“Probably some chipper American itching to brainstorm about my ‘process.’”
The word dripped acid. His process had always served him perfectly in the past.
Edie’s mouth twitched, almost into a grin. “God forbid we have a little cheer in this house. Maybe it’s what you need, someone with fresh eyes. It’s work, boy, not a love affair.”
“Work turns personal when they’re in your space every day,” he shot back, but the fire in his eyes faded. Riley whined, resting his head on Corbyn’s shoulder until he received the attention he desired.
Edie’s hand came up to pat his cheek. Hers was one of the few touches he didn’t shrug off. Her voice took on that motherly tone that he had come to know over the years, and she told him, “If she gets that book moving, isn’t that worth a little nuisance?”
He didn’t answer, and the basement went quiet for a long moment.
“Stubborn as a mule,” Edie muttered, softening it with a half-smile. “Always were—digging in ‘til the last second, then bending on your own damn terms.”
That dragged a grudging smirk from him against his better judgment. “I haven’t bent yet.”
“You will.” She nodded, sounding sure. “I know you want this book to be good. If this editor can help, you’ll let her take a swing.” She looked down at Riley, who was now seeking her affection. “Plus, this mutt could use fresh meat to con.”
Riley’s ears perked, tail smacking the mat slowly and hopefully.
“Bath’s cooling,” Edie called over her shoulder, heading for the stairs. “Coffee will be done shortly, and Paul’s frying eggs the way you like.”
She climbed back up, steps creaking steadily. Corbyn watched her vanish, her tread fading into the kitchen’s clatter when she opened the door. Riley glanced between him and the stairs, clearly torn between duty and the promise of bacon.
“Go,” Corbyn sighed, and the dog bolted up with a grace that his bulk shouldn’t have allowed.
Alone, Corbyn snatched his phone, thumb hovering over Jess’s number, itching to unload after realizing this was an ambush. But what would it fix? Edie was correct; there was no escaping this. Sadie Reed was coming, whether he liked it or not.
February 5, 2025
-Sadie-
The car door creaked open, a gust of wind slapping Sadie awake. Somehow, she had managed to not drive the rental car into a ditch, the shift to driving on the opposite side of the road clicking blessedly fast. She yanked her bag from the trunk, stumbling a bit on Great Missenden’s cobblestones.
Taking a moment, she scanned the buildings along the narrow street. A row of cottages lined the road; their walls covered with ivy, giving off a quaint vibe that brought a smile to her lips. As the street curled around a bend, she noticed a butcher’s shop with a red awning and a post office with a charming thatched roof. It was like stepping into a postcard, and part of her still couldn’t believe she had actually let Jess convince her to leave New York.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and for a moment she expected another text from Nate. Instead, it was a calendar reminder:
First meeting with C. Pearce—tomorrow, 10 AM
Reality crashed into her once more. She wasn’t here as a tourist to take in the sights, but as a professional with a job most editors would kill for. Or run screaming from according to the rumors.
The last time she’d been in England, she’d been seventeen and carefree. She had been convinced that literary greatness was in her future if she could just survive her college years. Instead, she carried the weight of having to save the career of a man who wasn’t exactly known for being warm and fuzzy toward his editors.
“Just don’t screw this up, Reed,” she muttered to herself, drawing a curious glance from a passing local.
She forced herself to focus on the misty charm of Great Missenden, with its weathered buildings and winding lanes. If she thought about all the things that could go wrong for too long, her anxiety would only overwhelm her.
“Right,” she muttered. “Check in at the inn. Sleep for approximately one million years. Then… save a book and figure out life?” It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was hers, and Sadie felt the faintest flicker of hope for the first time in years.
She hefted her bag and turned toward the building behind her. The Roaring Stag looked like the very picture of a quaint pub in the English countryside. It was a Tudor-style building, with window flower boxes and a small courtyard on one side of the pub area. Above were a line of windows she assumed belonged to the guest rooms.
Sadie’s lips quirked into a tired smile.
“Straight out of a British rom-com,” she laughed under her breath. “Maybe Colin Firth’s waiting inside with a cup of tea.”
She stumbled through the creaking door, her carry-on thumping against the worn threshold. The mingled scent of wood smoke, ale, and baking scones hit her like a comforting blanket.
Behind the polished oak bar stood a woman with a platinum blonde bob that caught the glow of low lights. Her dark brown eyes were sharp, sizing Sadie up. It was clear this woman was the sort who would know all the comings and goings in the small village.
