Chapter 4
-Corbyn-
Corbyn glared at the blank page before him, willing the words to flow from his pen.
The late morning sunlight filtering through dusty windows only illuminated the mess of papers strewn across his oak desk.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, a nervous habit he had picked up after the accident when touching his face became something to avoid, pushing it out of his eyes as he hunched further over the page.
He’d been sitting here for three hours, and the page remained stubbornly, infuriatingly blank, like the current state of his mind.
“Bloody useless,” he muttered, tossing the pen onto the desk where it rolled against a stack of research notes he hadn’t touched in days, his left hand clenching in his lap.
Leaning back, he rubbed his left hand, massaging the stiff fingers that no longer cooperated. His mind kept circling back to the editor who would be arriving any moment. Arriving so she could “fix” his disaster. Four bestsellers, critics falling over themselves with praise, and now he was stuck.
He wondered if she would see right through him. Would she realize the accident hadn’t just mangled his body but had stolen whatever spark had made his writing worth reading? The thought churned his stomach more than the pain ever could.
“Stop it,” he growled to himself, shaking his head as if to dislodge the thoughts. “Focus, you git.”
Riley huffed near the fireplace, a sprawling tangle of long limbs and wiry tan fur. The Irish Wolfhound’s tail thumped against the warped floorboards as if trying to draw him from his internal spiral.
“At least one of us is content,” Corbyn muttered. The dog’s ears perked at his voice, as he watched him with unwavering devotion.
His shaggy hair fell forward again, partially obscuring his eyes.
They narrowed in frustration, strands brushing his stubbled jaw.
He needed a cut, but that would mean submitting to Edie’s mother-hen routine and listening to her go on about how he should take better care of himself.
With an impatient gesture, he pushed the hair back once more.
The sound of distant tires on the gravel drive pulled Corbyn from his thoughts as he glanced at the clock. It appeared Jess’s miracle worker was right on time. Deep down, he knew his book needed help; however, admitting that to anyone else was something that would not happen.
The sound of a car door slamming shut caught Riley’s attention, the hound’s massive head lifting from the ground.
Pushing up from the seat, Corbyn bit back a swear as his frustration with the situation grew.
He worked alone, and he liked it that way.
Alone was much more straightforward than having someone constantly hover over your shoulder, making suggestions.
“Stay,” he commanded Riley, as the doorbell chimed. The hound looked up at him with puppy-dog eyes that said, You can’t be serious, and Corbyn sighed. “Fine. Come on then.”
Each step toward the heavy oak door felt like a march to the gallows. Corbyn’s mind raced, conjuring up a dozen sharp remarks to drive away this intruder before they could breach his sanctuary. If he was lucky, she’d be gone in a day or two instead of the week he promised Jess.
He yanked the door open, an insult ready on his lips, but it never came.
A woman stood on his doorstep, long hair the color of butterscotch loose around her face, windblown and catching the weak February sunlight.
It framed gray eyes that met his directly, steady and unflinching, where most people quickly looked away.
A jolt shot through him, a tightening of his chest that he couldn’t explain.
He snapped back to attention when Riley pushed his head through the doorway, tail thumping eagerly.
“Mr. Pearce,” she said, drawing Corbyn’s attention away from the dog, “I’m Sadie Reed.” She offered a small, professional smile as she extended her right hand. “Jessica Harper sent me.”
Riley shoved fully past him, nearly knocking him off balance. The wolfhound’s body trembled with barely restrained excitement as his tail whipped hard enough to sway his whole rear.
“Riley, no…” Corbyn grunted, but the dog was already focused on the newcomer.
The hound lurched forward, nose shoving at this stranger, tail smacking the door frame. Sadie quickly pushed her bag aside to dig her fingers behind Riley’s ears. Her smile was wide as she practically cooed, “Hey, big fella. Look at you.”
Riley did his best to charm a potential new source of scratches and snacks by nuzzling against her side. She looked back up, and something sharp twisted in Corbyn’s chest once more; it was damn annoying.
“Come in then,” he said, stepping aside, left hand clenching again.
Sadie stepped over the threshold, and Corbyn felt a twitch in his gut. The way she didn’t shy away from meeting his gaze threw him off, and he refused to let that be the reason he caved.
“I don’t need help,” he barked before she could open her mouth, his voice cutting through the still house. “I work alone, and the last thing I need is an editor breathing down my neck.”
Sadie’s eyes popped wide, his snap clearly catching her off guard. For a second, he thought she’d bolt, but then her stare steadied, and her chin raised defiantly. With a grunt of frustration, he turned and trudged through the living room back toward the hall that led to his study.
“My boss seemed to think otherwise,” Sadie replied, her tone neutral but firm as she followed him. “She mentioned you missed a few deadlines.”
His right hand tightened on the study door handle, opening it with more force than was strictly necessary. She wasn’t wrong. He had missed several deadlines as he sat staring at the page day after day, hoping Echoes of Ash would write itself.
Undeterred, Sadie crossed the threshold, her tone taking on a patient, calming tone that both soothed and annoyed him as she said, “She believes in your work. We both do.”
Riley nudged her hand with his nose, eliciting another small smile from her, and Corbyn leaned against the side of the desk, feigning casualness as she took her first look at the state of his study.
Riley flopped by the fireplace as Sadie stood a few feet away, lower lip caught between her teeth.
There were manuscript pages scattered, reference books stacked precariously, and pens strewn everywhere but where they belonged.
He gritted his teeth, suddenly aware of how unkempt he must appear.
Finally, he broke the silence, his voice rough when he said, “No matter what Harper thinks, I don’t need a babysitter.”
Sadie shifted her weight but didn’t retreat from his harsh tone.
“Jess thought you needed a developmental editor to help finish Echoes of Ash. The deadline was…”
“I know when the bloody deadline was,” he cut in, jaw tightening, the muscles in his neck tensing. “What I don’t know is why she thought sending someone to hover over me would magically produce words that aren’t coming.”
“I don’t hover,” Sadie said, her voice level. “I collaborate.”
He made a dismissive sound in the back of his throat.
“I don’t do collaboration. I work alone. Always have,” he insisted, shaking his head.
“That stops now.”
The simple statement hung between them. Corbyn straightened from his casual pose, wincing as his spine protested before he moved behind his desk, his left hand clenched into a fist at his side.
“Ms. Reed…”
“Sadie,” she corrected.
“Ms. Reed,” he continued, gritting his teeth. “I appreciate that Ms. Harper is in a difficult position. The publisher wants the book. I’m contracted to deliver it. But having a stranger in my space, telling me how to write my own characters, frankly, is not going to work.”
Sadie, to his amazement, stood her ground, steadfast in the face of his frustration. She was several inches shorter than him, but a certain defiance in her stance made him wonder just how hard he would have to push before she simply threw in the towel.
“I’m not here to tell you how to write your characters,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked up at him. “I’m here to help you navigate whatever’s blocking you from finishing this book.”
His scowl deepened as he made a point to study one of the half-written pages lying on his desk.
“Nothing’s blocking me except the constant pressure from people who think writing is like flipping a switch.”
“From what I understand, you’ve been stuck at chapter fifteen for months,” Sadie replied, her voice closer now. She’d moved toward him, scanning the paper that had grabbed his attention.
Corbyn whipped around, eyes narrowing as the truth of just how screwed his writing was washed over him.
Leaning forward, his hands rested on the surface of the desk as he argued, “She had no right.”
“She’s the one ensuring your book gets published,” Sadie insisted, a hint of steel beneath her calm exterior, and she matched his stance on the opposite side. “And she believes in this book. In you.”
“She believes in her profit margins,” he countered, but the words didn’t quite ring true.
Jess was the only reason he still had this opportunity, allowing him time to heal even though he was under contract.
She had defended him to the board when deadlines slipped, fighting for extensions he didn’t deserve, all while he did everything to make Jess and her team’s lives as difficult as possible.
“Let me be clear about something,” he told her, his voice dropping to a lower register as he leaned closer still. “I don’t trust editors. I don’t trust their so-called ‘process.’ And I especially don’t trust that.”
He pointed to the tablet he saw peeking from her bag. When she turned her head, a familiar scent he couldn't quite place hit him. Realizing how close they were, he shifted back quickly.
“My tablet?” she asked, raising an eyebrow when she straightened her posture and looked back up at him.
“Aside from my phone, technology and I aren’t on speaking terms.”
“So I’ve heard, though that might be difficult in this century,” she quipped back, a little smirk tugging at her lips.
“I manage,” he replied, his tone making it clear the subject was non-negotiable.
That smirk of hers had drawn his attention to her mouth, and his gaze dropped to look for a moment all on their own, much to his irritation.
“Pen and paper first. Typed after, but nothing gets saved to your magical cloud, emailed, or put anywhere else someone might gain unauthorized access.”
He watched her consider his words, her head tilting a bit when she said, “Jess mentioned you had some issues with…”
“An intern hacked into one of the editor’s emails,” he cut her off, his voice tight.
“Three chapters of my last book were leaked online before it was even half-written, to be torn apart by anyone with a web browser. Do you have any idea what that does to a writer?” His right hand slammed against the desk for emphasis, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
The sudden movement caused Sadie to jump. Shame flooded him almost instantly, hot and unwelcome, and he stepped back and moved to the window. He’d never been that man. The one who acted out angrily, causing fear in those around him.
Sadie straightened her shoulders, quickly regaining her composure.
“I understand your concerns about digital security,” she said, the professional mask slipping back into place. “We can work with paper copies. That’s not an issue.”
“There is no ‘we,’ Reed,” he insisted, his voice taking on a sharper edge.
“You promised a week,” she countered, the quirk of her eyebrow a challenge. “At least give me that, let me prove that I can help you not only push this book over the finish line, but make it your best work to date.”
There was something in her tone that caught him off guard. She wasn’t trying to flatter him; it was clear she truly believed every word, and it was… disarming.
Riley’s soft whine drew both of their attention. The dog had raised his head, soulful eyes moving between them as if following the volley of words.
“Even your dog knows you’re just being willful,” Sadie said, the faintest smile touching her lips.
“Only because he sees you as a new source for treats,” Corbyn muttered, shaking his head at the giant dog.
Riley’s tail thumped faster in response as if it were a compliment.
“Have it your way,” he said, running his fingers through his hair again as he moved back to the desk.
He sorted through stacks of paper, feeling his frustration grow as the lack of organization became apparent.
Finally, he located what he was looking for and thrust it in her direction as he added, “This is the first act of the book. You can look through it in the living room, but it’s not to leave this house.
And that tablet of yours stays in your bag. ”
She crossed the short distance with a single nod.
When her fingers brushed his as she took the draft, his world seemed to tilt as a long forgotten sensation ran up his arm.
He stiffened, his gut twisting. Sadie’s eyes had gone wide as she stared at him, neither speaking nor seeming to breathe.
It was another of Riley’s soft whines that broke the spell, tail thumping as he maneuvered between them, looking for attention.
“You have the manuscript. The living room is that way,” he growled, voice low and harsh, gesturing sharply toward the door.
He caught her reaction, a flicker of hurt and perhaps fear making her eyes stormy.
Her lips parted as she stepped back, papers clutched tight in her hand, and he saw her steady facade cracking just enough to sting him before she turned and walked toward the door.
He followed behind, holding the door open until she passed through and disappeared into the hall. With a satisfying bang, he slammed the door shut, leaning against it momentarily as he caught his breath. Another one of Riley’s plaintive whines broke the silence.
“Don’t start,” Corbyn grumbled at the dog.
He forced himself to move back to his desk, collapsing into his chair with a grunt of pain. The unfinished pages on his desk swam before his eyes, the words blurring into an indecipherable mess.
“Bloody hell,” he hissed, running a trembling hand through his hair. “Get it together, Pearce.”
But try as he might, he couldn’t focus. He’d allowed her to take the manuscript. The walls he’d built around himself suddenly felt a little less solid, a little less impenetrable. And that terrified him more than he cared to admit.