October 7, Monday

THE GENTLE patter of rain against the windowpanes provided a soothing backdrop as I paced the creaky floorboards of the kitchen. My phone felt unnaturally heavy in my hand as I waited for my editor, Bruce, to pick up.

"Josephine, darling!" His voice boomed through the speaker. "Are you still hiding out in the sticks?"

I forced a cheery tone. "Still in Alabama, yes. Did you get my new pages?"

"I did."

I held my breath. "And?"

"They're brilliant, Jo. Absolutely brilliant. Lady Amelia is delightfully feisty, and that stonemason of hers? Whew! I had to cross my legs to read those scenes."

Relief washed over me. "So you like it?"

"It's some of your best work yet. Which brings me to my next question—when can I expect the full manuscript?"

I glanced at the calendar hanging on the wall, its days marching relentlessly towards my deadline. "Well," I hedged, "I've made really good progress. I think I can have it to you by the middle of November. That work for you?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. I swallowed hard.

"The middle of November," Bruce repeated slowly. "That's cutting it close, Jo. Very close. But if you say you can do it, I believe you."

I let out a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Bruce. I won't let you down… this time."

"I'm counting on you," he said, his voice tinged with the slightest hint of warning. "Now, about this Curtis situation—"

"I'm working on it," I cut in.

"Working on it to what end?"

"To make it go away."

"That's good, but it's reached the point where we might need a statement from you refuting his claims."

"I can do that."

"And a retraction from Curtis."

"I can't see Curtis actually admitting he lied, but I'll see what I can do."

"I believe you, of course, but the publisher had to recall two books last year so everyone's being very careful.

"I understand," I said.

"Okay. Good talk. Keep those pages coming!"

I ended the call and the fake smile I'd plastered on for Bruce's benefit faded. I stared at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen, mocking me with its steady rhythm.

Mid November was less than a month away, and I was barely halfway through the manuscript.

Then there was Curtis. My mother's offer to pay him off was still on the table, but something about it felt wrong. Like admitting defeat. But could I really afford to keep fighting?

I closed my eyes, massaging my temples. When had my life become so complicated? A few months ago, my biggest worry had been whether my hero's breeches were historically accurate. Now I was juggling curses, empty graves, and a hunky stonemason who ran hot and cold.

I couldn't help but replay our conversation from yesterday in my mind. He said we shouldn't be together, but his eyes told a different story.

Use this for the book , I told myself. Use the confusion, the anticipation, the doubt—and the hope—I was nursing to at least give my characters a happy ending.

With a deep breath, I placed my fingers on the keyboard and began to type.