Have you ever wondered where plot bunnies come from? I’m convinced my husband keeps a farm out back, even though he denies it and claims ignorance when I complain about yet another crazy idea jostling its way front and centre. The month is only two thirds over, but it’s been utterly HUGE for plot bunnies!
At least I can explain where these ones have come from. For one, we went to watch our first ever live rugby match! Shocking, I know. After working with a bunch of rugby-mad guys for 12 years, we should have taken care of that long ago. But for one reason or another we never did until now.
I was warned that a rugby stadium is an ideal breeding ground for plot bunnies and… yes, I can see that. A bunch of super-fit, super-tough guys laying it down…. yep, I go with that. No body armour, either. Just speed, skill, and pluck. And if you’ve ever read my descriptions of Gareth, you’ll know I love to see snake hips and decent shoulders on a man, and there was plenty of that going around. The stadium seating is crippling, but I didn’t notice that until after. That’s how good the game was. And I didn’t even know it was a grudge match until someone who actually knows stuff about rugby pointed it out to me….
And because that wasn’t exciting enough, we also got our living room flooded when the village water main split just outside our front gate. That wasn’t fun at all – still isn’t – but y’all know what’s going to happen at some point in the future, right?
Actually, I’ve already written that once or twice. So it’s no wonder where my mind went when I was looking around for a topic for a WiP Wednesday post. So, while I dodge dehumidifiers and fans, and read up on rugby, have a little bit of Jack in wet jeans. I won’t even apologise…
From Wayward, The Power of Zero #7
“You realise I don’t have Noah on speed dial, right?”
Jack froze in place. He was on his knees, had his head in the drum of the washing machine and his ass in the air and was suddenly painfully aware of his very tight, very wet black jeans clinging to his backside like bin liner.
“Get lost, Payne,” he grumbled, squinting at the tiny screw he was trying to fit into its appropriate place. “I’m not in the mood for your smartassed comments.” Then something occurred to him. “Since when do you have a fucking key, anyway?”
“Since you left the front door open. And your bike strewn across half the driveway.”
“Fuck.” He really wasn’t thinking. He’d heard a strange noise from inside the house and had dropped his tools to go check it out.
“Oh, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
“I woke up just fine, thank you.” Jack dropped the screwdriver and wriggled his shoulders and head out of the drum. “It’s the stupid oaf I had to deal with after that pissed me off.”
“He’s off to Cardiff again, eh? Commiserations. Someone really needs to teach him to say no.”
“To Julian? Yeah, good luck with that,” Jack winced when his bare feet slipped in the inch of water that covered the floor. It was cold. He… was cold. And wet. And fed up. And undercaffeinated. Not a good combination.
“He’s unbearable when he has to run one of these workshops.” Skylar Payne had managed to reach the breakfast bar and hoik himself onto one of the barstools without getting his fancy socks wet. Jack had no idea how he’d done it.
“Yeah. And then he tells me I need to learn to say no.”