“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, andSadie 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.
Two hours later, Sadie was deep in concentration when heavy footsteps thudded down the hall. Paul, the estate’sgroundskeeper, trudged through the hallway with a toolbox and mud-caked boots on his feet.
“Afternoon,” he grunted, noticing her presence.
“Hello, Paul.” Setting aside her pen, she asked, “Busy morning?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders, telling her, “Greenhouse heater’s on the fritz again. Old as sin, that thing.” His Yorkshire accent wrapped around the words, a contrast to what she was used to from Edie and Corbyn.
Sadie had seen little of Paul during her time at Pearce House. He moved like a shadow around the estate, appearing when needed and vanishing just as quickly. Unlike the more maternal Edie, Paul maintained a gruff distance that might have convinced most people he was related to Corbyn himself.
“Can I get you some tea?” she offered, gesturing to the pot Edie had left. “It should still be warm.”
Paul hesitated, then gave a short nod. “Wouldn’t say no.”
As she poured him a cup, Sadie ventured, “The greenhouse, is that the structure beyond the orchard?”
“Aye.” Paul set down his toolbox with a heavy thunk. “Been there longer than the house, almost.”
He accepted the tea with weathered hands, calluses and dirt ingrained in the lines, speaking of decades of physical labor.
