“What’s wrong with it?” Corbyn asked, already feeling his patience waning.
“Nothing iswrong,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.”
