Chapter 24
GEORGE
A cannonball of fur with the face of a cat barrels forth along a garden path, its expression bitter determination. I BELIEVE YOU CAN FLY, reads the caption.
This is the third cheesy encouragement meme Zoe has sent. Her way, I presume, of checking in without, technically, full-on, interrupting.
It doesn’t really matter, though, because there isn’t anything to interrupt. After managing a perfectly serviceable scene yesterday, I opened the draft back up today, hopeful that maybe, just maybe, I’d turned a corner. But nope.
Oh, I managed to write six or seven hundred words. But then I erased five or six hundred of them when I remembered I wrote a very similar scene for Steele three books back. Except instead of Monaco, it was Barcelona, and instead of a robot, it was a great dane.
I lean back in my chair at the cabin’s kitchen table and let out a groan.
It is conceivable that there’s a limit to how many “impossible” situations Sebastian can get himself into. Or, at least, how many I can manage to get him into—and out of—convincingly.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Okay, enough self-pity. This is my dream job, and I know it.
Maybe I just need to get up and move around a little, take a short break. I’ve been at it a while.
I glance over at the corner and realize I haven’t watered the Christmas tree today. I ought to take care of that.
As I crouch down to refill the stand, I look again at the little package under the tree.
It’s sitting there, so bright and expectant.
Is it from Owen’s ex? Maybe he’s making up for whatever wrongdoing he’s committed (I don’t know for sure that’s what happened, but judging from the disdainful way Ruth said his name—Beau, I remember—it’s a pretty good bet).
Besides, it’s hard for me to imagine Owen being at fault in whatever happened.
He seems sweet and genuine. And as long as I’m writing this story—because of course that’s basically what I’m doing, inventing a narrative from what little I know—a mystery gift from the ex to him ties it all up neatly in a bow. As it were.
It seems plausible enough that it might be true. An apology Owen’s left here so he can think about it. Will he take the guy back? Get his happily ever after?
There’s a slight churning in my stomach. The idea doesn’t sit right with me.
This is what comes from being alone for a year and a half. I can’t even be hypothetically happy for a guy I don’t know in a situation I might have completely made up. Maybe the gift is from Owen’s bank account manager.
Is it wrong I kind of hope it is?
It’s definitely wrong that I’m giving this whole thing this much thought.
As I move to get up, something on the shelves behind the tree catches my eye. I reach through and pull it out. It’s another one of the handcrafted puzzle boxes.
These are fascinating. Simple, elegant. Grounding, I realize. The way the smooth wood fits together. The way the thing feels as I turn it over in my hand.
In a weird way, I feel connected—through the little puzzle, through time—to Owen. Owen, who planned this box out, measured the wood, cut and sanded the pieces.
I picture him. Pencil over one ear, brow furrowed in concentration, working by the windows in the shop in the fading afternoon light.
Though I can’t quite picture him, of course, not knowing exactly what the man looks like.
But that hardly matters because suddenly now, lost in these thoughts, I start to see someone else in my mind. Mr. James Fletcher, Esquire.
Graceful, strong hands working. Tendons and muscles in the forearm flexing.
Smoothing over not wood, but the glossy coat, the hard flank of a horse.
Mind focused, world outside slipping away.
The beast snorts, turns its muzzle to the man, who pauses to stroke its nose.
Fletcher is all gentleness and power, thoughtfulness and wisdom.
Beauty personified, both him and the animal and the space in between them.
And then… and then, in walks Sir Henry Ashford, the master of the house, to witness this.
To watch this candid scene. Gaze dumbstruck at the man who is supposed to marry his sister.
The man he needs in order to fulfill his own obligations.
And he is overcome. He wants. He cannot want and yet he does, and when Fletcher turns his eyes to him, he—
My phone rings.
I look up, disoriented. I don’t even remember moving to the computer. I look up at the clock on the wall. Half an hour has passed somehow. Me writing in flow state for the first time in God knows how long.
The ringing continues, and now I finally look over at the screen.
Anabel.
Right. Anabel. The book. The Sebastian Steele book.
“Hi, Ana!” I say, too brightly. And, of course, she notices.
“What’s wrong, George?”
“Nothing. Nothing. I’m fine. Just… deeply immersed, that’s all.”
“In writing?” she says, with cautious optimism.
“Yeah, yes, yeah! Of course, in writing. I’m in Vermont, what else would I be immersed in? Maple syrup?”
“I don’t know,” she quips, “Depends what kind of company you’ve got there.”
My eyes inexplicably go to the puzzle box, which I seem to have placed on the table beside my laptop. “No one here but me and my thoughts,” I tell her.
“And you’re working,” she says, not really a question.
“Yep.” Not entirely an answer. At least not a fully accurate one.
“Well, good, good. Maybe your wackanana friend Zoe is actually onto something this time.”
“One of these days I’m going to tell her you call her that.”
“Be my guest. You’ve already told me what she says about me.”
“Yes, but you’re far too sensible to seek revenge.”
She laughs. “Probably true, but would you want an editor who wasn’t? Sensible?”
Part of me would like that very much, actually. An editor who would tell me screw the fans and the publishing house deadlines and expectations and go write that swoony historical romance I’m so passionate about.
But she wouldn’t, and not just because I haven’t told her about said swoony historical romance.
Anabel is smart and practical and knows the business inside and out.
She guided me to my first hit and my most recent hit and every single book in between.
I owe her everything, and all she wants right now is a finished draft of Steele Trap.
Her sensibility has gotten me where I am today. So no, I don’t want an editor who isn’t sensible. She’s amazing just as she is, and I’m so lucky she found me.
“Touché. I’d better get back to Sebastian,” I say finally.
“By all means. Let me know if there’s anything else you need from me. Otherwise…”
“I’ll be in touch when I have a draft.”
“That’s my boy!” She says brightly. Then there’s a pause, and when she speaks again, her voice is quieter, more gentle.
“I gotta tell you, George, I’ve been a little worried about you.
I know you were struggling a little with this one.
And with Luca and everything… well, I’m just happy this arrangement is working out for you. ”
I force out an almost painful laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, definitely helping.”
“I’m glad.”
We end the call, and I lean back in the chair and blow out a breath.
What the hell am I even doing?