Chapter 19
-Corbyn-
Corbyn tiptoed through the study, wincing at the floorboards creaking beneath his feet.
He paused at the door, allowing himself one last look to make sure Sadie was still sleeping.
The way her face had softened when he had given in to the temptation to brush the hair away from her face still lingered in his mind.
She had looked so vulnerable, reacting with such trust as he’d cared for her.
In the aftermath, there was a complicated tangle of emotions he wasn’t ready to untangle.
“How is she?” Edie asked, her voice deliberately lowered, when he entered the kitchen.
Corbyn cleared his throat. “Still sleeping.”
She nodded, turning back to her cooking.
The kitchen was warm despite the early March chill that seeped through the old manor’s walls.
For as long as Corbyn could remember, this room had been the heart of the house—warm, loud, and lived in.
It was Edie’s domain where all needs, both physical and emotional, were tended to.
“Paul’s just gone to fetch more firewood,” she said, gesturing toward the back door. “This cold snap’s set to continue through the weekend.”
Corbyn nodded and crossed to the cabinet near the sink, automatically reaching for plates. The familiar routine of setting the table steadied him somewhat, giving him something to focus on aside from his thoughts of the woman sleeping in his study.
“Has Reed mentioned anything to you about her ex?” he asked abruptly, placing the silverware down more forcefully than necessary.
Edie turned from the stove, her expression shifting from concern to interest. “Not in detail. She mentioned she had been living with her boss after a breakup. Why?”
Corbyn’s shoulders stiffened as he arranged the napkins. Just thinking about what Sadie had admitted to him earlier had him gritting his teeth and wishing he could tell the wanker exactly what he thought of him.
“Over the past few weeks, she’s mentioned him a few times,” he hesitated, weighing how much to share of Sadie’s private confession. “Specifically, regarding his temper and penchant for destroying her things. Like her laptop.”
The wooden spoon clattered against the pot’s rim, and Edie’s outrage was immediate. “He what? Deliberately?”
Corbyn nodded, his scarred left hand clenching reflexively. “Not to mention the manipulative texts and emails he’s been sending. It’s the kind of control that leaves no bruises but does plenty of damage.”
The back door swung open, admitting Paul with an armload of logs and a blast of cold air. He shut the door behind him, stamping his boots on the mat.
“Weather’s turned nasty,” he grumbled, setting the wood on the log rack. “Frost already forming on the…” He stopped, reading the tension in the room. “What’s happened?”
Edie shook her head, stirring the stew with more vigor than needed, as she told Paul, “I’ve just been hearing about Sadie’s sorry excuse for an ex. That poor girl has been through hell with that git.”
Paul’s expression darkened as he muttered, “Some men shouldn’t be allowed near decent women.”
Corbyn finished setting the table, uncomfortably aware of Edie’s sharp gaze following his movements. She had been more of a mother to him than the woman who had given birth to him, and he knew she could likely see through his attempt to seem calm.
“She’ll… she’ll need to stay here tonight,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact. “The guest room should be made up still from when Ellie was last here.”
“Of course,” Edie agreed. “Though I wonder if we should put her in the blue room instead. It gets better morning light, and it’s closer to your…”
“The guest room’s fine,” Corbyn cut her off, avoiding the knowing look she exchanged with Paul. “She’ll need her things from the inn, though. I should…”
“I’ll ring Maggie,” Edie said, reaching for the phone.
“No, I’ll do it.” The words came out more sharply than he’d intended, and he took a breath, softening his tone. “I’ll drive over. The fresh air will clear my head.”
Paul and Edie exchanged another meaningful look that Corbyn pretended not to notice as he headed for the door. For as quiet as Paul was, he could be just as meddlesome as his wife.
“You sure?” Paul asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched Corbyn curiously. “Weather’s turning.”
“I won’t melt,” Corbyn replied, reaching for his coat.
The drive to the village was short, but Corbyn took his time, winding through the outskirts of the town.
It provided a welcome distraction from the thoughts he was trying and failing to ignore.
His mind wanted to drift back to the woman asleep in his study, and that look of peace on her face as she slept.
How, in a short time, she had turned his entire world upside down.
The Roaring Stag stood at the village center, with its welcoming Tudor facade, and a wave of warm air washed over him as Corbyn pushed open the heavy oak door. The pub was busy for a weeknight; locals crowded around the bar while a fire crackled in the massive stone hearth.
“Well, look what the wind blew in!” Maggie called from behind the bar, her surprised expression quickly masked with a grin. “Twice in one month? We’re honored, Mr. Pearce.”
Corbyn made his way to the bar, nodding awkwardly at the curious glances from villagers unused to seeing him in public.
“I need a word, Maggie,” he said, lowering his voice. “About Reed.”
Something immediately shifted in Maggie’s expression, and concern replaced her teasing smile.
“Is she alright? She seemed peaky this morning when she left.”
“She has a migraine,” Corbyn explained, leaning over the bar to avoid being overheard. “It’s a bad one. She’s sleeping it off at the house.”
“Poor love,” Maggie clucked sympathetically. “Those late nights with the freelance work haven’t been doing her any favors, I’d wager.”
“No, they certainly have not,” Corbyn agreed. “She’ll likely sleep at the manor tonight. I thought I’d collect some things for her.”
Maggie glanced around the busy pub and then called to a young woman wiping down tables, “Jenny, mind the bar a minute?” She turned back to Corbyn, nodding toward the back stairs and said, “Come on, then. I’ll help you.”
Relieved he wouldn’t have to handle Sadie’s personal items himself, Corbyn followed Maggie up the narrow staircase to Sadie’s room. She produced a small set of keys from her apron pocket.
“It’s room 7, just at the top of the stairs.”
Room 7 was small but charming, with sloped ceilings and a window overlooking the village green.
It was meticulously neat. The bed was made with hospital corners, books stacked precisely on the nightstand, and a phone charger coiled carefully.
He’d watched her arrange her pens and notes each morning.
Nothing about how pristine the room was surprised him.
“She’s writing again,” Maggie said, when his gaze lingered on a leather journal on the desk. “Started just after she arrived. First time in years, from what she’s told me.”
He watched Maggie add it to the duffel bag along with a change of clothes and other personal items. He knew the weight that journal held for Sadie, that for the first time in years, she was allowing herself to find her own voice instead of just editing the work of others.
It was something to be encouraged, and he had a feeling Maggie understood that as well.
They returned downstairs, the duffel packed with everything Sadie might need for an overnight stay. The pub had grown busier in their absence, locals pressed around the bar where Jenny served drinks.
“She’s all set then,” Maggie said, tucking Sadie’s phone charger into the side pocket of the duffel bag. She handed it to Corbyn with a sly smile. “Tell her to feel better soon. She’s lucky to have someone looking after her.”
“I couldn’t very well let her continue trying to work herself into an early grave,” Corbyn said, his tone more defensive than he’d intended.
“Of course not,” Maggie replied, not bothering to hide her amusement. “I’m sure it’s just professional courtesy.”
“Thank you,” Corbyn said, shifting the duffel to his good hand and trying to deflect any further comments. “For helping with this.”
“Not a problem,” Maggie assured him. “We look after our own here.” She studied him for a moment, something softening in her expression. “That includes both of you, whether you like it or not.”
Before Corbyn could respond to that loaded statement, Maggie was already heading back to the bar, calling greetings to new arrivals and slipping seamlessly into her proprietor role.
The drive back to the manor passed quickly despite his attempts to draw it out.
He had hoped to find a little clarity, but instead his mind was even more muddled than when he had left.
This was precisely the kind of complication he’d spent years avoiding.
People were messy, relationships were messier, and he had no place for either in his carefully controlled existence.
By the time he reached the manor, darkness had fallen completely.
Golden light glowed from the kitchen windows, and smoke curled from the chimneys against the star-strewn sky.
He let himself in quietly, shaking off the cold as he hung his coat by the door.
The smell of Edie’s beef stew reminded him he hadn’t eaten since morning, his stomach growling in response.
“That was quick,” Edie called from the kitchen. “Dinner’s nearly ready.”
“I’ll be right there,” Corbyn said back, turning towards the study.
The room was nearly exactly as he’d left it. At some point while he was gone, Edie must have gone to check on Sadie, because a tray with a thermos of tea and what he assumed were scones under a covered dish sat on the coffee table.
Sadie had shifted onto her side on the sofa, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Riley lifted his head as Corbyn entered, his tail thumping against the carpet in greeting.
“Good boy,” Corbyn murmured, setting the duffel bag on the table next to the tray. “How’s our patient?”
Corbyn crouched beside the sofa, studying her face in the firelight. Her breathing was slow and steady, each exhale lifting the strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek. He considered waking her since she hadn’t eaten either, but the peacefulness of her expression stopped him.
Corbyn glanced around the room, eyes landing on the notepad he kept on his desk. Quietly, he moved to retrieve it and scribbled a quick note:
Reed,
Edie prepared a tray in case you’re hungry, and Maggie packed you an overnight bag. Guest room is prepared when you’re ready—top of the stairs, second door on the left.
—C
He placed the note where she would see it upon waking, before turning to look at her one more time. That stubborn strand of hair still lay across her cheek. This time, he reached out and swept it back from her face with his good hand, the gesture light in hopes it wouldn’t disturb her.
She stirred slightly, a small sigh escaping her lips, but didn’t wake.
Emboldened, Corbyn adjusted the blanket that had slipped down, carefully tucking it around her shoulders against the evening chill.
It was so out of character for who he had become over the last four years, yet there was something about the intimate action that felt right.
“Keep watch, Riley,” he whispered, giving the dog a final pat before straightening and heading back out of the study. He left the door open a crack before making his way towards the kitchen and the dinner Edie had prepared.
Letting out a long breath, he finally allowed himself to admit to the truth that he had been denying for days, if not weeks. He had grown to care for Sadie Reed.