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 failingto 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 toSadie’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.
