Chapter 17 #2
“You know,” Ellie murmured, her voice gentling, “it’s been four years, Corbie. Four years of shutting yourself away in that house, pushing everyone away except Riley, Edie, and Paul. You don’t even take my calls half the time.”
The words landed exactly as she had intended, and Corbyn looked away from the screen. She wasn’t wrong; he had shut everyone out. It had been easier than dealing with the pity.
“I’d like to meet her,” Ellie said after a moment. “Bring her to London sometime.”
“She’s not here to socialize,” Corbyn protested, his eyes snapping back to Ellie’s on his phone. “She’s here to fix the book. Plus, you know how I feel about going into the city.”
“And yet, you’re using a tablet,” Ellie pointed out. “Miracles do happen.” She glanced at something off-screen. “I’ve got to go, I’m working the night shift. But think about it, okay?”
“You’re a menace,” Corbyn muttered.
Ellie grinned as she responded, “That’s why you love me.” Her expression softened, and she added, “I’m glad things are getting better, Corbie, and not just with the book.”
The screen went dark before he could respond, leaving him staring at his own reflection in the black glass of his phone. He set it face down on the desk, unwilling to spend too much time trying to figure out what changes his sister had noticed.
Riley padded over, resting his shaggy head on the arm of Corbyn’s chair. The dog looked up at him, and he was unable to resist running his fingers through Riley’s coarse fur.
“It’s not what she thinks,” Corbyn told Riley, who offered no contradiction beyond a slow blink.
Yet Ellie hadn’t been entirely wrong. He couldn’t deny that Sadie had affected his routine, work habits, and even his tolerance for technology.
What he wouldn’t admit, even to his too-perceptive sister, was how he’d found himself noticing other things: the way Sadie tucked her hair behind her ear when concentrating, how her gray eyes sparked when she challenged one of his plot points, the quiet hum she made when reading a passage she particularly liked.
Small details that had no bearing on their professional relationship. Things he had no business cataloging.
Corbyn picked up the stylus again and tapped the tablet screen, bringing it back to life. The manuscript glowed up at him. It was still his words, but somehow he could see things more clearly in this format.
Time slipped away as he wrote. The words came faster than they had in months. It wasn’t the painful extraction they’d become since the accident, but something closer to the rush he remembered. Not quite the same, nothing ever would be, but better. Easier.
When he finally looked up, he realized night had truly fallen, the grounds beyond the windows no longer visible.
Glancing at the clock on the mantle, he was startled to see it was past midnight.
He’d worked for hours without interruption, without the usual breaks forced by pain and frustration.
He had been relaxed and focused, and his chest clenched when he thought of all the time he had spent allowing his anger and fear to control his decisions.
He flexed his left hand experimentally. It ached, but not with the sharp, shooting pain that typically accompanied a long writing session.
Corbyn saved the document and watched as the word count updated. He’d written more tonight than in the past three days combined, and that realization brought a complicated mix of emotions.
Underneath his satisfaction at having successfully spent the night writing was the knowledge that Sadie had been right.
She would know it immediately when she saw the new pages tomorrow, and she would get that look on her face—the one that said she’d been correct, but was too professional to gloat.
One corner of her mouth would curve upward, gray eyes twinkling as she tried to avoid eye contact, as if somehow he wouldn’t know exactly what she was thinking.
The thought didn’t irritate him as it should have. Instead, he found himself almost looking forward to it. There was a warmth that spread through him as he pictured her smile, and he had to shake his head to clear the treacherous thoughts. This was a professional arrangement and nothing more.
Still, as he pushed up from his chair, Riley following him toward the study door, he couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow he was fooling himself into thinking his heart was immune to Sadie Reed.
***
-Sadie-
Staring up at the ceiling in her room at the Roaring Stag, Sadie groaned in frustration.
Once again, her mind was not focused on the manuscript she was trying to edit on the tiny screen of her phone for a freelance project.
Instead, she had been thinking about Corbyn and what had transpired that afternoon, and even the simple act of remembering holding his hand in her own had her body responding in all sorts of inconvenient ways.
Shaking her head, she closed the manuscript file and pulled Jess’s contact information. She needed a friendly voice, and Jess was the one person who could yank her out of an overthinking spiral. Her best friend’s face lit up the screen in surprise on the second ring.
“Well, look who remembered I exist!” she exclaimed, her hair piled in a messy bun. Jess appeared to be in her apartment, and a glass of wine was visible at the edge of the frame. “The elusive Sadie Reed graces me with her presence!”
“I’m sorry, it has been way too long,” Sadie admitted, settling more comfortably against her pillows. “I’ve meant to call, but everything has been such a blur.”
“That bad, huh?” Jess asked, taking a sip of her wine. “Is Mr. Difficult still living up to his reputation?”
Sadie hesitated, unsure how to answer. The Corbyn Pearce who had greeted her on that first day—all cutting remarks and cold dismissal—seemed miles away from the man who had let her massage his scarred hand this morning.
“Actually,” she began carefully, “he’s not what I expected.”
Jess raised her eyebrows. “Meaning he’s worse? Because I can have you on the next flight home if he’s being impossible.”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Sadie said quickly. “The opposite, really. Sure, he was difficult at first, but lately things have been… different. The edits and writing are going well. We might actually hit the deadline.”
“Seriously? Thank God.” Jess looked genuinely relieved as she told Sadie, “The board hasn’t stopped asking for updates, and marketing has been hounding me daily about the launch. I’ve been running out of ways to tell them to be patient.”
“Well, you can tell them to relax,” Sadie grinned. “He’s still protective of his work but receptive to feedback now, at least most of the time. We’ve actually made significant progress on the structural issues.”
“Well, damn,” Jess murmured, looking impressed. “You are a miracle worker, and I may build you a shrine if you get this book to the finish line.”
Sadie laughed, shaking her head. “The book is good… really good. The plot just needed some untangling.”
“And the author needed someone who didn’t take his crap,” Jess added with a knowing grin. “You always were good at standing your ground.”
“Professionally, maybe,” Sadie said, her gaze flicking away as she thought of Nate. “Not always in my personal life.”
Jess’s expression sobered immediately. “Has he been bothering you again? Because I swear to God, Sadie, if that asshole is still—“
“No, no, nothing like that,” Sadie assured her quickly, resisting the urge to tuck her hair behind her ear.
“Just… reflecting, I guess. On patterns.” She took a breath, deliberately changing the subject.
“You’ll never believe what happened today, though.
I got Corbyn to agree to experiment with a tablet and stylus this evening. ”
Jess nearly spat out her wine. “You what? The man who supposedly writes everything by hand with fountain pens imported from some artisanal shop in Paris? Who once told me technology was ‘the death of authentic literary voice’? That Corbyn?”
“The very same,” Sadie confirmed, a smile tugging at her lips at Jess’s attempt to impersonate Corbyn’s voice. “I showed him an app that converts handwriting to text. His left hand was really bothering him today—the rain makes it worse—and he couldn’t type comfortably.”
“And he just… agreed? To try it?”
“Well, not immediately,” Sadie admitted. “But I left it with him with the promise to never bring it up again if he truly hates it.”
“Huh,” Jess said, studying Sadie’s face through the screen. “That’s… unexpected. Sounds like Mr. Difficult is softening.”
Sadie felt heat rise to her cheeks. Jess had said the last part in a tone that left no doubt in Sadie’s mind that she meant outside of their professional relationship. She stared at the screen as her sputtering mind tried to formulate a response.
“I have no idea what you mean,” she said, hoping the dim light hid the blush that had spread from her cheeks to her neck and chest.
“You realize I can see through your bullshit, right?” Jess asked, clearly unconvinced. “You get this look when someone has your interest.”
“That’s ridiculous, I do not,” Sadie said, though she could feel her blush deepening. “And even if I do have some look, I’m talking about his writing, not him personally.”
“If you say so,” Jess shrugged and took another sip of wine, her eyes never leaving Sadie’s face. “But you know, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you were interested.”
“Jess, no,” Sadie said firmly. “I’m his editor, that’s it. Plus, this assignment comes with an end date; it’s not like I’m here forever.”
“Right, because his writing is absolutely why you’re turning the color of my wine right now,” Jess teased.
“Come on, Sadie. It’s been what, two months since you left Nate?
And years longer than that since you actually seemed happy with him.
I know it hasn’t been that long, but maybe it’s time to put yourself out there again.
As your boss, I know I should tell you to remain completely professional, but as your friend, I want to see you happy.
Would it be so terrible to feel something for him? ”
Sadie sighed, “It’s not that simple.”
“It never is,” Jess agreed. “But sometimes it’s not as complicated as we make it, either.
Look, I’m not saying you should jump the poor man, but if there’s something there, something real, maybe don’t automatically shut it down because of timing, titles, or whatever other excuse your brain is manufacturing. ”
“There’s nothing to shut down,” Sadie insisted, though the memory of Corbyn’s intense blue eyes meeting hers across his desk sent a flutter through her stomach that contradicted her words. “We’re working well together. That’s all.”
“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Jess conceded, though her expression remained doubtful.
They chatted for another twenty minutes while Jess updated Sadie on the latest office gossip. When they finally disconnected, Sadie was unsettled by Jess’s observations.
She couldn’t deny the flutter of butterflies in her stomach when she thought of Corbyn’s rare smile, nor the warmth that spread through her when he listened to her suggestions.
Then, there was that strange charge that had passed between them when their eyes met over his desk.
They were small moments that shouldn’t matter, but somehow did.
The realization both thrilled and terrified her. She had sworn off relationships, convincing herself that her judgment was irreparably broken. Yet, every moment spent with Corbyn felt different from anything she had experienced. His gruff and grumbly exterior concealed a disarming gentleness.
Shaking her head, she opened the manuscript file once more. Working on her phone was inefficient and it strained her eyes, but she had no choice. Corbyn had to finish his book, and if that meant making do with her phone screen, it was worth the sacrifice.
“Just a few more hours,” she murmured, the screen’s glow harsh in the dimly lit room.
She’d been pushing herself like this for weeks, the fatigue piling up, but she couldn’t afford to turn down the work.
Not when every extra penny meant getting closer to replacing her laptop and being able to afford her own apartment when she returned to New York.
The tiny text blurred as her eyes grew heavier.
She blinked, forcing herself to focus on the line edits for a self-published fantasy novel, but each paragraph took twice as long to process as it should have.
When the clock struck two, she finally admitted defeat, setting her phone aside with an ache between her shoulder blades.
She’d have to finish tomorrow somehow, squeezed between sessions with Corbyn.
As she turned out the light, she made a mental note to stop and see Maggie in the morning for an extra-strong coffee before heading to the estate.