“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’?ThatCorbyn?”
“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 likethis 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.
March 1, 2025
-Sadie-
The persistent drizzle matched Sadie’s mood as she made her way into the study. She had made her usual stop in the kitchen, knowing she would need a strong cup of tea to make it through the day. The previous night’s work on her freelance projects had dragged until 3 AM. It was the fourth late night in a row, trying to juggle multiple freelance editing projects with impossible deadlines. The workload had snowballed, leaving her barely four hours of sleep each night this week. Her eyes burned, and her movements were slow. A dull pressure, usually an early warning of trouble to come, had settled at the base of her skull.
Sadie paused at the heavy oak door, drawing in a deep breath. Professionalism demanded she push through her exhaustion. Corbyn was making such good progress, and she wouldn’t let a sleepless night derail their momentum. She’d learned long ago, especially with Nate, that admitting weakness only invited judgment or dismissal. This was no different.
“Just another day,” she murmured, pushing the door open. “Morning,” she called, her voice deliberately bright.
Corbyn sat at his desk, shoulders hunched over her tablet as he wrote. His dark brows were pinched together in concentration as the stylus moved across the screen. Riley was sprawled at his feet, and his tail gave a slow, sleepy thump at Sadie’s entrance.
“Look who’s still getting use out of that tablet,” she said, unable to keep the satisfaction from her voice despite her exhaustion. She had hoped he might take to it when she’d left it with him after their session two days ago.
