Fiona glanced at the carriage, eyeing the carefully sculpted chest—
What? Staci tapped the delete button, then carefully typed in carved crest.
—adorning the side panel…
How had she thought this would be easy? Foolish, foolish girl. It seemed her dictation app had forgotten her voice and was going rogue with its selection of words it thought appropriate, adding in extra nonsensical words here and there, just to add to the confusion.
Would she ever get this done?
Six hours, and she’d only written fifteen pages. Of course, that might have had something to do with the many and varied interruptions she’d sustained, and the way basic tasks took ten times longer to complete. But if she didn’t pick up her pace she’d certainly be late, and though Bronwyn had said a late submission would be fine, Staci didn’t feel truly comfortable until she finally heard it confirmed from Max.
She glanced at the clock. Almost five. When could she reasonably expect James to come? He’d said after work. But what time did his work finish? And did dinner mean pizza ordered in or something else? Pizza would prove immeasurably easier than a restaurant that demanded the use of a knife and fork. What should she wear? She’d managed a sponge bath of sorts this morning, enough so that she didn’t smell—she hoped. She was wearing the easiest, stretchiest clothes she could find, ones that didn’t demand much lifting or tugging, but they weren’t exactly stylish. Surely that wouldn’t matter if they were just staying in?
But wait, hadn’t he said something about a tree lighting? Would today’s rain still mean that went ahead? If so, she’d need to wear far more snow-appropriate clothes. And with all the zips and fasteners such clothes demanded, should she have accepted his mother’s kind offer to come help her from before? She’d thanked Jenny but turned her down.
Her email pinged, and against her better judgement—why hadn’t she quit it before?—she opened it.
Hey Staci,
I’m so sorry to hear about your accident. Everyone here wishes you a speedy recovery. Unfortunately, Flame can’t extend your deadline. We’ve had some issues with our spring schedule which don’t allow any other delays, so I’m afraid we’ll need to see Fiona’s manuscript on the 24th as previously agreed in your contract.
Wish it was better news. Happy writing,
Max.
What? After all she had done for Flame? He could not be serious! Could he? Her chest grew tight. How could they treat her like this? She carefully stabbed out a savage reply then deleted it, character by character. No, this was what agents were for. They earned their fifteen percent by intervening in such moments. She stabbed in Bronwyn’s phone number, waited as it rang to voicemail.
“Hi, this is Bronwyn, please leave a message.”
“Bronwyn, I’ve just forwarded you the email Max sent me. Can you believe they want to keep the 24th as originally planned? Please sort this out. I’m too tired and angry to do it now – oh, and look, it’s the end of their work day. How convenient of them to send something like this just when they know I can’t respond. Please sort this out as soon—”
The phone beeped, signaling the end of message capability, and she threw it at the sofa, where it bounced off onto the carpet.
Her breath, her fingers trembled. She hoped Bronwyn could do a miracle, but Flame had proved pretty inflexible in the past. She’d heard stories of how they had leashed certain authors considered recalcitrant, not offering further contracts, even when the authors had been with them for years. She worked to get her breathing under control. Is that how they’d treat Staci if she made more of a fuss?
A knock came at the door. Oh no! Was James here already? And she, this shaking, near-blubbering mess? “It’s unlocked,” she called, then instantly hoped it wasn’t a psycho killer. Had she even locked it last night? Maybe she was the one going crazy…
The door pushed open, revealing James. His hair and shoulders were wet. “Hey, it’s only me.” He chuckled, closing the door behind him. “You look relieved. Did you think I was some weirdo coming to get you?”
“You wouldn’t be too far wrong,” she admitted. “Blame my overactive imagination.”
He moved to stand in front of the electric heater which she’d turned to the second highest level of heat. “Muskoka Shores isn’t exactly prone to weirdo killers. Or any other killers, to my knowledge.”
“Good to know.”
“In fact, the only murder I’m aware of happened years ago, when a woman poisoned her husband’s coffee.”
She felt her eyes widen. “Really?”
He nodded. “My dad was classmates with poor Ron. Ron wasn’t a fan of bitter coffee and was prone to telling his wife—and anyone who’d listen—all the things she did wrong.”
“Sounds like he was right to be concerned, then.” She gestured to the seat opposite, and he sat. “Is this why you’re a little fussy about your coffee?”
His chuckle was warm, like melted caramel. “I don’t expect Suzy to poison me if I complain, if that’s what you mean.”
“She doesn’t really strike me as the kind of person to do that.”
“Yeah. It wouldn’t exactly be—”
“—good for business,” she finished with him.
They smiled at each other, that funny sense of connection swirling between them once more. She glanced down, pleating her emerald-green shirt between her left fingers.
“So, are you an expert on killers, then?”
His face sobered as he obeyed her hand gesture to take a seat. “I’ve had experiences I wouldn’t want to see inflicted on those I care about.”
Her heart grabbed at his “those I care about” comment, her mind pouncing on his mention of experiences. She decided to go with mind. “What experiences? Here, or in Africa?”
“I’ve been in a compound where tribal men tried to set a house alight.”
She gasped. “Really?”
He nodded, settling back on the sofa as if he’d just mentioned the weather forecast. “I have friends who have had church members stoned because they refused to deny they were Christians.”
How could he be so calm about this? “I thought that was only something that happened back in Bible times. You mean people really threw rocks at them?”
“And killed them.”
Breath caught in her chest. “How awful!”
He dipped his chin.
“That must have been so difficult to deal with.”
He nodded, glanced away. In the ensuing silence she waited, sensing he still had more to say.
“I… I didn’t deal with it very well.” His eyes touched hers again. “I was told by the mission board I needed to come home.”
“Because?” she asked quietly.
“I started having nightmares, and the lack of sleep affected my decisions. For a doctor I got kinda sick.”
Her heart grew soft in sympathy. The dear man. The dear, sweet, caring man. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Does… does the hospital and clinic know what happened?”
“Dr. Hollis and others who need to know do.” He shot her a quick look. “Are you worried about my care of you?”
She gazed at him steadily, ignoring the edge to his voice. “I think your level of care of me is just fine.”
After a long moment, his gaze disentangled from hers, and he drew in a shaky breath, rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
“I’m glad you have. Thank you for trusting me.”
“I hope I can.” He bit his lip, brow pleating.
“Oh, you can.” She was a safety deposit box full of secrets, most of which were hers because she’d never been brave enough to share. But after his confession, she suspected this man, this courageous man, might actually understand. “I… I think you’ve been incredibly courageous working over there. I think you’re very kind, and very generous.” And very wonderful, she added silently.
“You don’t think I was weak, reacting like that to such things?”
Her throat grew tight, forcing her to swallow. “I think you responded as any compassionate individual might, when faced with violence and cruelty. And it’s not something to be ashamed of, not at all.”
His shoulders slumped, as if in relief. “People can be ignorant and cruel. The world isn’t always a pretty place.”
Which was why she wanted to add something of beauty with her novels of escape—with a guaranteed happily ever after.
“Thank you for telling me. I… I’m happy to listen anytime you want to talk.”
“You mean that?”
“Of course.”
His expression softened. “Thanks. I don’t want to bore you. I’m afraid I’m prone to saddling my high horse at times.”
“Aren’t we all?”
He offered another rueful-tipped smile, and she felt the tension ease a mite.
Her phone buzzed, and she shifted forward, but he beat her to pick it up. “Yours, I believe?”
“Thanks.” No way was she going to tell him why it was on the floor. She glanced at the caller ID. The tension renewed. “I’m going to have to take this. It’s my agent.”
“No problem.”
He moved to the kitchen to give her a modicum of privacy and she pressed the green button to answer the call. “Bronwyn?”
“Oh, Staci. I’m so glad I got hold of you! I’ve just got off the phone with Max and I’m terribly sorry, but he refuses to budge. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ve heard whispers that there are going to be some changes at Flame, so maybe that’s got something to do with it.”
Really? What kind of whispers? No, she needed to stay focused. “But that isn’t fair. I don’t understand. How can they treat me like this when I’ve only ever met their deadlines, and never been late once? How on earth am I ever going to get this written in time?”
She glanced up to see James looking at her, a frown in his eyes. She sucked in a breath, looked away. God, help me stay calm.
“Look, I know this seems unfair. I will call tomorrow and speak to Bryan and demand an explanation. He’s a managing editor who owes me more than one favor. In the meantime, I suggest you do your utmost to get something ready even if it’s not your most polished work. Better to hand something in than nothing.”
It was clear that Bronwyn didn’t like her chances. “I appreciate that,” Staci managed. “I don’t mean to sound hysterical. But these last few days have been pretty challenging, and this was the icing on the cake.”
“I’ll do my best,” Bronwyn reiterated, then ended the call.
Staci sighed, the breath feeling like it leached from her toes as she placed the phone on the coffee table.
“Something’s wrong?” James murmured.
“My book is due soon and my publishers are not willing to negotiate a delayed submission. You’d think a busted wrist would be a sufficient excuse, but no.”
His lips pressed together, and she remembered their previous discussion, so she pasted on a smile.
“First world problems, hey?”
“You don’t have to have someone trying to kill you to need help, Staci.”
She glanced away. How could he talk like that when all she dealt with was fictional romance, a genre long decried as fluffy and lacking any real depth? She so needed to change the subject. Before she could, he spoke again.
“So, tell me about your day.”
Staci gestured to the phone. “I think you now probably have a fairly good idea.”
“How far through your book are you?”
“About three quarters. I’ve never been this close to the deadline before, and obviously did not count on all the drama I’ve had since being here.”
“Drama is never convenient.”
“No. It can be useful though.”
“For story ideas?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted. “Although it’s not always easy for contemporary situations to translate into historical contexts. I find it useful in other ways, though.”
He looked interested, so she explained, “I try to journal my emotions. I find that helps in channeling my feelings so they live on the page and not in my heart.”
There was a beat or two of quiet, then he said, “I journal too.”
That made six things they now had in common. Or was it seven?
“I’ve never thought about it in regard to being a cathartic experience though.”
“You should try it sometime, Doctor.” Her heart smiled at his expression. “So, how was your day?”
“Good. Well, good enough, all things considered. The only thing of interest to report is that I managed to see Rose during my lunch break. She’s doing well.”
“She sounded well when I spoke to her earlier.”
“I hope it won’t be long until we can see her released.”
“I’m sure she’s looking forward to that.”
“And you? You didn’t mention before how you are feeling physically.”
“I’m okay.”
He studied her with another of those deep looks that made her wonder what he really saw. A look that made her nervous, made her want to speak and pierce this bubble of supposition her imagination was only too eager to run wild with. “So, yesterday someone mentioned something about dinner.”
“Someone did, didn’t he? What do you feel like eating?”
“Anything I don’t have to cook myself.”
“My sentiments exactly.” He rubbed a hand through his hair. “But judging from your earlier phone call, I can’t imagine you want to spend too long away from your computer.”
“You imagine correctly.”
“Would you rather wait until it’s done? I don’t want to interrupt you, especially now I know you’ve got deadlines.”
She fought the insecurity his words evoked. His look of concern suggested it wasn’t an excuse to get out of things. Instead, he was being thoughtful, considerate. Something she wasn’t used to. “My deadline is not until Christmas Eve, and I don’t think I can afford to wait to eat until then.”
His smile poked out as she’d hoped.
“You need to eat, so do I. I’m very happy to do something, provided it doesn’t take too long.” She winced. “Sorry, that makes me sound so ungracious, doesn’t it?”
“No. Just a woman who speaks honestly and tries to honor her commitments. I like that.”
The approbation in his eyes begged her to duck her head, but she studied him instead, enjoying the unfamiliar feeling that a man of character approved of her. Even if he might not for much longer, once he knew the sorts of books she’d written in the past. Something she’d best confess to, especially if this dance around flirtation had any hopes of blossoming into something real. But did she really want real? What future could they have? He’d be heading back to Africa one day, wouldn’t he?
“So, given your wrist injury, I suppose it needs to be easy to eat one handed, and quick.” His lips turned wry. “I’d had hopes of showing you the Christmas tree lighting, but it doesn’t seem like that’s on the menu.”
“I wish I could.” She gestured to her leg. “I’ve managed to hobble around okay, so if there was a way to see it that’d still be good. I just don’t want you to need a chiropractor after all your carrying.”
“I don’t mind,” he said, his gaze and tone firm and deep.
Again that spark flared between them. She should probably turn down the gas heater.
She swallowed. “Would you think it terribly rude of me if I suggested we order in pizza?”
“Not rude at all.” Relief eased over his features. “I was thinking the same.”
“Then let’s order delivery. What time is the tree lighting?”
“Oh, didn’t I mention it? Today’s rain means it’s been postponed until tomorrow.” His lips lifted. “So if you’re not busy tomorrow night…?”
She held his gaze. “I’m not busy tomorrow night.”
He grinned. “Then maybe we’ll need to do something like this again.”
She echoed his smile. “Maybe.”
Gladness swelled his heart, threatening to bust out on his face. How nice to have something to look forward to, to have someone to look forward to, at the end of a tiring day. Today had been wearying, with meetings, patients, and the incessant ice-tinged rain. But all that drained away as he’d entered Rose’s house, and had seen Staci’s relieved face, and somehow their conversation had quickly grown serious and he’d finally shared about his past.
He’d sensed her deep compassion, something her quick wits and easy repartee had cloaked. It had seemed like he’d handed her a piece of his heart and she’d held it gently, like a treasure, her words wiping off some of the pain and grime as if she saw something more.
He liked her. He trusted her. Could he trust her for the future?
“So, pizza.” She eyed him. “Have you got a preference?”
They spent a few minutes discussing pizza options.
“Let me guess. You’re a man who likes olives and anchovies.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You seem like the kind of guy who is up for anything.”
“I do, do I?”
“Let’s just say anyone who chooses to live in Africa isn’t exactly going for tame.”
He chuckled. “I don’t know if it equates to a liking for olives and anchovies but I’ll take it. I’m glad you don’t think I’m boring, anyway.”
“Boring? Hardly.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “My turn now. I’d say you’re a woman who likes cheese and chicken.”
“How did you know?”
“Years of observation.”
“You can tell a person’s pizza preference from what they look like?”
“Sometimes.” He smirked.
He caught the way she seemed torn between a smile and offense. “So what about me screams cheese and chicken?”
“Doesn’t exactly scream, but I can tell you like the finer things.”
She frowned. “Are you calling me prissy?”
“Not at all. But,” he nodded to her Kate Spade bag, “it’s not exactly Target.”
“I tend to be more Target than designer,” she confessed. “I just like to have nice things to remind me of the goals I’ve achieved.”
He nodded, they ordered, and settled down to wait.
“So, I bet you don’t get the chance for much pizza in Tanzania.”
“Not too often. I have to make it from scratch.”
“Dough included?”
“Yeah. I don’t suppose it would ever meet any true Italian standard, or even any mediocre standard, but it works.”
“One of the best things about Chicago is its deep-dish pizza. I’d miss that if I lived somewhere else.”
That led to a discussion of their favourite foods, and places they had lived, or visited, which led to laughter. “You can’t say that about London. They make the best pies there.”
“Have you been?”
“Well, no,” she admitted. “I’ve just done a lot of research.”
“Do you travel much for your research?”
“Not as much as I’d like.” She bit her lip. “I mostly travel via the great world wide web.”
“You should try and get out there.” He proceeded to tell her about some of London’s more interesting haunts, places he’d visited after college. Her wistful expression made him wonder what she wasn’t saying and be thankful when the doorbell chimed and he could be distracted with paying for the pizza.
He closed the door, and the next minute was taken with finding plates, napkins, and glasses of water.
He helped Staci hobble to the dining table where they sat, then he offered to say grace, and they ate. Great gobs of cheesy goodness trailed between the pizza slice and her lips, her lips which he was growing increasingly interested in knowing more about.
James blinked, ducked his head, and concentrated on ensuring every strand of stringy cheese made it inside. “This is good, huh?”
She swallowed, sipped her water. “Not bad for a small town.”
“Pizza snob.”
“Coffee snob.”
“Yep,” they said at the same time, then laughed.
This was so not how he had thought about their date. But its very casualness, its very ordinariness, made him feel comfortable and at ease.
He eyed her curiously. “So, are you okay now? You seemed a little pensive before.”
“Did you say pensive?”
“I said pensive,” he confirmed, watching the light in her face fade at the word.
She glanced away, the moment of ease trailing away like a piece of thinning mozzarella.
“I know I shouldn’t ask, and I’m not trying to pry, honest, but if ever you want to talk, well, I’m here.”
“Thanks,” she whispered. “You’re very sweet.”
Sweet? Not what he’d been shooting for, but then this date had become so much more than what he’d expected. And if it helped them know each other better, then maybe this Christmas season would be better than he had thought.