Here is a short, unfinished scene from my WIP:
Erin wanted to reach through the phone line and strangle Karl Norberg. “You don’t understand how complicated this project is,” she kept repeating. “We’re working as fast as we can.”
“Five to six, Foster.” It was the fourth time in as many minutes that Ramona had chimed like a cuckoo clock.
Erin swiveled her chair to face the wall. Her life was becoming too complicated.
(I need to add here details of why/how her life is changing. I planted yesterday 900 pots with seeds of melons, cukes, zucchini and winter squashes and wrote two work-related newsletters. Saturday was just as busy. The spring life of a professional gardener...)
“Has Montague complained? Well then, there’s your proof. He gets the same updates as you...Today’s report? Maybe you misplaced it… No, I’m not saying you’re irresponsible…I’ll refax it as soon as I finish what I’m working on now…I know it’s after five, Karl. I don’t expect you to wait… The report will be there when you come in tomorrow morning.”
Erin slammed down the receiver, leaned back, and rubbed her temples. The report was still on her desk, unfinished.
Last evening, Jeremy had persuaded her to take a break and have a picnic supper. As the day waned, they’d spread a blanket on the grass in front of his cottage and eaten their fill of imported Brie, crusty French bread, and sweet, ripe strawberries.
The wine must have gone to her head. She instigated a game of kissing tag. Barefoot and laughing, they chased each other, kissing and separating, shouting in turn, “You’re it. You’re it.”
One kiss had lasted longer. He pinned her against the broad trunk of a huge tulip tree. After a long, slow, tantalizing tongue-dance, she whispered his name and an invitation. He reached down and…
“Six o’clock, Foster.” Ramona spun her around. “Time’s up.”
“I thought you were kidding,” Erin sputtered.