of a dry spell after the fourth book. He’d delivered book five to them on time. Book six was almost done. Sort of. If he could just figure out a conclusion.
“They’re nervous that you’re going to flake on them again. Truthfully, I’m not sure you won’t, either. I’ve pulled all the strings I can, Logan. If you don’t have the book on my desk in three weeks, they won’t release book five next month. You’re lucky your readers haven’t given up hope on you yet.”
“I broke my right hand,” Logan said with a sigh as he stood and paced the room again.
“Nice try, Logan.” His agent sounded discouraged. “Now I’ve heard it all from you. If you call me next week and say your dog ate the final draft, I’m walking.”
“Seriously, I broke it. It’s in a plaster cast and it’s useless.” Logan sat in the wooden rocking chair near the window, the painkillers they’d given him at the clinic, making him drowsy but not doing much for the pain. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the back of the chair.
“How far along are you?” Panic had crept into the older man’s voice.
Logan hesitated. If he told the truth, that he no longer had any idea where the plot was heading or how to end the entire series, the man might drop him as a client. “Far enough from the end that I can’t possibly type it all with only one good hand in three weeks.”
Clive let out a deep, slow breath. “Okay. This sucks, but we can still meet the deadline. Why don’t you check out that voice-recognition software? Some of my other clients use it and love it.”
“Uh-uh, forget it. The thoughts just don’t seem to flow that way. Besides, I doubt there’s a store nearby that would carry it, and ordering it could take a few days.”
“Well, get your butt back to the city and I’ll call a typing service. I’m sure they can have someone available within twenty-four hours.”
“I’m really not comfortable with that idea.”
“Now is not the time for your paranoia. Those people don’t even read, they just type.” Clive’s voice rose. “For that matter, Logan, I’ll come type it for you myself.”
The last thing he needed was the one person in his life who still believed in his talent to give up on him. He had to get this book finished. “No. I’ll think of something. I’ll get it done.” Logan rubbed his aching forehead with his good hand and stood.
“I need the finished manuscript on my desk by November fifth.”
“You’ll have it.” Logan disconnected the call and tossed his cell phone onto the bed. Walking to the window, he drew back the thick lace curtains for the first time. Through the fall leaves of the maple in the yard, he could see the day care lady next door, removing the children’s blankets from the clothesline.
He watched as she folded the blankets and laid them neatly in the basket.
She didn’t seem like someone who would rush to the media with the book’s ending. She probably hadn’t even heard of him.
As she put the plastic cover on the outdoor sandbox, he couldn’t help wondering about her. In the few days he’d been there, today had been the first he’d even noticed anyone next door. Years ago, he remembered the place being vacant. Now that the day care kids were gone, he didn’t see anyone else around—no husband? No kids?
His phone chimed and reaching for it, he read the text message from Clive. I need you to get this done.
Going back to the window, he scanned the yard next door, but she’d already gone back inside.
He hesitated. If he went back to the city now, Clive would be riding him for the next three weeks. The media and reviewers were already starting to hound him for interviews since the press release announcing the new book was sent out the month before. And being in his apartment without his daughter and worrying about her in California would be torture. He’d left the city for those reasons and they would be waiting for him when he went back.
He didn’t like any of his options, but asking the strange woman next door for help was probably the one he hated the least.
I’ve figured out a way, he texted back.
* * *
POURING A CUP of steaming apple cider into her favorite mug and grabbing a new romance novel from the counter, Leigh did a final scan of the kitchen. The high chairs were sanitized and set up for breakfast in the morning. Plastic plates and sippy cups sat drying in the rack on the counter, and the painting easel was set up with new finger paints and paper. Turning off the kitchen light, she carried her cider and book to the sitting area in the front of her house. The glass sunroom with the comfy rocking chair and ottoman and the bookshelf lining one wall was her favorite spot, especially in winter when she lit the fireplace. Fluffing a pillow behind her, she sat and opened her book to the bookmark. She scanned the page, rereading several pages. Ah...right...the scene where the hero and heroine finally acknowledge their feelings. Always her favorite part in a romance. Romances were supposed to make impossible situations work, and this one didn’t fail to deliver. If only real life were that way. She took a sip of her cider and snuggled deeper into her cardigan.
A few minutes later, a loud thud on the front door made her jump, spilling the hot liquid. She wiped at the wet spots on her dark leggings and oversize sweater, and set the book aside.
Another loud knock on her door made her rush to the entranceway. One of the kids’ parents? She didn’t recall finding any items left behind.
She stood on tiptoe and glanced through the peephole on the door as she unlocked the dead bolt, which seemed like overkill in Brookhollow but served to keep the children from getting out into the front yard.
Mr. Walters paced the front porch, his head down against the wind. What was he doing here? Come to yell at her some more? Serve her with a lawsuit for getting injured on her property? She opened the door with a sigh and placed a hand on her hip. “Look, I’ve already apologized—”
“I need your help,” he mumbled.
“Huh?” She hid her body behind the door, the cool air making her shiver. “With what?” she asked suspiciously.
“Typing.” He held up his broken hand.
She stared at him, trying to process his request. Finally she said, “I know I offered to help you, but the truth is...I can’t type.”
It was his turn to stare at her.
She shrugged helplessly. She’d never bothered to learn. She rarely used a computer. Had no real need for it, except to email or chat with her parents who were on one of their mission trips. All of her friends were within a stone’s throw of her house, so she didn’t need social media to reach them. Other than those weekly sessions with her parents, her computer sat untouched in the den. Surely, Logan needed someone more computer literate.
After several beats he said, “You have two operational hands. Anything you do will be better than what I’m capable of.”
“Don’t they have services that provide that kind of help for writers?” she asked, biting her lip. She’d been hoping to avoid him for the duration of his stay. She’d assumed he wouldn’t be in a rush to see her anytime soon,
