A few trips later, there is a pile of exercise equipment and a box with my office supplies sitting on the floor in the middle of the living area.
“Where do you want this stuff?” he asks, placing the last box on the floor.
“Just leave it there. I’ll work it out later. Grab yourself a beer, and we can go sit out on the back deck.” Already, I’m finding I want to be out on the small wooden deck overlooking the ocean.
Aaron wanders into the kitchen. “Do you want anything?”
“Just a bottle of water for me.” Alcohol and the pain meds I still need to take for the next week would not mix well.
When we’re both settled into a pair of canvas-backed deck chairs with cold drinks in our hands, I lean forward, tapping my bottle to his.
“Thanks for everything you’ve done to spring me from the poking and prodding of the doctors and nurses.”
If it wasn’t for Aaron, I would have been stuck in the rehabilitation center for at least another couple of weeks. And I couldn’t have handled that for one more day.
He shrugs before clearing his throat and saying, “Just remember to arrange for the local physio visits. You’ve been making great progress. It’s a miracle you can even walk.”
I’m tempted to call him out on his mothering, but I know it all comes from a good place. And I really am grateful to my friend.
“What’s a miracle is that I can walk at all with all this metal inside me,” I joke. “I’m going to light up like a Christmas tree next time I go through a body scanner at the airport.”
We stay in this spot for the next hour, comfortable to just sit together, only occasionally talking. That’s how it is when you’ve been best friends forever. There isn’t a need to say much.
But then, as the late afternoon sun drops lower in the sky, Aaron stands with a sigh. “I guess I better leave you to it.” He puts his empty bottle on the table before placing his hand on my shoulder, saying, “Are you sure you want me to email the publishers with your address? You don’t want to wait a couple more weeks?”
I shake my head. “I’ve delayed long enough.”
He nods. “I’m off then don’t get up. But remember, if you need anything during the week, just text me. Otherwise, I’ll see you next weekend.”
I go to tell him again that he doesn’t have to come down next weekend to check up on me, but we’ve had the conversation enough times already that I know he insists. Instead, I just say thanks.
I listen for the bang of the front door as he sees himself out, and when it comes, the solitude surrounds me like a warm blanket. For the first time since the accident, I’m truly alone. There is no one around to treat me like I can’t do anything for myself, even if it’s not far from the truth.
Alone is exactly what I wanted.
Chapter six
Katie
Ican’tbelieveI’mdoing this.
Four and a half hours is how long it’s taken for me to drive to Cornwall at the whim of a cantankerous fool who has an exaggerated opinion of his own importance to the publishing world. And it’s all because coming to London to sign his damn contractdidn’t fit into his schedule.
It doesn’t make sense. I read his first gritty, raw bestselling book about his time in Iraq with the Royal Marines. He seemed like a decent guy, but my experience with the man via email is a long way from decent. His never-ending demands are all about what he wants, and too bad if those inconvenience everyone else. I was tempted to just call Mr. A.V. Campbell’s bluff and make my own demands. Come to London to sign the contract or we cancel the deal.
Hunter didn’t like that idea. No surprise. He didn’t want to risk the author deciding to sign with a more established UK-based publishing house. I get that signing this number one best-selling author ahead of his next release is important but bending to meet some of his more ridiculous demands is crazy.
Nevertheless, here I am, jumping through hoops to personally deliver the paperwork to Mr. A. V. Campbell at his home in Cornwall. Yes, that was one of his demands. He needed me, and only me, to hand deliver his contract to him. What arrogance. Just because I’m the person representing Carlson Publishing and the signatory on his contract doesn’t mean I need to physically be there with him when he signs it. Like I don’t have anything better to do than run around being his personal courier.
I release a breath full of the frustration I’m feeling. It doesn’t help to relieve the knot of tension that has been sitting in my stomach for days, keeping me awake at night. The negotiations on this particular contract have dragged on for a lot longer than they should have. First, Laura, my personal assistant, had to track down the whereabouts of Mr. Campbell, who seemed to drop off the face of the earth a couple of months back. Now here I am trying to find the address his lawyer emailed us last week. A remote little Cornish village where, apparently, the author is on a writing sabbatical. I just want this done, and I guess if I’m the only person who can handle this according to Mr. Campbell, then I’ll do it.
I’ve given myself three days to get the contract signed. Not one day more. I promised Hunter I would have the deal done by the end of the month, and I’m damn well going to. I will be professional and accommodating to any reasonable requests. It’s time this farce was over for the sake of my sanity and my team’s.
I take another deep breath in and release it slowly this time, easing the tightness in my shoulders. I’ve been sitting in the car for too long. I’m sure my mood will improve when I can get out and stretch.
Where the hell is this village? I’m sure I was supposed to reach it ten minutes ago. I know, talking to myself in the car doesn’t give me the answers I need, but it does help take the edge off my frustration. After all, I don’t want to show up on his doorstep appearing angry, because that’s bound to trigger some new, equally ridiculous demands.
I pull into a lay-by to check my Google Maps again. Okay, it looks like it’s only about another mile to the village where I’ve made a reservation at the one and only bed-and-breakfast. That’s how small this place is. There isn’t even a hotel. According to Laura, there’s just a small village shop, and of course, a pub. I love the fact that even the tiniest English villages have at least one pub. A place to grab a drink and usually a great meal.
