think of herself as a witch, a kitchen witch to be exact.  Wizardry sounded so…Arthurian.  As though she ought to be slaying dragons and stirring up storm clouds instead of cooking supper in her modest kitchen.

She ladled out a bowl for herself and began slicing off a nice thick piece of homemade bread.

“Don’t cut yourself,” Selma said automatically, for the millionth time if Clare was counting.

She didn’t even try to explain yet again that it’d be impossible for a kitchen witch to cut herself with her own knife.  It would be like burning a cake or bread dough that failed to rise.  Her magic wouldn’t allow such cooking disasters. Too bad her magic didn’t cover general clumsiness and awkwardness too.  Or how about fantastic hair and a killer sense of style?  Maybe all those gorgeous runway models were witches too, wielding a type of magic she hadn’t heard of yet.

One sip of her soup smoothed away all those silly thoughts.  She’d take plumpness, clumsiness, and a supreme lack of fashion in order to cook like this.

“If only we had your father’s ring.  Then we wouldn’t have to trust you to stay a virgin.”

Clare winced.  Oh, boy, had she heard this lecture a thousand times.  Never mind that she was far from a teenager anymore in need of sex education.  Since her cousin had lost her virginity—and her magic—just last month, her mother’s lectures had redoubled.

Her mother’s healing talent had disappeared as soon as she married. Since Selma wasn’t the head of her family, she had no magic left at all, and now her husband was gone too.  The loss of her special ability had always stung.

Wizards didn’t often marry each other for that very reason. Someone always had to give up their power, unless they were both heads of their own families.  With families dwindling day by day…  Naturally, she worried that her daughter would suffer the same magic-less fate.

Although as a twenty-seven-year-old virgin, Clare already felt like a dried up—extremely lonely—crone.

A tinkling sound announced a magical visitor requesting entry to the Remy home.

“Come in.”  At Clare’s invitation, her mentor, Helga Kettlewich, popped into the kitchen.

Where Clare thought of herself as curvaceous, the other witch’s full-figured shape loudly and proudly proclaimed her love of fine dining.  Although Clare often bemoaned her apparently frumpy taste in clothing, she could only be thankful that at least she wasn’t completely colorblind like her teacher.

A blazing orange shirt, green polka dot—extremely short for her matronly figure—skirt  and blood-red tights completed Helga’s ensemble.  With springy gray curls popping up all over her head, she looked like a kooky Halloween-costumed witch, not the supreme head of the North American Wizard Council and quite possibly the most powerful witch in the world both in and out of the kitchen.

Clare immediately leapt to her feet, but Helga waved her back to her chair.

“I’m sorry, dear.  I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch.  May I have a taste?”

“But of course,” Selma gushed, running about the kitchen to fetch a bowl for their guest as though she had prepared the food herself.

Biting her lip, Clare didn’t say anything and instead, sat down to continue eating.  Her mother had little interaction with the Wizard Council and would relish having a part, no matter how small, in the magical world.  Even serving another witch’s brew.

Helga sat beside her and said in a low voice, “I have an important message for you.”

Slamming open cupboards looking for their best bowls, Selma didn’t hear or notice the paper Helga slipped to her.

Clare unfolded the thick parchment and a pit of hell yawned wide and terrifying beneath her feet.

Yiorgos Michelopoulos.

The devil himself.  The man who’d stolen her father’s restaurant and their family power in one fell swoop, leaving him to die of a broken, mundane heart.