by Valentine c. February 2014 ERWA firstname.lastname@example.org
I just want to finish the book, Nicholas, Brin sighed as she heaved her suitcase aboard. All of a sudden the luxe atmosphere of the old restored Pullman dawned. The sound of the train, the whistle, the all aboard, the porters, the dinners, the breakfasts, the cocktails, the utter checking in and leaving everything behind for six months…
They thought of everything.
Daquiris were Hemingway’s drink, she smiled at the porter. “I’ll have two.”
His handsome Fedora was tipped just so as he gazed out the window.
Oh god, he’s a writer.
Two hundred miles later, dinner was served on white linens, formally, gorgeously, and across the Club car they had managed to catch each other’s eye so many times that…
“Keep working Brin,” whispered the imp on her shoulder. The one that gets distracted by mystery, you know. “Don’t look at him again.” She pulled the brim of her hat down.
“May I join you for dessert?”
Two thousand miles later, not only had they gotten off, but they were never going to get off. Twin novels had been crafted in each other’s arms while they made tracks. How he managed the engagement ring was anyone’s guess.