Chapter 2 #2
Corbyn’s shoulders tensed, and the way she raised her eyebrow made him feel like he was ten years old again and caught stealing sweets before dinner.
He knew his sister had meant well, asking her physical therapist friend at the hospital for more exercises that might help improve the range of motion in his useless left hand.
After four years of exploring every possible option, he was simply done being disappointed when there was inevitably no improvement.
“That’s what I suspected,” she said, brushing off his silence. “I ran you a bath upstairs with that oil Ellie brought over. After, you’ll have a proper breakfast. None of your coffee-only rubbish you like to spout.”
Riley nosed his hip, backing her up like a furry nag. The dog’s knack for sniffing out pain before Corbyn admitted it to himself was eerie.
“You’re grumpier than usual,” Edie continued, eyes narrowing. “What’s going on?”
Corbyn grabbed the bottle, pinning it against his chest with his left hand to twist the cap off with his right. The hand’s uselessness pissed him off every time. He gulped half before answering.
“My publisher is sending someone to work here in person. A developmental editor.”
Edie’s brows lifted over her glasses, and she asked, “Is that so?”
“To ‘fix’ it,” he spat, the word burning his tongue. “Some Yank who turns trash into gold, supposedly.”
“Ah. Well, that explains it.” Edie nodded, calm as if he’d mentioned the weather. “When’s she showing up?”
“Tomorrow,” he told her, looking over her face and noting her lack of surprise, and his eyes narrowed. “I never said anything about it being a woman.”
A flicker of guilt crossed Edie’s face, but it was gone just as quickly as she replied, “I might have spoken to Ms. Harper about this before she called you.”
“Of course you did,” Corbyn replied, his irritation seeping into his tone. Edie had been Jess’s point of contact when he had been recovering and unable to answer for himself. “So, everyone’s plotting my rescue behind my back?”
“No one thinks you need rescuing,” Edie said, voice even, as she began fussing with the towels on a nearby rack. It was a nervous tic, the need to straighten up, and it usually meant she was about to say something he wouldn’t like. “But that book needs help. You’ve said it yourself.”
“I can do it solo.”
“Can you?” she asked, her question soft but blunt. “Months and your publisher hasn’t seen a page. Paul says you’re staring holes in your study walls more than writing.”
That stung, but it was closer to the truth than he cared to admit. Words that used to pour out had clogged up, leaving him with scraps and dead ends.
“I don’t need a stranger rooting through my stuff, gawking at…”
He waved at his scarred face, the mess that made eyes dart away and strangers whisper.
“Ms. Harper made her sound very professional,” Edie cut in, sidestepping the real issue.
He snorted, collapsing onto the bench and taking another sip of his water.
“Probably some chipper American itching to brainstorm about my ‘process.’”
The word dripped acid. His process had always served him perfectly in the past.
Edie’s mouth twitched, almost into a grin. “God forbid we have a little cheer in this house. Maybe it’s what you need, someone with fresh eyes. It’s work, boy, not a love affair.”
“Work turns personal when they’re in your space every day,” he shot back, but the fire in his eyes faded. Riley whined, resting his head on Corbyn’s shoulder until he received the attention he desired.
Edie’s hand came up to pat his cheek. Hers was one of the few touches he didn’t shrug off. Her voice took on that motherly tone that he had come to know over the years, and she told him, “If she gets that book moving, isn’t that worth a little nuisance?”
He didn’t answer, and the basement went quiet for a long moment.
“Stubborn as a mule,” Edie muttered, softening it with a half-smile. “Always were—digging in ‘til the last second, then bending on your own damn terms.”
That dragged a grudging smirk from him against his better judgment. “I haven’t bent yet.”
“You will.” She nodded, sounding sure. “I know you want this book to be good. If this editor can help, you’ll let her take a swing.” She looked down at Riley, who was now seeking her affection. “Plus, this mutt could use fresh meat to con.”
Riley’s ears perked, tail smacking the mat slowly and hopefully.
“Bath’s cooling,” Edie called over her shoulder, heading for the stairs. “Coffee will be done shortly, and Paul’s frying eggs the way you like.”
She climbed back up, steps creaking steadily. Corbyn watched her vanish, her tread fading into the kitchen’s clatter when she opened the door. Riley glanced between him and the stairs, clearly torn between duty and the promise of bacon.
“Go,” Corbyn sighed, and the dog bolted up with a grace that his bulk shouldn’t have allowed.
Alone, Corbyn snatched his phone, thumb hovering over Jess’s number, itching to unload after realizing this was an ambush. But what would it fix? Edie was correct; there was no escaping this. Sadie Reed was coming, whether he liked it or not.