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)
Nathaniel doesn’t live directly off the main road. We bump along a narrow lane, sandwiched by moonlit fields and rolling hills until we finally reach a short wooden fence that surrounds a stone cottage worthy of Nancy Meyers herself. What in the Hallmark Movie?
There’s a light dusting of snow covering the aged tile roof, puffs of smoke billow from a chimney, and a little wreath hangs on the pale green front door. I’ve never seen a place so quaint and inviting.
Someone is definitely home. Warm light spills out of a first-floor window that frames a small living room where a dark red reading chair is angled toward a roaring fire. Steam curls up from a cup of tea sitting on a table beside the chair. Next to it, a paperback is resting with its pages face down. Someone is having a perfect evening. Nathaniel? Or a guest?
This time, the driver doesn’t give me a chance to change my mind about my destination. He asks for payment immediately upon parking the cab then hops out and has my suitcase unloaded before I even have my feet planted on the snow. The trunk slams as I walk through a small gate toward the front door, and tires squeal as the vehicle peels away.
Right.
With nothing left to lose, I rap my fist against the door, just beneath the cheery wreath, and then I step back and try a smile on for size. Too wide seems slightly psychotic. Totally flat makes me look as annoyed and tired as I am. I settle for something in between by the time the door swings open and Nathaniel Foster fills the space on the other side.
I have to look up to see him properly. He’s taller than I expected. Different in a thousand ways, actually. Those tiny photos on book jackets aren’t to scale, and the author photo we have on file for him is old, taken years ago when he was still in his late twenties. The man in front of me is grizzly compared to the prim and proper writer I was expecting. Day-old stubble coats his jaw, his short honey-brown hair disheveled and messy. His eyes—the softest, most gentle blue color I’ve ever seen on a person—stare at me with confusion.
He takes me in then looks behind me, expecting to find a car, I’m sure. When his eyes land on me again, I feel their weight.
“Are you lost?” he asks, his voice full of concern.
It’s absolutely ridiculous, but I suddenly regret not taking better stock of how I look before I knocked on his door. Is my hair okay? I have it clipped half-up half-down with a barrette, but it’s long and unruly at times. Now, it’s likely covered with snow flurries. I’m wearing a pair of jeans that have been on my body for over twenty-four hours and my silly puffer jacket—the one I picked up because it was cute and cheap—is not nearly as warm as I need it to be. I shiver then fix my smile.
“Hi, I apologize for the late arrival. I’m Summer Collins.” I put my hand out for him to accept. “From InkWell.”
It’s like I just performed an unintentional magic trick, that’s how swiftly his expression tightens with annoyance. A snap of my fingers and he’s a hardened man.
“I had planned to come tomorrow morning,” I continue with a hesitant tone, “but I got delayed at the airport. This woman tried to take my luggage and then the zipper finally busted on my suitcase and they had to help me tape it shut—”
He shakes his head. “What are you on about?”
His accent is mostly American, but I can hear traces of something distinctly British—no doubt a side effect of him having lived here for so many years.
I lift my hand a little higher, willing him to accept it. “Sorry. Long story. But like I said…I’m Summer Collins. From InkWell.”
His brows tug together. “What are you doing on my doorstep, Summer Collins from InkWell?”
I try not to bristle at the viciousness behind his words.
“It’s a little complicated, actually. I-I’m here to work with you.” I point over my shoulder, in the general direction of where I think Crown House sits abandoned and derelict. “Only the thing is—”
He comes out of his surprised stupor in time to cut me off again. “Work with me?”
“On your manuscript.” My words come out squeaky high, like a mouse.
His clear blue eyes, the ones I thought were so gentle, now harden to ice. “You have to be kidding me. Do you people ever listen?”
BOOM.
The door slams in my face, and I stand there blinking awkwardly, trying to wrap my head around the last few hours and how it’s possible I could have such insanely bad luck.
I turn back to look at the winding lane that leads back to the main road. It’s empty now, of course. No cab in sight.