Jennifer Snow - Falling for Leigh

Victoria waved that away. “I meant for using that old ladder. I told you not to use that rickety thing. It could have been you who fell. Please borrow ours anytime. Or better yet, just ask Luke to do it. He’d be happy to help,” Victoria said, volunteering her husband’s services.

The two had just gotten married in their second attempt at a wedding, after Victoria had called off the first one twelve years before when she moved to New York to follow her dream of a high-powered career. Luckily, fate had brought her home the previous Christmas and the two had realized their love had never faded, despite time and distance.

She bit a thumbnail. “Do you think he’s okay? I’d hate to think one of our guests may have gotten hurt.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Rachel said, but she didn’t sound convinced.

The front door opened and a cool October breeze rustled the end of the tablecloth and paper napkins as Logan Walters entered his right hand in a plaster cast from wrist to elbow. His hard eyes zeroed in on Leigh.

She swallowed hard.

“Okay, maybe not.” Rachel stood quickly and busied herself gathering their empty cups. She headed toward the kitchen.

“You.” Scowling, he pointed a finger of his uninjured hand at Leigh.

“Me?” Leigh’s eyes widened as she untucked her leg from beneath her on the chair and stood.

“Excuse me. I hear the phone ringing.” Victoria dashed toward the front desk, leaving them alone.

Great, thanks, friends.

Logan stopped inches from her. His height towered over her five-foot-two frame by almost a foot, but Leigh met his gaze.

“Look what you did.” He held his cast close to her face.

So it was broken. No surprise there. “I said I was sorry, but no one asked you to climb that ladder.” She sucked in her bottom lip. That hadn’t come out right. She should have stopped at sorry.

He opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head. “This is what I get for helping,” he muttered under his breath.

“I’m sorry. I’ll pay your medical costs.” The money in her emergency fund was dwindling and this would make a further dent in it, but it would be better than him suing her for getting hurt on her property. That possibility hadn’t even occurred to her before now. She wondered if her homeowners’ insurance covered something like this. Her day-care insurance covered the children in case of injury in her care, but another adult?

“I don’t need your money. I have insurance,” he grumbled, raking his casted hand through his hair. The sticky medical gauze got caught and he winced, pulling it free, taking with it several strands of dark brown hair. “Man, I can’t do anything with this thing on my hand.” Turning, he took quick, long strides out of the room.

She followed him into the hallway. “Mr. Walters, wait.”

He paused on the staircase, clearly exhausted.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, crossing her fingers behind her back. Please say no.

He hesitated, and she held her breath.

Shaking his head, he continued up the stairs. “No.”

* * *

LOGAN STRUGGLED TO position his hand on the desk, straining the fingers on his right hand to reach the keys on the laptop keyboard. The edge of the cast hit the space bar and he raised his arm, flinching in pain, and backspaced to where he’d left off typing. Flipping the page of his handwritten work, he tried to focus on something other than the pain in his arm. He could do this. He hit a few keystrokes and grimaced. With each letter, his wrist spasmed and pain rippled through his arm. The extra weight of the plaster cast made the muscles in his right shoulder ache.

Tossing the papers aside, he stood. How was he supposed to meet his editor’s deadline like this? The writer’s block had been bad enough; now he was physically incapable of getting the work done on time. Picking up his cell phone, he punched in his agent’s number. The man had called him three times already today, and now there would be no more avoiding him.

“Clive Romanis,” the man answered in his strong New York accent after the second ring.

“Clive, it’s Logan.”

“Hey, man, where are you? I’ve been calling you. You were supposed to email me those sample chapters two days ago.”

Logan cringed. The promised chapters hadn’t been written yet. Another reason he’d had to leave the city. It was easier to avoid his agent when he wasn’t living two blocks from his office. “Yeah, sorry, I left the city for a while to clear my head, get this book finished.”

“What do you mean you left the city? Where did you go?” The man’s voice barely contained his disbelief. Clive wasn’t truly convinced that there was anything beyond the New York City limits.

“Just a small town in New Jersey. I wrote part of the first book out here. It’s quiet and peaceful,” he lied.

It used to be.

“New Jersey?”

“Yes.”

Clive released a deep breath. “Tell me this isn’t you running away from your commitments.”

“No, of course not.” Running away and needing to get away for a while were two different things, weren’t they?

“So you’re writing? You’re getting it done?”

“Yeah.... Look, I’ve run into a bit of a problem meeting the deadline.” His best bet would be to pack up, head back to New York and hire a typist. The thought made him uneasy. He never let anyone read his work before it was done, especially a stranger. Other than his agent and his editor, he never discussed plotlines with anyone. And with the comeback he was making, he couldn’t chance that the resolution of years of work would be leaked before the book even hit the shelves.

“Logan, we’ve pushed the deadline back twice now. If I ask for another extension from the publisher, they may postpone the release dates.”

Logan pushed the covers aside and sat on the edge of the bed. “That’s ridiculous.” So he’d had a few years 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.”