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Tossing the papers aside, he stood. How was he supposed to meet his editor’s deadline like this? The writer’s block had been bad enough; now he was physically incapable of getting the work done on time. Picking up his cell phone, he punched in his agent’s number. The man had called him three times already today, and now there would be no more avoiding him.
“Clive Romanis,” the man answered in his strong New York accent after the second ring.
“Clive, it’s Logan.”
“Hey, man, where are you? I’ve been calling you. You were supposed to email me those sample chapters two days ago.”
Logan cringed. The promised chapters hadn’t been written yet. Another reason he’d had to leave the city. It was easier to avoid his agent when he wasn’t living two blocks from his office. “Yeah, sorry, I left the city for a while to clear my head, get this book finished.”
“What do you mean you left the city? Where did you go?” The man’s voice barely contained his disbelief. Clive wasn’t truly convinced that there was anything beyond the New York City limits.
“Just a small town in New Jersey. I wrote part of the first book out here. It’s quiet and peaceful,” he lied.
It used to be.
“New Jersey?”
“Yes.”
Clive released a deep breath. “Tell me this isn’t you running away from your commitments.”
“No, of course not.” Running away and needing to get away for a while were two different things, weren’t they?
“So you’re writing? You’re getting it done?”
“Yeah.... Look, I’ve run into a bit of a problem meeting the deadline.” His best bet would be to pack up, head back to New York and hire a typist. The thought made him uneasy. He never let anyone read his work before it was done, especially a stranger. Other than his agent and his editor, he never discussed plotlines with anyone. And with the comeback he was making, he couldn’t chance that the resolution of years of work would be leaked before the book even hit the shelves.
“Logan, we’ve pushed the deadline back twice now. If I ask for another extension from the publisher, they may postpone the release dates.”
Logan pushed the covers aside and sat on the edge of the bed. “That’s ridiculous.” So he’d had a few years of a dry spell after the fourth book. He’d delivered book five to them on time. Book six was almost done. Sort of. If he could just figure out a conclusion.
“They’re nervous that you’re going to flake on them again. Truthfully, I’m not sure you won’t, either. I’ve pulled all the strings I can, Logan. If you don’t have the book on my desk in three weeks, they won’t release book five next month. You’re lucky your readers haven’t given up hope on you yet.”
“I broke my right hand,” Logan said with a sigh as he stood and paced the room again.
“Nice try, Logan.” His agent sounded discouraged. “Now I’ve heard it all from you. If you call me next week and say your dog ate the final draft, I’m walking.”
“Seriously, I broke it. It’s in a plaster cast and it’s useless.” Logan sat in the wooden rocking chair near the window, the painkillers they’d given him at the clinic, making him drowsy but not doing much for the pain. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the back of the chair.
“How far along are you?” Panic had crept into the older man’s voice.
Logan hesitated. If he told the truth, that he no longer had any idea where the plot was heading or how to end the entire series, the man might drop him as a client. “Far enough from the end that I can’t possibly type it all with only one good hand in three weeks.”
Clive let out a deep, slow breath. “Okay. This sucks, but we can still meet the deadline. Why don’t you check out that voice-recognition software? Some of my other clients use it and love it.”
“Uh-uh, forget it. The thoughts just don’t seem to flow that way. Besides, I doubt there’s a store nearby that would carry it, and ordering it could take a few days.”
“Well, get your butt back to the city and I’ll call a typing service. I’m sure they can have someone available within twenty-four hours.”
“I’m really not comfortable with that idea.”
“Now is not the time for your paranoia. Those people don’t even read, they just type.” Clive’s voice rose. “For that matter, Logan, I’ll come type it for you myself.”
The last thing he needed was the one person in his life who still believed in his talent to give up on him. He had to get this book finished. “No. I’ll think of something. I’ll get it done.” Logan rubbed his aching forehead with his good hand and stood.
“I need the finished manuscript on my desk by November fifth.”
“You’ll have it.” Logan disconnected the call and tossed his cell phone onto the bed. Walking to the window, he drew back the thick lace curtains for the first time. Through the fall leaves of the maple in the yard, he could see the day care lady next door, removing the children’s blankets from the clothesline.
He watched as she folded the blankets and laid them neatly in the basket.
She didn’t seem like someone who would rush to the media with the book’s ending. She probably hadn’t even heard of him.
As she put the plastic cover on the outdoor sandbox, he couldn’t help wondering about her. In the few days he’d been there, today had been the first he’d even noticed anyone next door. Years ago, he remembered the place being vacant. Now that the day care kids were gone, he didn’t see anyone else around—no husband? No kids?
His phone chimed and reaching for it, he read the text message from Clive. I need you to get this done.
Going back to the window, he scanned the yard next door, but she’d already gone back inside.
He hesitated. If he went back to the city now, Clive would be riding him for the next three weeks. The media and reviewers were already starting to hound him for interviews since the press release announcing the new book was sent out the month before. And being in his apartment without his daughter and worrying about her in California would be torture. He’d left the city for those reasons and they would be waiting for him when he went back.
He didn’t like any of his options, but asking the strange woman next door for help was probably the one he hated the least.
I’ve figured out a way, he texted back.
* * *
POURING A CUP of steaming apple cider into her favorite mug and grabbing a new romance novel from the counter, Leigh did a final scan of the kitchen. The high chairs were sanitized and set up for breakfast in the morning. Plastic plates and sippy cups sat drying in the rack on the counter, and the painting easel was set up with new finger paints and paper. Turning off the kitchen light, she carried her cider and book to the sitting area in the front of her house. The glass sunroom with the comfy rocking chair and ottoman and the bookshelf lining one wall was her favorite spot, especially in winter when she lit the fireplace. Fluffing a pillow behind her, she sat and opened her book to the bookmark. She scanned the page, rereading several pages. Ah...right...the scene where the hero and heroine finally acknowledge their feelings. Always her favorite part in a romance. Romances were supposed to make impossible situations work, and this one didn’t fail to deliver. If only real life were that way. She took a sip of her cider and snuggled deeper into her cardigan.
A few minutes later, a loud thud on the front door made her jump, spilling the hot liquid. She wiped at the wet spots on her dark leggings and oversize sweater, and set the book aside.
Another loud knock on her door made her rush to the entranceway. One of the kids’ parents? She didn’t recall finding any items left behind.
She stood on tiptoe and glanced through the peephole on the door as she unlocked the dead bolt, which seemed like overkill in Brookhollow but served to keep the children from getting out into the front yard.
Mr. Walters paced the front porch, his head down against the wind. What was he doing here? Come to yell at her some more? Serve her with a lawsuit for getting injured on her property? She opened the door with a sigh and placed a hand on her hip. “Look, I’ve already apologized—”
“I need your help,” he mumbled.
“Huh?” She hid her body behind the door, the cool air making her shiver. “With what?” she asked suspiciously.
“Typing.” He held up his broken hand.
She stared at him, trying to process his request. Finally she said, “I know I offered to help you, but the truth is...I can’t type.”
It was his turn to stare at her.
She shrugged helplessly. She’d never bothered to learn. She rarely used a computer. Had no real need for it, except to email or chat with her parents who were on one of their mission trips. All of her friends were within a stone’s throw of her house, so she didn’t need social media to reach them. Other than those weekly sessions with her parents, her computer sat untouched in the den. Surely, Logan needed someone more computer literate.
After several beats he said, “You have two operational hands. Anything you do will be better than what I’m capable of.”
“Don’t they have services that provide that kind of help for writers?” she asked, biting her lip. She’d been hoping to avoid him for the duration of his stay. She’d assumed he wouldn’t be in a rush to see her anytime soon, either.
“I wouldn’t need help if I hadn’t broken my wrist...helping you.”
“Well, I...” Leigh shifted from one leg to the other. Crap, crap, double crap. She knew she had to help—she had offered after all, but...
“I’ll pay you.” She heard his cool, distant desperation. The sound of a man hating the words coming out of his own mouth.
She hesitated, searching for a way out of this. Sure, she felt guilty, but since her divorce...she just didn’t want to spend time with a man this good-looking. Or any man, really. Didn’t want any possibility of romantic entanglements in her near future. “I don’t know when I’ll have time. I have the kids every day, during the day—well, Monday to Friday at least.”
Logan grimaced.
“Yes, I know how you feel about children,” Leigh said, rolling her eyes. Heartless man. Who didn’t love children? Most men her age were looking to settle down, have a family. Which was why she found herself single at thirty-eight.
Everyone in town knew about her inability to have a child.
The fact that everybody knew her personal failure—the one loss in her life she still grieved almost every minute of every day—was the only aspect of living in Brookhollow she didn’t like.
She didn’t blame the men for keeping their distance, though. Her own husband hadn’t been able to deal with her infertility.
“What about evenings?” he said.
Evenings. Her alone time...her books...her bubble baths...
“Please, Leigh.”
Exhaling slowly, she said, “Okay.” She would regret this. She just knew it.
“Thank you.” The words were choked out. Clearly, he didn’t use them often.
Opening the door a little wider, she said, “The kids are usually gone by five-thirty, so if you want to come over around six.”
Logan shook his head. “I was hoping we could work at the bed-and-breakfast. My stuff is scattered all over the place.” He paused when he registered her reluctance. “What?”
“You’re not from a small town, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t come over to your room at the bed-and-breakfast every night. Rumors would spread through town so fast.” Rumors kept Brookhollow alive with excitement.
Logan frowned. “Who cares what people think?”
“I do. You get to leave once your book is done.” She lowered her voice, “But I—” she pointed to herself “—live here.” Folding her arms, she said, “No way. In fact, my place isn’t really an option, either.” A handsome stranger entering her house every night...she could only imagine what her grandmother Norris would have to say if she found out.
For too long her life had been the topic of conversation in the local diner, beauty salon and just about anywhere people congregated in town.
“Well, where?”
Leigh considered the options. If he was trying to keep a low profile around town, there weren’t many. Finally she said, “How about the gazebo in the backyard of the bed-and-breakfast? It’s heated, with a picnic table and lighting, and it’s secluded enough in the back corner of the yard near all the big trees that no one will notice.”
“Outside?”
“Yes.”
“It’s October. It’s absolutely freezing once the sun sets.” Logan shivered to prove his point. “Isn’t there a library or something?”
“Just about everything closes around here at six. Besides, if you want to keep your presence quiet—a public place isn’t really going to work, is it?” She waited. If he wanted her help, they did it her way or not at all. She didn’t need anything or anyone complicating her life.
Logan let out a deep breath. “Okay, fine.” He stared down at his offending wrist, weighted down as it must have been by the plaster, and turned to leave. “Tomorrow at six in the gazebo.”
Wonderful. She prayed his book was almost finished. “Can’t wait.”
“Lying really isn’t your thing,” he called over his shoulder.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_613ddde8-8c03-5c87-9b6a-6a7c5af820c0)
THE NEXT MORNING, Logan hesitated before opening the email from his lawyer, Eric James. The Manhattan Family Law Group didn’t waste time or their client’s money emailing without a good reason. Lately, whenever he heard from them, it was bad news, and he wasn’t sure he could handle the stress that morning. His hand and wrist throbbed, and the painkillers they’d prescribed at the clinic didn’t seem to help.
The message was marked urgent. There was no avoiding it. Opening it, he scanned it quickly.
Kendra’s lawyer had requested a financial statement. Fantastic. He had known that sooner or later she would play that card. Supporting his daughter with his writing was possible, given his investments and the royalties from his upcoming release, but his lawyer had cautioned him that proving his income in court might be challenging. Self-employed parents without medical benefits had a tougher time convincing the judge they could offer the best support.
Another reason he had to finish this book. Frustrated, he stood. The issues in his personal life were driving him to distraction and preventing him from writing, yet if he didn’t write, things in his personal life would be even worse. Without a steady income, no judge would award him custody of Amelia.
Lying on the bed, he closed his eyes, fighting to control the desperation and hopelessness he couldn’t escape.
Hours later, he sat on the wooden bench under the shelter of the gazebo. The October setting sun cast a glare across his laptop screen as he readjusted the computer into the shade. At least it wasn’t cold inside the heated space. Checking his watch, he stood: 5:58. Where was she?
He checked his watch again. Still 5:58. Time honestly passed slower in this small town, he was convinced of it. Two days before, that had been part of its original appeal; not anymore. He sat back down on the bench.
The sound of crunching leaves caught his attention. In the dusk, he saw Leigh—in a pair of baggy, faded jeans and a T-shirt with a sweater thrown over her shoulders—carrying a brown wicker basket. She smiled wearily as she approached.
She looked about as excited to do this as he was. He moved some of his papers aside to make room for the basket.
“I brought some snacks, in case,” she said, sliding her arms into her sweater and tugging it down over her head.
“I’m not hungry...thanks.” He opened his notebook to the pages to be transcribed. “So, here is where I left off typing.” He pointed to the middle of the page and moved the mouse to bring up the document.
Leigh busied herself with the basket, taking out a Thermos and pouring coffee into a mug. She took out a raspberry muffin and a plastic container of butter, then napkins and plastic cutlery. And then...a fruit tray?
“What are you doing?” Logan asked.
“I haven’t eaten dinner yet.” She bit into her muffin. “Mmm.... I got them from my grandmother’s bakery when I took the kids on an afternoon walk. She owns Ginger Snaps....”
He was barely listening, hearing an overbearing ticking in his brain as the sun continued to set.
“Are you sure you don’t—”
