The wind picks up, shaking a few leaves from the tree limbs, and I shiver. The late-autumn air has a nasty chill to it. I hate cold like this. It reminds me of being a kid in that scummy apartment without any heat, unable to sleep because I couldn't stop shaking. It reminds me of how much I hate my mother… just thinking about her sends my pulse into overdrive. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and push my shoulders back. A moment later, I slowly walk toward the cabin, struggling to drag my luggage over the uneven ground.
The porch creaks when I step onto it. Even though it's rather cold outside, sweat builds under my hair and slicks my palms as I stare at the worn door, reciting what I’ll say to him. I manage to calm myself and timidly knock.
The doorknob turns, the hinges to the door groaning when Mr. Mercer yanks it open. "Welcome, Ms. Cross. Did the driver have any trouble finding the place?"
"No," I say, stepping into the massive living room. It's much more spacious than the outside makes it appear.
"Well, that's a first. Those fucks can never get it right." He takes the luggage from my hand and sets it to the side, putting a hand up to welcome me in.
This—this is not simplicity. Everything is immaculate and orderly. The tongue-and-groove ceiling meets in a peak. The room is completely open. All of the leather furniture looks unused. The hardwood floors gleam under the midafternoon sun pouring in from the large bay window at the back of the room. Expensive-looking art hangs neatly on the walls. Above the large stone fireplace, with its roaring fire, are several proudly mounted animal heads, their lifeless eyes glaring at me. My gaze drifts around the room again, stopping on that huge window.
Edwin cocks his head, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I see you've spotted the impeccable view. That view is the exact reason I bought the place."
I nod because I don't know what else to do. He makes me nervous. I'm afraid no matter what I say, I'll sound like a bumbling idiot.
"Let's check it out first then. It's where we’ll be spending the majority of our time anyway." He nods toward the opposite side of the room. "After you."
I hesitate before starting toward the large desk positioned in front of the window, Edwin close behind me. Nearly to the desk, my foot catches on the large area rug, and I stumble, my arms flailing gracelessly as I attempt to stop myself. But I don't need to stop myself, because Edwin catches me just before I fall into the desk, his strong hands tightly gripping my hips to steady me.
The heat of embarrassment washes over me as my eyes rise to meet his. "Thank you," I whisper.
His gaze strays to my lips for the briefest moment, then he releases me. He walks to the desk, stopping in front of it, and peers out of the window.
He looks flustered. "So…" He clears his throat. "This is my pride and joy. Every best seller I've ever written has been done right here." He motions toward the window. "Looking out at that."
The view is breathtaking. There's a large lot of flat land, but just beyond that lie miles and miles of thick woods. In the distance, mountains rise against the horizon. The autumn woods are a sea of burnt oranges and deep reds against a bright blue sky. Nothing but nature as far as I can see. No distractions, just natural beauty. I can see why this inspires him.
I glance at Edwin to compliment the view, but he's still staring out of the window, almost in a daze. Following his gaze, I find it aimed at the shed at the edge of the property, just before the thick tree line begins. The construction looks fairly new. Most of it is built from wood. The roof is tin, and the metal door has a visibly large latch on the outside. It reminds me of those bomb shelters paranoid people built in the ‘50s, and I wouldn't doubt that a man like him built it for such an occasion. Writers are a strange breed. After all, we hear voices in our heads all the time, and sometimes, we even talk to them as though they’re real…
Edwin's gaze moves from the window to me, his eyes locking on mine as he runs a thick finger against the mahogany desk. "I had my assistant, Janine, set up your workstation for you. I'm sure you'll find it more than adequate."
On the desk are two computers. Side by side. This man—this New York Times best-selling author—wants me to sit elbow to elbow with him while I write? My stomach knots, and sweat pricks over my forehead. How in the hell am I supposed to write with him glaring over my shoulder?
"Thanks," I say with a fake smile to hide my apprehension. "It looks perfect."
"Good. Speaking of Janine," he says, walking out of the office and back through the living room. He looks over his shoulder. "She stays in the city. If you need anything, I left her number on your pillow. Dietary restrictions, rides to the city, what have you… that's the kind of shit she can take care of."
For some reason, when he swears like that, I find it abrasive. Maybe it's because he’s rather eloquent, or maybe it's my preconceived notion of him—the one where he was without flaw, almost godlike, because idols are rarely human. He's not at all like I imagined, and if I'm honest, I rather like that.