Chapter 6
-Corbyn-
In the soft morning light that filtered in through the study’s ivy-covered window, Corbyn stared at the blank page like it was an old enemy.
He had hoped that the words would flow magically this morning, if only to prove to everyone that he didn’t need Sadie Reed meddling in his work.
Yet, here he was, still stuck, frustrated, and dreading the appearance of a certain American editor.
When Riley’s head lifted from the floor, tail thumping, he knew his solitude had ended. Her footsteps echoed down the hall a moment later, and he quickly hunched over and grabbed a half-finished page to make it seem like he’d been writing.
In his peripheral vision, he saw her pause in the doorway.
Looking up, he found Sadie standing there, his manuscript pages held tight against her chest, a tense look on her face, undoubtedly preparing herself for another round of verbal sparring.
Riley’s tail thudded against the floor, breaking the silence, and Corbyn’s jaw tightened as she stepped through the door to greet the dog.
“You’re early,” he muttered, his words clipped, hoping she’d take the hint and retreat to the kitchen, where she had been talking to Edie.
“Not by much,” she replied, her voice steady and unshaken by his tone. She crossed the room, pausing before his desk, and then placed the marked-up manuscript in front of him. “I thought we could have a quick chat about the flashback scene.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Corbyn asked, already feeling his patience waning.
“Nothing is wrong, exactly,“ she said, shifting her weight. “It just slows the pacing.”
His shoulders stiffened at the sight of all the red ink on the page.
His gaze sharpened as he looked at her, ready to defend his work.
He was used to his editors focusing on grammatical issues and making broad comments about structure and pacing.
What was staring up at him from the page went well beyond that.
“The pacing is fine,” he said, looking down again at the page he had been pretending to write in an attempt to dismiss her from his office.
“It’s a little heavy-handed, don’t you think?” she asked calmly, her voice causing his eyes to snap up to meet her gaze. “You could hint at Shaw’s past instead of spelling it out. Also, the arson timeline doesn’t add up.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, irritation tightening his voice.
“There’s nothing wrong with my timeline.” The words were rough with the various emotions he was trying to keep in check. The frustration he felt toward himself and his inability to put pen to paper was the one most desperately trying to break free.
She leaned in, clearly unshaken by his snapping tone.
“But you see what I mean, right? If you shift this scene earlier, it makes more sense.”
“It’s fine as it is,” he repeated, knowing it was a lie. He could feel his control slipping. He rose, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared at her from the other side of the desk.
To his surprise, Sadie held her ground, her steady gaze met his as she posed a question that felt like a punch to the gut.
“Fine isn’t what you’re really after, is it?”
The question hung there, the air between them tightening.
Riley lifted his head, a soft whine cut through, clearly sensing the storm brewing between them.
Corbyn’s face flushed, whether with embarrassment or anger, he wasn’t sure, and he clenched his left hand to stop its trembling.
He managed to fight back a grimace of pain as his joints and muscles protested the sudden movement.
The next words out of his mouth were a snarl. “You’ve been here for one day and already you’re hovering, poking around like you own the place. It’s not even nine in the morning.”
Once again, she didn’t flinch. Instead, she stood taller, a little more defiant when she replied, “I’m not hovering, I’m doing my job.”
Her steadiness only fueled his frustration. “I don’t need you managing my every thought like some bloody nanny.” His voice came out in a harsh bark, and he paced toward the window. “Leave your notes. I’ll look at them later.”
His back was to her, but he could feel those gray eyes boring into him. If he turned and faced her hard stare, she might see right through all his posturing to the real problem. He was terrified that she would see a washed-up has-been who would never complete another work for the rest of his life.
“No time like the present,” she said, her voice taking on a slightly sharper edge that hadn’t been there before. Apparently, even Saint Sadie Reed had her limits. “You’re the one dragging your feet.”
He heard her sigh, and the sound caught his attention.
He found himself turning to look at her, and he saw a nearly imperceptible shift in her expression.
There was a tightness around her eyes, and her shoulders started to round forward in such a way that suggested this was more than professional frustration.
It was gone almost instantly, but Corbyn caught it, filing it away to ponder later when the infuriating woman wasn’t standing just a few feet away.
“My role here is to help you, Mr. Pearce, not to make your life more difficult,” she said, her voice steady, hiding the troubling thought that had just flashed through her mind.
“You don’t strike me as the type to settle for mediocre work, and neither am I.
Either work with me to make this book the best it can be, or we can waste precious time bickering. Your choice.”
Finally, he exhaled, a ragged sound—more exasperation than surrender—as some of the urge to fight drained from his body. She was right, he would burn the bloody book before he’d let them publish anything that came close to mediocre.
“If we must, we’ll try it your way. But I have conditions,” he said, his eyes pinning hers, and he silently dared her to push further.
The only sign she had heard him was the lift of one eyebrow. He took that as a sign to continue.
“We can have brief meetings,” he said, feeling the need to regain some control over this situation. “Mornings only. And no more than ten minutes.”
“You and I both know that isn’t nearly enough.” She crossed her arms, staring him down. “We’re going to need longer sessions. Ninety minutes three times a week, as well as daily check-ins.”
Corbyn’s jaw tightened. “Once a week. One hour. No more.”
“Twice a week, ninety minutes each session and twenty-minute morning check-ins,” she countered.
Surprised by her counteroffer and how she looked up at him as if challenging him to argue further, he found himself raising an eyebrow.
“You’re negotiating with me in my own house?”
“I’m ensuring this process has a chance of success,” she told him evenly. “One hour a week isn’t enough time to make meaningful progress, especially with a project already behind schedule.”
They stared at each other across the study, a silent battle of wills.
Riley came to stand between them, gaze bouncing back and forth, his tail beating faster with the tension.
A soft whine cut through the tension, and her eyes dropped to the Wolfhound before calling him over to scratch behind his ears.
“Once a week, ninety minutes.” He found himself grudgingly feeling a small amount of respect for how she handled his mood. When she simply stared at him, his shoulders dropped in defeat. “Twice a week. Sixty minutes each and ten-minute morning check-ins. That’s final.”
She nodded, the corners of her mouth lifting in a small smile. He felt a sense of déjà vu as he looked at her, something funny twisting in his chest. He quickly lowered his gaze as he returned to his chair.
“Agreed,” she said simply, before leaving his study.
He looked up, his eyes lingering on her back as she left. A mix of irritation and confusion flooded his mind as he tried to figure out what had just happened. That smile of hers made it clear she had won this round, and apparently not just in terms of the book.
Looking down, he found she had left the manuscript on his desk, her red ink staring up at him, almost daring him to look at her suggestions.
Slowly, cautiously, he picked them up—as if expecting them to bite him.
With a sigh of defeat, he began flipping through the pages to find out what the formidable Saint Sadie, savior of lost and broken authors, had suggested.
***
-Sadie-
Sadie fell back onto the quilted bed that evening. The faint scent of lavender, combined with the steady patter of rain against the windowpane, eased the lingering tension from her body. She kicked off her boots and let herself sink deeper into the mattress with a contented sigh.
Her body was weary from a day spent trying to wrangle Corbyn’s scribbles into something closer to the work she knew he could produce.
It was a strange juxtaposition to the buzz of success.
He had reluctantly agreed to her terms, but only after careful negotiation.
She had suspected his pride in his work would be the key to breaking down his resistance, and she had been right.
It had come at a cost, though. His comment about not needing a nanny had struck a familiar chord within her, conjuring up arguments from her past. She had quickly pushed those feelings aside, not wanting him to see the moment of doubt and weakness, but it didn’t change the fact that his words had hit their mark.
A cheerful chime broke the silence, and she pushed herself up so she could retrieve her tablet from her bag. Jess’s name appeared on the screen, and she felt herself perk up at the prospect of talking to her best friend. If anyone could ease her fears, it was Jess.
Accepting the call, she leaned back against the headboard of the bed, a smile forming when she saw Jess’s familiar face on the screen. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed Jess already, as she propped the tablet against a pillow.