Chapter 9
-Sadie -
“Two weeks down,” Sadie murmured, smiling as she approached the front door to the manor, “and look at me actually excited about this.”
There had been a change in her working relationship with Corbyn since Valentine’s Day.
The other day, during one of their sessions, he had shocked her when he simply nodded and replied, “That works,” after she made one of her suggestions.
She wasn’t entirely sure what had caused the shift, but it had given her a sense of optimism she hadn’t felt when she first arrived.
“Good morning,” Edie called from the kitchen when Sadie used the key she’d been given to let herself in. “You’re early today. Keen to get started in the lion’s den?”
Sadie smiled, setting her bag on the island. “More like eager for your tea. The inn’s is good, but yours is somehow better.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Edie said with a chuckle, already reaching for an extra mug. “I made fresh shortbread this morning.”
“You spoil me,” Sadie said, settling onto a stool at the island while Edie prepared the tea. She retrieved one of the biscuits from the plate Edie had left conveniently in front of her usual stool. Taking a bite, she let the buttery flavor wash over her, a contented sigh escaping her.
This had become a bit of a morning ritual, and it was one Sadie was sure she would miss when this assignment was over. Edie had a way of making anyone in her kitchen feel at home.
“I’m just glad to have someone who enjoys it,” Edie replied with a wink, placing the mug in front of Sadie. “Lord knows Corbyn wouldn’t know good baking if it bit him.”
Sadie took a grateful sip of tea, letting its warmth chase away the last of the morning chill.
“Is he already working?” she asked, knowing Corbyn had a habit of starting work at an ungodly hour of the morning.
“Been at it since dawn, I’d wager. Heard him pacing before the sun was even up,” Edie told her, brow furrowing. “Seems in a state today, but more focused than brooding, if you know what I mean.”
That was promising.
“So,” Edie said, leaning against the counter with her mug, “how was your day off? Get out and about a bit?”
Sadie nodded, breaking off a piece of shortbread. “Actually, I had quite the adventure yesterday. I went for a hike up in the hills past the church, but I got turned around and ended up on someone’s farm. Mr. Davies, I think. I’ve seen him in the pub a few times.”
Edie’s face lit up and she grinned. “Old Gareth Davies! Salt of the earth, that one. Been farming those hills longer than I’ve been alive.”
“He was so kind,” Sadie continued, warming to the memory.
“I ended up spending most of the day there helping him with the lambs. He taught me how to bottle-feed the orphaned ones. I was covered in mud by the end, but it was worth it. I couldn’t get enough of those little lambs with their wobbly legs. ”
Edie’s eyes crinkled with genuine pleasure. “That’s a proper Great Missenden welcome, that is. Gareth doesn’t let just anyone get that close to his precious lambs.”
“It was exactly what I needed,” Sadie admitted. “After being hunched over manuscripts for days, holding something warm and alive was…” She trailed off, unsure how to articulate the simple joy of it.
“Good for the soul,” Edie finished for her. “Remind you there’s a world outside these pages we all fuss over.”
Nails scrambling against the hardwood announced Riley’s approach. The Irish Wolfhound bounded into the kitchen, his lanky frame vibrating with excitement as he spotted Sadie.
“Well, hello there, handsome,” Sadie laughed as Riley shoved his massive head into her lap, nearly knocking her off the stool. She scratched behind his ears, his favorite spot. “Someone’s happy this morning.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” came a gruff voice from the doorway. “We’ve got work to do.”
Sadie turned to find Corbyn leaning against the entrance to the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. His hair was disheveled, and there was a restless look about him that suggested he hadn’t slept well.
But there was something different in his posture, as he rolled his shoulders to relieve some of the tension.
“Good morning to you, too,” she replied, keeping her voice light. “I’m not due in your office for another ten minutes.”
His gaze flicked to the clock on the wall, then back to her. “I need to ask you something about that scene in chapter eight.”
“What about it?” she asked, still absently stroking Riley’s head. Chapter eight contained a crucial revelation about Detective Shaw’s missing brother. She’d suggested major restructuring, worried the impact was being diluted by too much exposition.
Corbyn shifted, clearly uncomfortable having this conversation with an audience.
“In the study. When you’re done…” he trailed off, gesturing toward her tea.
Instead of retreating back to his office, though, he lingered in the doorway. His left hand flexed at his side. It was a subtle movement she’d come to recognize as a sign of either pain or agitation. Today, she suspected it was the latter.
“I can come now,” she said, giving Riley a final pat and sliding off the stool. “Thanks for the tea, Edie.”
The housekeeper nodded, her shrewd eyes moving between them with barely concealed interest as she called after them, “I’ll bring more in a bit. Something tells me you two might need it.”
Stepping through the study door, she was greeted by the now familiar scents: the faint trace of wood smoke from the hearth, the earthy smell of the old books that lined the shelves along one wall, and something uniquely Corbyn.
At some point, she had memorized the scent of his cologne, and she told herself it was merely because she spent hours in this room with him and nothing more.
“So,” she said, “chapter eight.”
Corbyn circled his desk, picking up a marked-up page covered in her red ink and his cramped handwriting.
“This bit you circled,” he responded, “about Shaw realizing his brother might have staged his death.”
“Yes?”
“You said it comes too late. That I need to seed it earlier,” he continued with a frown, pointing to a spot on the page. “But if I move it up, it undercuts the tension in the warehouse scene.”
Sadie approached the desk, close enough to see the page but maintaining a professional distance.
“Not if you handle it right. Look, the reader suspects something’s off with the brother from chapter three.
But Shaw’s too close to see it; it’s the classic detective blind spot.
If you show him picking up on the clues but dismissing them because it’s his brother, then, when the warehouse revelation hits, it’s not just shock but self-recrimination. ”
“I’ll try it your way,” he conceded after a moment. “But if it falls flat…”
“I’ll personally rewrite it myself,” she finished, a smile tugging at her lips.
He snorted, something close to amusement flickering across his face. “As if I’d let you near my draft.”
“It’s a bit late for that,” she gestured to the pages between them, and actually earned a hint of a smirk.
Corbyn leaned back in his chair, studying her with an intensity that might have made her uncomfortable two weeks ago. Now, she met his gaze steadily, refusing to give in to intimidation.
“I worked on the next section last night,” he said, sorting through stacks of papers until he found what he was looking for. “The arson investigation.”
Sadie checked her watch, surprised to find that their ten-minute check-in had already stretched to fifteen.
“I should let you get back to work.”
“Read it,” he interjected, pushing the pages toward her. “Now, if you have time. I want to know if the timeline tracks.”
The request caught her off guard. Usually, Corbyn guarded his fresh pages, reluctantly handing them over only after fussing over them for days.
“Are you sure?” she asked carefully.
A muscle in his jaw ticked, and she wasn’t sure if it was nerves or annoyance at her hesitation.
“Wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”
They spent another half hour going through the new material. It was probably the best he had written since her arrival, and Sadie found herself genuinely engaged in the story rather than just its technical aspects.
“This is what you should aim for in the earlier sections,” she said, tapping a particularly effective scene. “You’ve found Shaw’s voice here. It’s clean, sharp, and you can feel his desperation without spelling it out.”
Something shifted in Corbyn’s expression.
He took the pages back, his fingers briefly brushing hers.
The unexpected contact sent a flutter through her, and her breath hitched.
She waited for him to growl or throw her out of the office and then distance himself for the rest of the day, but it never came.
He stayed silent, and for a moment, he looked up at her, his eyes searching hers.
She wasn’t sure what he was looking for, or if he found it, because he looked away just as suddenly.
“I’ve got more edits to work on,” Sadie said, swallowing hard as she rose from her chair. “I’ll be in the living room if you need anything else.”
He nodded, already turning back to his work, not meeting her eyes again. Riley, who had been dozing by the hearth, scrambled up to follow her out, his loyalty apparently divided this morning.
As she walked down the hallway, Sadie found herself rubbing her thumb against her fingertips, tracing the path where his skin had touched hers.
She had been so careful after that first meeting to keep her distance, having written off the initial spark as nerves.
It was still there, though, and somehow it felt more significant than it should.
She shook her head, trying to refocus on the task ahead. There were manuscripts to edit, deadlines to meet, and a book to save.
But the memory of that brief contact refused to fade, no matter how much she tried to bury it.