Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“I should have said thank you,” he says. “For bringing the package. It means a lot. I should have realized couriers would take ages to deliver it here.”
“I just want to be the best assistant I can be for you. If I’d have known there were no ferries and no hotels…” My stomach swims with shame and anxiety. Hot tears prick at my eyes but I blink them back. My reaction isn’t about Zach Cove and his package, and he doesn’t need to get the brunt of my frustration over the last decade of wasted career options.
He reaches out his hand like he’s going to pat me on the arm and I brace myself for the crackle of electricity I’ve felt whenever he’s touched me. His hand hovers and he pulls it away. “Take your coat off and get warm in front of the fire.”
I have nowhere to go, so I’ve just got to swallow this awkward situation down and make the best of it. I shrug off my coat and hang it on the rack by the door.
“You go back to doing whatever you’re doing. You don’t need to entertain me.”
“I can spare ten minutes,” he says. “I’ve made coffee.” He nods toward a small table at the end of the sofa.
“Thanks.” I take a seat and wrap my hands around the mug, warming my palms.
“So, did you fly up here this morning?” he asks.
I groan inwardly. “Last flight last night, or I wouldn’t have made the ferry.”
“Wow.” He’s perched on the arm of the green tartan sofa and he looks about as comfortable as I feel. But he makes uncomfortable look good. His trousers hug in all the right places and the grandad t-shirt clings to him, revealing his triangular torso and thick arms. Maybe he has free weights hidden in his drawers at work and spends the entire time he’s in his office doing reps. Or something. “Like I said, I’m grateful. I should have had the…the package should have been sent straight here. There was obviously a mix-up.”
I nod as if I understand, but I don’t. I want him to tell me what’s so important. “Yeah. They must have been confused when you were leaving or something.” It’s not 1999. What can’t be emailed? “Do you have internet here?”
“It’s patchy. There’s good reception in the post office. They only charge a pound an hour.”
I pause, hoping he’s going to fill in the blanks. Like, why in the hell he didn’t get the thing emailed. But he doesn’t make the connection between what I’m saying and his mysterious package. “Honestly, I can take care of myself. You go ahead and…do whatever it was you were doing before I arrived.”
I’m not sure what I’m going to do, but I’m sure I’ll find something. “Actually, why don’t I cook us dinner. Do you have anything planned?” I jump to my feet. That’s how I can make myself useful. I can cook. We both need to eat, and getting in the kitchen is the only thing to hand that will get me out of my head—the very last place I want to be.
Thirteen
Zach
I link my hands behind my head and blow out a breath, staring at my laptop, which is set up on the dressing table in the only bedroom in the cottage. Thank God for Ellie. Having Mrs. Fletcher’s notes has unlocked something in me; I get what she wants me to do and why. It helps that she’s highlighted places in the manuscript where she thinks I can add some low-key flirting and connection.
It’s mainly the love story Mrs. Fletcher has focused on in her comments, too. Areas where she thinks there’s chemistry that could be ramped up and gaps where she thinks more of it should shine through. Now that I’m going through the pages, it’s clear there’s chemistry between these characters. It just hadn’t occurred to me that it could be…developed. Or that it should be developed. She’s right though—it works. It adds more to Benjamin’s back story. It adds a heart to his sharp mind and gruff exterior. It’s not that he’s dead inside—he’s just exacting and demanding, and for a woman to get his attention, well, she has to be extraordinary.
Mrs. Fletcher is officially a genius.
But my fingers feel like they’re going to fall off. I need a break. I stand and lean forward, careful to save the changes I’ve made so far today.
It’s just gone four, but I have another two or three hours in me if I have a break now.
I turn over the annotated manuscript, just in case Ellie needs to come in the bedroom for any reason. Mrs. Fletcher’s scribbled comments are everywhere, and they certainly don’t look medicine-related.
I head out to find a cup of coffee.
Of all the things I expected today, an overnight guest was not one of them. I’m grateful Ellie brought up the manuscript, but it would have been easier if the courier had brought it. I just don’t like the idea of anyone knowing what I’m doing here. It needs to be private. Separate.