February 6, 2025
-Corbyn-
Corbyn glared at the blank page before him, willing the words to flow from his pen. The late morning sunlight filtering through dusty windows only illuminated the mess of papers strewn across his oak desk. He ran a hand through his dark hair, a nervous habit he had picked up after the accident when touching his face became something to avoid, pushing it out of his eyes as he hunched further over the page. He’d been sitting here for three hours, and the page remained stubbornly, infuriatingly blank, like the current state of his mind.
“Bloody useless,” he muttered, tossing the pen onto the desk where it rolled against a stack of research notes he hadn’t touched in days, his left hand clenching in his lap.
Leaning back, he rubbed his left hand, massaging the stiff fingers that no longer cooperated. His mind kept circling back to the editor who would be arriving any moment. Arriving so she could “fix” his disaster. Four bestsellers, critics falling over themselves with praise, and now he was stuck.
He wondered if she would see right through him. Would she realize the accident hadn’t just mangled his body but hadstolen whatever spark had made his writing worth reading? The thought churned his stomach more than the pain ever could.
“Stop it,” he growled to himself, shaking his head as if to dislodge the thoughts. “Focus, you git.”
Riley huffed near the fireplace, a sprawling tangle of long limbs and wiry tan fur. The Irish Wolfhound’s tail thumped against the warped floorboards as if trying to draw him from his internal spiral.
“At least one of us is content,” Corbyn muttered. The dog’s ears perked at his voice, as he watched him with unwavering devotion.
His shaggy hair fell forward again, partially obscuring his eyes. They narrowed in frustration, strands brushing his stubbled jaw. He needed a cut, but that would mean submitting to Edie’s mother-hen routine and listening to her go on about how he should take better care of himself. With an impatient gesture, he pushed the hair back once more.
The sound of distant tires on the gravel drive pulled Corbyn from his thoughts as he glanced at the clock. It appeared Jess’s miracle worker was right on time. Deep down, he knew his book needed help; however, admitting that to anyone else was something that would not happen.
The sound of a car door slamming shut caught Riley’s attention, the hound’s massive head lifting from the ground. Pushing up from the seat, Corbyn bit back a swear as his frustration with the situation grew. He worked alone, and he liked it that way. Alone was much more straightforward than having someone constantly hover over your shoulder, making suggestions.
“Stay,” he commanded Riley, as the doorbell chimed. The hound looked up at him with puppy-dog eyes that said,You can’t be serious, and Corbyn sighed. “Fine. Come on then.”
Each step toward the heavy oak door felt like a march to the gallows. Corbyn’s mind raced, conjuring up a dozen sharp remarks to drive away this intruder before they could breach his sanctuary. If he was lucky, she’d be gone in a day or two instead of the week he promised Jess.
He yanked the door open, an insult ready on his lips, but it never came.
A woman stood on his doorstep, long hair the color of butterscotch loose around her face, windblown and catching the weak February sunlight. It framed gray eyes that met his directly, steady and unflinching, where most people quickly looked away. A jolt shot through him, a tightening of his chest that he couldn’t explain. He snapped back to attention when Riley pushed his head through the doorway, tail thumping eagerly.
“Mr. Pearce,” she said, drawing Corbyn’s attention away from the dog, “I’m Sadie Reed.” She offered a small, professional smile as she extended her right hand. “Jessica Harper sent me.”
Riley shoved fully past him, nearly knocking him off balance. The wolfhound’s body trembled with barely restrained excitement as his tail whipped hard enough to sway his whole rear.
“Riley, no…” Corbyn grunted, but the dog was already focused on the newcomer.
The hound lurched forward, nose shoving at this stranger, tail smacking the door frame. Sadie quickly pushed her bag aside to dig her fingers behind Riley’s ears. Her smile was wide as she practically cooed, “Hey, big fella. Look at you.”
Riley did his best to charm a potential new source of scratches and snacks by nuzzling against her side. She looked back up, and something sharp twisted in Corbyn’s chest once more; it was damn annoying.
“Come in then,” he said, stepping aside, left hand clenching again.
Sadie stepped over the threshold, and Corbyn felt a twitch in his gut. The way she didn’t shy away from meeting his gaze threw him off, and he refused to let that be the reason he caved.
“I don’t need help,” he barked before she could open her mouth, his voice cutting through the still house. “I work alone, and the last thing I need is an editor breathing down my neck.”
Sadie’s eyes popped wide, his snap clearly catching her off guard. For a second, he thought she’d bolt, but then her stare steadied, and her chin raised defiantly. With a grunt of frustration, he turned and trudged through the living room back toward the hall that led to his study.
“My boss seemed to think otherwise,” Sadie replied, her tone neutral but firm as she followed him. “She mentioned you missed a few deadlines.”
His right hand tightened on the study door handle, opening it with more force than was strictly necessary. She wasn’t wrong. He had missed several deadlines as he sat staring at the page day after day, hopingEchoes of Ashwould write itself.
Undeterred, Sadie crossed the threshold, her tone taking on a patient, calming tone that both soothed and annoyed him as she said, “She believes in your work. Webothdo.”
Riley nudged her hand with his nose, eliciting another small smile from her, and Corbyn leaned against the side of the desk, feigning casualness as she took her first look at the state of his study. Riley flopped by the fireplace as Sadie stood a few feet away, lower lip caught between her teeth. There were manuscript pages scattered, reference books stacked precariously, and pens strewn everywhere but where they belonged. He gritted his teeth, suddenly aware of how unkempt he must appear.
Finally, he broke the silence, his voice rough when he said, “No matter what Harper thinks, I don’t need a babysitter.”
