Chapter 2
-Corbyn-
The sounds of the stationary bike’s grinding wheels and heavy breathing were the only noises bouncing off the concrete walls of the basement gym.
Using a towel, Corbyn wiped away the sweat that traveled down his face only to snag on a network of rough scars that crawled up his neck to his right cheek.
Annoyance had him pedaling faster as his mind drifted to the half-completed manuscript sitting on his desk, just a floor above him.
Before the accident, he would have sought to clear his mind in the steep trails around Great Missenden.
His body would lean into steep descents, and wind would tear at his face as he pushed his high-end mountain bike to its limits.
The burn in his muscles had meant freedom in those days.
Now, though, it was just another reminder of how much had been stolen from him, of how he lived like someone much older than his thirty-six years.
His right hand clamped the handlebars, knuckles white, while his left, a mess of surgical scars, barely hung on.
His fingers were cramped with pain that the February chill only made worse.
The doctors had sworn he’d get movement back, but he had been left with a shaky claw that could barely grip a damn book most days.
Not that he’d cracked one open lately, with his deadline breathing down his neck.
Riley, his massive Irish Wolfhound, sprawled across the rubber mat next to the bike, a mass of tan fur and lanky limbs.
His soulful eyes remained fixed on Corbyn, patiently waiting for his master to finish so he could then go patrol the manor grounds.
The hulking beast had become a tower of strength, only asking for a scratch behind the ear or to be taken for a walk to break up the monotony of lying on a rug watching him attempt to write.
“Almost there, boy,” Corbyn rasped, his breathing slightly labored from the pace.
When the phone on the bench, one of the few pieces of technology he allowed himself out of necessity, buzzed, and the name Jessica Harper appeared on the screen, his scowl deepened.
The New York-based editorial director had been hounding him more often lately, and he was well aware of the reason.
Her patience frayed a little more with every deadline he’d blown past, and in the wake of a third failed developmental editor, she had to be at the end of her tether.
The bike’s rhythm faltered as he lunged for it with his right hand, his left flopping to his thigh.
Corbyn swiped to answer, propping the phone on the bike’s book ledge and tapping the speaker as his legs slowed to a sluggish pedal.
“What is it now, Harper?” he barked as soon as the call connected.
“Good morning to you, too, sunshine,” Jess retorted, her voice too bright given how early it had to be in New York. “Tell me you’ve got something new on those revisions.”
Tension coiled in Corbyn’s stomach, and he hoped she didn’t hear his grimace when he lied, “I’m working on it.”
“You’ve been ‘working on it’ for a month. The deadline was two weeks ago.”
“I told you I needed more time after…”
“After that train wreck that was the last draft, yeah, I haven’t forgotten,” Jess cut in, her edge softening a hair. “I know you think I’m just calling to nag you, but I do get it; you’re stuck. And that’s exactly why I’m calling. I’ve lined up some help.”
His feet stilled, the bike groaning to a halt. Riley’s head lifted when Corbyn asked suspiciously, “What help?”
“I am sending you one of our sharpest developmental minds. She landed at Heathrow this morning so she can dig into Echoes of Ash with you and push through this block of yours.”
Heat flared up in Corbyn’s neck, embarrassment at needing help causing his scarred cheek to throb red.
“No,” he snapped, climbing off the bike to pace along the length of the room he used as a gym. “I don’t need some stranger pawing through my work.”
“Her name’s Sadie Reed, and after tomorrow, she won’t be a stranger,” Jess responded, unfazed by his tone. “She dragged Malcolm Chen’s mess of a manuscript into a bestseller last year. She’s quick, quiet, as stubborn as you are, and, most importantly, exactly what you need.”
“What I need,” Corbyn snarled, left hand jerking with a stab of pain as he clenched it, “is to be left alone to finish this bloody thing.”
“Three months ago, sure, but that ship has sailed, Pearce,” Jess retorted, her tone suddenly turning to steel.
“I’ve bent over backward for you. I’ve given you space, pushed deadlines, made excuses to the board.
Besides, she should be arriving at The Roaring Stag any minute, so she will be at your door tomorrow morning, ready to work. ”
His heart thudded hard, and this time it had nothing to do with the workout.
“Are you pulling my leg?”
“Not today,” Jess replied, and he could almost hear her smirk through the phone.
“I’m giving her the rest of the day to shake off the jet lag, then you and your book are her sole focus.
” Jess sped up, cutting off his growl when she added, “You’re late.
Marketing’s chewing my ear off. We need this book, and you need a lifeline. Sadie’s proven she can deliver.”
His left hand balled into a fist despite the discomfort, and he stopped his pacing as he stared up at the ceiling.
“You have no right…”
“Clause sixteen, publisher’s right to call for editorial intervention,” Jess told him, and there was something in her tone that suggested she was as unhappy about this as he was. “Check your contract. I held off until now because I thought you’d claw your way out solo.”
“Send her back.”
Jess sighed, clearly exasperated with him, before she said, “She’s on an open ticket. Look, give her a week. If she hasn’t made any impact, fine, she’s gone. But try it—she’s the best I’ve got.”
Riley whined low as he pressed his nose against Corbyn’s hand, sensing his master’s agitated state. He flicked a look down, those steady hound eyes pulling him back from the edge for a second.
“Does she know about…” he trailed off, waving at his scarred cheek, even though it was pointless over the phone.
“She knows you value your privacy, and that this book is in trouble.” Jess paused, but then added, “She’s a pro, Corbyn. She’s there for the pages, not to poke into your personal life or make you uncomfortable.”
A sharp, humorless laugh escaped him when he replied, “Everyone pokes, Harper. It’s human nature.”
“Not Sadie. I’ve known her since college and she’s one of the most patient and compassionate people I know. Trust me, she is only there to help with the book.”
Trust. The word sank like lead. The last time he’d trusted someone with his work, a draft was stolen and leaked online. It had spread like wildfire through the literary world, everyone weighing in on the unedited pages. It had been the last time he had sent his work through email.
“She’s already in England,” Jess said, her voice growing softer. “Just don’t bite her head off, alright? I’ll check in next week.”
The line went dead, Jess’s voice lingering in the basement’s damp chill.
Corbyn glared at the phone and then chucked it back onto the bench. It skittered across the scratched wood, teetering near the edge. Riley nudged Corbyn’s hand again, drawing his attention away from the phone and his anger at Jess.
“You’ll probably love her, won’t you?” he grumbled at the dog as his fingers worked through his shaggy fur. “You’ll wag your tail and roll over for belly rubs when she walks in.”
Riley huffed a wet snort that might as well have been a yes.
Corbyn returned to his pacing, running a hand over his face.
Sadie Reed. The name alone grated on his nerves.
It was too bright, too American, and he would have to tolerate her presence for at least the following week.
A week of some stranger crashing his solitude.
A week of her tiptoeing around his scars, tossing out fixes for a book he couldn’t seem to finish.
A week of this Sadie Reed, some Yankee editor, here to pick at the wreckage, thinking she could be the savior the book needed.
Like that was even possible.
The stairs creaked behind him, a slow, steady rhythm he associated only with his housekeeper, Edie. She and her husband, Paul, who served as the groundskeeper, had been more like parents to him than his own mother and father.
Corbyn caught her reflection in the dusty mirror across the way. Her diminutive but sturdy frame eased down the steps. Auburn hair, streaked with silver, hung in its usual loose bun, stray wisps brushing her face. She clutched a water bottle in her hands, her expression disapproving.
“You left your water upstairs,” Edie said, holding the bottle out to him as she raised an eyebrow in his direction. “Again.” That last word carried years of nagging in two tired syllables.
Corbyn’s jaw locked, and he blew out a rough breath as he raked his good hand through damp hair.
“Thanks,” he grunted, sharper than he meant.
Edie had always been unshakable, no matter how much he snarled or groused, and the scars that now marred his body had never once spooked her. She’d patched his scraped elbows and knees long before she’d bandaged the mess left behind by the car crash.
“You’re overdoing it,” she said, nodding at his shaky left hand. “Cold’s chewing you up, isn’t it?”
He clenched his left hand, trying to hide the shaking as he muttered, “I’m fine.”
“Hmph.” Edie’s grunt called out his lie without a word. “Damp’s in your joints. I can tell by that hunch alone.”
He didn’t argue. Winter always found his weak spots, and there was no sense in denying it. The pins in his hand, the fried nerves under grafted skin that never fit right, it was a constant this time of year. But admitting it outright would never happen, not even with Edie.
“Have you been doing those hand exercises Ellie’s friend recommended?”