Chapter Fourteen
Ciara
I spend the next few weeks writing. Actual, proper writing.
And probably in an extremely unhealthy, please set some boundaries for yourself way.
But the nine-to-five model never worked for me.
I just try to jump on my moods when I can.
So, instead of staring at the ceiling and contemplating all the bad things in the world first thing in the morning, I reach for my laptop and write.
Likewise, instead of spending every night in bed convincing myself I could solve decades-long mysteries by watching a few YouTube videos, I set myself targets for the next day.
Targets I never reach, but pretending to be organized is weirdly calming and chips away at the fear that used to stop me from even starting.
My breaks are reserved for work around the house. I tear down the rotting shelves in the back room and write two thousand words. I clean all the curtains on the ground floor and replan a chapter at which Sam makes his it’s good that you’re trying face before ripping it apart line by line.
I never asked about his work hours, but he always responds whenever I send him anything or ask him over.
Every email. Every instant message. He tells me to explore an idea.
To ignore it. He points out when I’m lost in the plot and praises me when I do well.
I like those messages most of all, but they’re pretty sparse.
He’s kind of a tough guy when it comes to this stuff.
But I guess that’s important. I trust him because of it.
He wouldn’t take it so seriously if he didn’t think I could do it.
It’s been so long since I’ve been in a daze like this.
Where all I wanted to do was think about the book.
I don’t know when it happened, but it finally feels as if a door has opened.
Not fully open. Not thrown wide, step right through, Ciara!
But cracked. Ajar. Enough that I can finally see a way through the tangle of characters and storylines Dad left behind.
Enough that I think I might be able to do this.
“I’m going to start that detective series next year.”
Maddie glances up from the chicken salad she’s working through. Even with Sam here every day now, she still makes a habit of coming over, as though she knows I’m desperate for the company. To not be alone for too long.
“You mean the one you’ve been talking about for five years without writing a word?” she asks. “That detective series?”
“I’ve been subconsciously mulling it over.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s just nice to be creative again,” I say, and her expression softens.
“I know. I just don’t want you getting ahead of yourself and getting overwhelmed again. You’ve got to finish this one first.”
“Sam says I’m doing great.”
“Does he?” she murmurs, and I frown as her gaze turns assessing.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she says. “How’s it going with him?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Good?” I try, but she just groans.
“Ciara, come on. You’re in the best mood you’ve been in for months.”
“Because he’s a really good editor!”
“And you’re getting a crush on him.”
“I am not,” I protest, my voice climbing an entire octave higher than usual. “Don’t be weird.”
“You don’t be weird. When you’re not spending all your time with him, you don’t stop talking about him, and when you do talk about him, you can’t go two minutes without blushing.”
“I don’t blush.”
“You’re blushing now.”
“Because we’re in a heat wave,” I say, pressing a hand to my cheek. “And my fragile Irish skin can’t take it. Anyway, shut up. What’s going on with the truck?”
Maddie makes a face. It’s an obvious change of conversation, but it’s one I know will get her off the topic of me.
She met with the bank manager earlier this week. The same one who gave her the money to start up her business in the first place. And, while they’re encouraging of her plans, it’s a big step up.
“I need six more months of regular payments to get the loan I need,” she says. “They won’t sign off on anything less.”
“Six months?”
“I’ve got my savings.”
“Maddie.”
“I’m just saying that they’re there and they’re mine.”
“It could wipe you out.”
“Or give me a start.” She leans forward. “Even if Shane doesn’t open a café, someone else will come along. More and more people have been coming to this area every year, and if I don’t act soon, I might never get to.”
“Just give it a few weeks, okay? Don’t do anything stupid.”
“When have I ever done anything stupid? Don’t answer that.” She plants her hand on the table, all business. “I’ve got to get back to the truck and give Natalie a break. Try not to make googly eyes at Sam in the meantime.”
She dumps her empty Tupperware into her bag and gives me a one-armed hug before letting herself out. The silence when she goes is as notable as it always is. But it doesn’t seem so oppressive anymore. Especially since, a few minutes later, I hear another engine sound in the drive.
A spark of anticipation rushes through me, one I immediately get mad about. Crush. I do not have a crush. I have an artistic purpose. A creative process. A—
I jump as the front door opens and quickly pretend to type as Sam enters the kitchen.
“Email it to me first,” he says, his phone to his ear. “Because you…no, I…You can go to Laura if you want, but she’s going to say the same thing I am. Okay. Yeah. Thanks.” He hangs up, sitting in the chair Maddie was in. “Sorry.”
“No worries. Your sister?”
“My assistant. Our assistant,” he corrects. “She’s the assistant for the whole department, but she mainly works on my books.”
“Because you’re so bad at your job?”
“Because I’m the only one who’ll give her actual work and not just meeting minutes and coffee runs.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“How else is she going to learn?”
I glance at my laptop. “I never thought about how many people are going to work on this book,” I say. Surprisingly, I don’t feel nervous at the thought. “I only ever think about the editor.”
“Because I’m the most important one,” he jokes. “Can I grab a drink?”
“I made lemonade last night,” I say, and he pushes himself up to get a glass from the shelf.
His sleeve rises as he does, revealing the muscles of his arms, the edge of his tattoo.
A bead of sweat drips down the back of his neck and for a moment I’m hypnotized, watching it disappear beneath his T-shirt.
“You want some of this?” he asks, and my heart frigging leaps before I realize he’s opening the fridge.
“I’m good,” I say, clearing my throat. Just cursing Maddie to the depths of hell for warping my innocent mind.
Sam pours himself a drink, drains half of it, and then, as if I weren’t flustered enough, tilts his head back and holds the glass to the base of his throat. Condensation quickly forms along the side, and he blows out a breath as if he’s finally got some relief.
He looks as though he’s in some racy lemonade photo shoot.
“Why am I so hot?”
“What?” The word comes out like a squeak.
“I’ve had worse summers than this,” Sam continues, oblivious to my ridiculousness. “I shouldn’t feel this warm.”
It takes a second before I can trust myself to speak normally. “It’s called humidity,” I say. “Warm feels warmer and cold feels colder. And we’re further north than people think. Our sun burns.”
“I’ve noticed,” he says drily, and thankfully finishes his drink. “Did you look at the notes I sent you?”
“Huh?”
“In my email.”
Email. Right. Work.
Or at least, work for him. He wasn’t wrong before.
It’s a disgustingly humid day, the kind that has you zapped of energy just by breathing, and Sam doesn’t help my already distracted thoughts once we head up to the office.
I find myself sneaking glances at him while I pretend to type, noting the furrow of his brow when he reads something he doesn’t like and the line of his profile when he turns to the side, lost in thought.
Sometimes I watch him outright, hoping he’ll glance up and our eyes will meet so I can make a joke, and he can shake his head…
and then what, I have no idea, but at least he’ll be looking at me.
I want him to look at me.
But he doesn’t. Except for a brief aside where he tells me my characters have glanced at each other eleven times in three pages, he practically ignores me, and I’m relieved when he takes a bathroom break and I’m able to tell myself in private to get a freaking grip.
It’s the heat. The heat and the unplanned celibacy and the sad fact that, besides Maddie, I haven’t spent this much time alone with another person in months.
I stand, staring out at the oak tree as I wipe the sweat from my forehead and then from under my boobs.
There’s barely a breeze today. Not so much as a leaf rustles, and the woods beyond don’t move much either.
I’m contemplating whether it would be worth moving to a shadier part of the house for the rest of the afternoon when a flash of color in the distance catches my attention.
A second later it happens again, and I cup my hands against the glass, peering at the tree line as someone emerges from the woods and starts hanging things from the branches.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“Stop that!”
I rap on the window so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t break, but I’m too far away for them to hear it. Anger lashes through me, the familiar sting of it overriding everything else.
“Are you o— Whoa.” Sam enters the room as I’m hurtling out of it, and he sidesteps me just in time. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything,” I mutter, and head down the stairs so fast it’s a miracle I don’t trip. A second later I’m out the door, striding through the long grass in my bare feet. Sam catches up with me easily but doesn’t ask what’s happening as he catches sight of the intruder.
He can’t be more than sixty, with curling white hair and sensible glasses. He looks harmless. Like a tourist who got lost and wandered down the wrong path.
But I know better.