Gemotions

The apartment was quiet. The only sound was the gentle whir of the refrigerator. She walked to the window, the cool glass pressed against her forehead. The manuscript, tucked in her purse, felt heavy. She'd found it on his desk, and she'd read it cover to cover, relishing the descriptions.

The woman in the story, based on her, was fiercely independent. She was intelligent, witty, and undeniably attractive. She also, apparently, held a deep, unshakeable love for him.

She smiled to herself, a small, satisfied curve of her lips. She had known, of course, that he held her in high regard. He was a good man, and she, in his story, was the best woman. She'd always found him utterly adorable.

She'd enjoy discussing the book with him later. She was itching to share her thoughts.