I pull my glasses off the bridge of my nose and squeeze. There’s a tension headache building behind my eyes from staring at my computer screen for too long, oscillating between thoughts of Avi and the email staring me in the face. The one to my agent, telling him I want to take a sabbatical. Telling him I won’t be pursuing another contract with my publisher for the foreseeable future. He’s going to flip when he reads it, and I don’t really want to deal with his feelings right now. I can hardly get a hold of my own.
The last seven years since I signed with Brent have been a lot. I’ve loved them, and I’m grateful for him and my publisher for taking a chance on a college kid with a manuscript and a dream. They changed my life. But now my contract is up—the series that made me a best-selling author is complete—and I’m not sure where to go from here.
I want to write, but the words aren’t flowing.
I’ve had writer’s block before, but this is different. It’s like inspiration evaporates the minute I reach for it.
The book I sent Brent months ago is sitting in my inbox, filled with his revisions. But I can’t bring myself to open it. It’s not the right story. I knew it when I wrote it, and I know it now.
I just wish I could figure out what the right story is.
The short story I wrote last winter about Skye came easily, like my subconscious knew I needed to get back here.
But that one is just for me…
I have wondered whether my next book is hiding in these heather-covered hills and glassy lochs. But I’m wary of trying to fitScotland into some sort of mold for a contract, even if my agent is breathing down my neck. It’s too wild… too free. And that’s exactly what I need to be right now.
Wild. Free.
I repeat the words my Grandad said to me years ago when I started my first real story.If you write it with your heart, you’ll never go astray.My heart needs this—time to focus on my family and to write for myself again.
I pull air into my lungs and gather my courage, then I hit the mousepad and send the email that could destroy my career. With the time difference, I should have a few hours before the floodgates of communication open. But no matter what Brent says, I won’t change my mind.
I don’t want to be so focused on work that I miss out on what led me out here.
On that note, I close my laptop and notice that the parlor has emptied out around me. We’re at about half-capacity at the moment, with ten rooms currently occupied, so I assume most of the guests must be out enjoying the sun before the rain arrives later, as it has every afternoon the past few weeks.
My stomach grumbles so I head for the kitchen in search of Grandad—not Avi—and a snack.
Lunch service starts in an hour so the kitchen is a torrent of movement, with Grandad overseeing it all from his setup in the corner. Good, he’s staying off his feet like the doctors instructed. He has more color today and the bags under his eyes are less pronounced, which hopefully means he got a good night’s sleep.
“Jameson,” he says with a smile when I walk in. He stands from his desk when I reach him to give me a back-clapping hug. We didn’t hug this much in my first eighteen years of life, but I’ve realized how precious each one is and take every opportunity to make sure he knows I’m here and I love him.
I have so much to make up for.
He sits back down, eyes moving over the kitchen with the precision of a seasoned professional. He’s allowed to supervise if needed, but he’s not allowed to run the show. I’m sure it’s driving him absolutely crazy. But that’s why Avi’s here.
I follow the path of his eyes and take in everyone who’s here… and note everyone who isn’t.
Anytime I’m in the kitchen, it’s always Avi’s hair—or the apron tied around her shapely waist—that lassoes my attention. But that perky blonde ponytail is notably absent today.
“Where’s Avonlea?” I ask as nonchalantly as I can.
Since she’s been back, I’ve yet to call her Avi outside my head. It feels too intimate, like it’s a nickname that belongs to a different Jamie—one from a different time.
Grandad’s eyes narrow on me but his lips twitch like he’s hiding a smile.
“She wasn’t feeling well this morning, so I told her to take the day off. Hamish has everything under control and I can step in a little if need be.”
I purse my lips. So much for him taking it easy. “You know you aren’t supposed to be cooking.”
“It’s one day, Jameson, it won’t kill me.” He pats my arm and I bite my lip to keep from sayingactually, it very wellcouldkillyou. He’s an adult, and if he says he feels well enough to help, I’m not going to be the one to stop him.
“Did she say what was wrong? Does she need the doctor?” I ask, hating that I care. I shouldn’t care. But I do.
We have a silent conversation, like the ones he shares with Gran, where he’s communicatingI’m not sure it’s any of your business, and I’m countering withJust tell me, old man.
His lip twitches again. “Aileen said it was cramps.”
