Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Inwardly, this news resonates on every level. On the outside, I try to keep it together.
“Okay.”
I won’t apologize even though I know that deal likely lost Patrick a good bit of money.
“We promised to deliver the third book to InkWell a year and a half ago,” Patrick stresses. “The fans are—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” I snap.
He thinks I don’t know how angry they are? There are hundreds of pages of Reddit forums dedicated to tearing me apart. My readers feel entitled to the third book and they do deserve it, but thinking about it doesn’t help me. The weight on my shoulders is crippling, more and more so each day. Another day without any written words is another day I’m failing myself and everyone else. No pressure, right?
“Right well, Nate, I’ll be honest with you. InkWell has tried to be understanding, but they’ve made themselves perfectly clear.” His tone hardens with his next words. “Work with Summer.”
“Or what?”
Patrick groans, sounding tired. “You already know. You pay back the advance, public apology, ridicule—the worst happens, okay? But let’s not go there. There’s no need to tarnish our relationship with InkWell permanently. They’ve been good to you over the years. Just get that manuscript in tip-top shape and everything will get resolved.”
CHAPTER 5
SUMMER
When Nathaniel returns to the cottage, groceries in hand, I’m sitting on the edge of the sofa, holding a plastic bag filled with letters. He kicks the door closed with his foot and looks over to me. Relief—or what I think could be relief—flits across his face for only a moment before he turns away. He has two or three bags loaded up, enough that I want to rush over to help him, but I know he wouldn’t accept it.
Nathaniel drops the grocery bags onto the kitchen table, and I look at the room with renewed attention. I love the kitchen, especially now in the light of day. It’s a tidy square absolutely brimming over with charm and character. On the far wall that faces the living room, a large stone fireplace is topped by two long open shelves. Beside it, there’s the oven and a window that looks out onto the snow-capped hills. The cabinets are painted a pale blue-gray color that contrasts nicely with the stone walls and the dark wooden beams on the ceiling.
There’s a lot tucked into the space, but everything has its designated spot. Copper pots hang off the wall, in a line beside the window. On the open wooden shelves above the fireplace sit mismatched pottery and plates, a lamp, and beautiful antique china that likely never gets put to use. In the center of the kitchen, a round wooden table is topped with an empty fruit bowl. That’s where Nate unloads his groceries while I watch.
Today, he’s wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that rides up to reveal a sliver of his back—toned and muscular—when he hangs his coat on the kitchen door. I look away with wide eyes, like I’ve just seen something X-rated.
Nathaniel hasn’t actually greeted me yet, and now I feel silly being the first one to say something. I hate being an unwanted houseguest. First thing this morning, I made my bed and collected my things…well tried to collect my things. I flung my clothes around my room last night hoping they’d dry, but with it being so cold, most of them were still damp by the time I woke up this morning. Even still, I stuffed everything back into my suitcase and lugged it all downstairs. Now, it sits in a heap by the door.
I stand and edge closer to the kitchen while maintaining a healthy distance. I don’t want Nathaniel thinking I’m trying to get comfortable here. He’s made himself clear: I don’t belong.
“You have a car.”
He unloads cereal and muffins from the first bag without looking up. “If you want to call it that. It barely runs.”
“You could have driven me somewhere last night,” I point out.
I didn’t think that was an option. I could have been out of here already, out of his hair and back in the company of people who don’t hate me for merely existing.
“Not during the storm.”
There’s only a few feet of snow on the ground. It doesn’t seem so bad, but who am I to argue? I don’t know what it’s like to drive out here. “Right. I forgot.”
“And like I said.” He flings the refrigerator door open so he can put away his milk and orange juice. “There’s no place for you to stay this time of year.”
“What about over in Kendal?”
He doesn’t reply.
I pinch my eyes closed for a moment and try to regain some courage. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to face him again this morning. He’s intimidating, enigmatic…handsome, unfortunately, despite the bad attitude. His caramel brown shirt matches his hair. The short strands are unruly this morning—slightly wavy—but men pay stylists good money for that exact look. I bet if I told him that, he’d roll his eyes. I can’t imagine he goes in for haircuts very often. More like he grabs clipping shears and does it himself whenever it gets too long to manage. His jaw is still covered in scruff.