Cormac lingers a second after Lionel exits. “It’s just three weeks. Not forever, mate.”
But it bloody well feels like forever.
As the door clicks shut behind them, I slump back in my chair, gaze fixed on the framed photo of Amerie and the kids on my desk. Willow’s laughing in it, her curls a fluffy cloud.Amerie’s at her side with a wide smile as she cradles a newborn Emmett in her arms.
Three weeks.
I drag a hand down my face and mutter under my breath, “Feels like forever to me.”
I manage to wrangle an early escape from Cormac under the guise of tying up loose ends, though the truth is, I just need a breather. A chance to speak with Amerie about the Scotland trip before the weekend swallows us whole.
When I pull into the drive, I spot Widget and Chelsea in the back garden, crouched in the grass, laughing as they weave wildflower crowns like a pair of fairies from a woodland tale. The two of them have become damn near inseparable. It’s more than I expected, honestly, when we first hired the bespectacled brunette.
To be fair, Chelsea’s proven herself useful in several ways. She’s been reliable, even though lately I’ve caught wind of a strange sort of tension when she and Amerie share the same room. Not overt, nothing dramatic. Just a flicker in Amerie’s expression, a quiet sharpness in her tone. Like she’s measuring herself and coming up short. And I don’t think it’s even Chelsea’s fault. If anything, her presence seems to dredge up something in Amerie’s own self-perception.
I leave Widget to her garden mischief and make my way upstairs. My first stop is Emmett’s nursery. I ease the door open and peer in to find him dead asleep, limbs splayed, mouth slack. The boy’s like a bloody cat. Sleeps sixteen hours a day and misses most of my time at home.
He’ll be up soon enough, demanding food and launching a siege on my nose with a stinky nappy.
I head toward Amerie’s office, hesitating at the door. These are her sacred writing hours and her deadline’s been creeping closer every day. No one takes her writing more seriously than I do. I’ve read every single book she’s written, and I’m not even a thriller man.
But there’s something about the way Amerie writes that pulls me in. Every sentence addictive, every chapter a spell. Call it bias if you want—I won’t deny it—but the woman’s a bloody force. A gem in the literary world. And she bleeds for every page she writes.
I’ve watched her spiral over a single scene, disappear for hours, tears threatening to spill because a plot thread won’t line up. It wrecks her some days, this process. Which is why part of me was relieved when she took a few years off. But I knew—sooner or later—that creative fire inside her would start up again.
And here we are.
I rap my knuckles lightly on the door and wait.
“Hello, love,” I call out. “Guess who?”
There’s a beat of silence, then the rush of her footsteps. She wrenches the door open, eyes wide with delight and surprise.
“You’re home early?!”
“I am,” I say, offering a smile. “Come downstairs with me. I’ve got something to discuss.”
We descend the stairs together, her hand brushing lightly along the banister, mine lingering at the small of her back. There’s a hum of late afternoon stillness in the air. Quiet enough that I can hear the distant whir of the kettle left on standby and the faint sound of Widget’s giggles through the garden door.
I lead us into the sitting room, where sunlight slants across the floor in long golden stripes.
“Right,” I begin, loosening my collar as I lower myself onto the edge of the sofa. “So, Halberd’s been celebrating record-breaking quarterly gains. Big expansion plans. Not just here. They're pushing into Scotland next.”
Before Amerie can reply, the glass door slides open and Widget barrels in, dewy and breathless, leaves and twigs tangled in her curls. Chelsea trails behind her, rosy-cheeked and smiling politely, the sleeves of her cardigan pushed up to her elbows.
Widget heads straight for the juice jug on the sideboard of the fridge while Chelsea grabs two glasses and pours.
“Daddy, you’re home,” says my little girl, wandering over with her glass.
I wave a hand. “C’mere. You may as well hear it too.”
Widget wastes no time crawling onto the couch, clambering straight into my lap like she’s still three instead of five. She tucks herself into the crook of my arm, already sipping her juice.
I take a breath and get down to it. “I’ve been asked to go to Scotland on a business trip for three weeks.”
A beat of silence passes. Amerie’s face stays still, composed, but I notice the way her fingers curl around the cushion beside her. The way her gaze dips low when she speaks.
“Three weeks,” she repeats.
