Page 87 of The Story Between Us

Instead, she clipped leashes to the dogs’ collars and took them out the back door. He needed space. He needed to write. And she needed to stop hovering like a nervous mother hen every time his routine shifted.

The backyard was quiet except for the birds. The blue camping chairs sat empty by the firepit, dew darkening the canvas. The lake glittered through the trees. Huck immediately found something fascinating in the grass, while Finn trotted to the water’s edge, nose working.

Livvie stood on the porch, arms wrapped around herself, and watched the dogs explore.

Three more days until the festival.

Her phone rang.

She pulled it from her pocket without thinking, and the name on the screen sent ice down her spine.

Richard Ames.

She should let it go to voicemail. She should call him back later, when she had news, when she had something concrete to report. She should⁠—

She answered.

“Livvie.” His voice was clipped, cold, the voice he used when he was about to fire someone. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

“I know, I’m sorry—I’ve been focused on the manuscript, and⁠—”

“Where are we?”

Huck had found a stick and was prancing around the yard with it, ridiculously pleased with himself. She walked off the porch, into the yard.

“Good. We’re good. He’s writing every day now. The word count is up to⁠—”

“I don’t want word counts. I want pages. I want a delivery date.”

“He’s close. Really close. Another week or two and⁠—”

“The board is getting nervous. This manuscript is worth a lot of money, and right now it’s sitting in the hands of a writer who hasn’t delivered anything in three years. Do you understand what that looks like?”

“I understand, but⁠—”

“Starlight’s opening up a lawsuit. It’s the only way to recoup their losses⁠—”

The words hit her like a slap. “What? No—they can’t—it’s almost done!”

A pause, and why, oh why, did she say that?

“Good. But unless you can give me something concrete, something that proves this isn’t a complete waste of time and resources, Starlight is canceling the deal and demanding the advance back.”

The advance. Five hundred thousand dollars he still owed.

“Richard, please.” She heard the desperation in her own voice and hated it. “He is making progress. Real progress. I’ve read it⁠—”

She stopped.

Too late.

“You’ve read it?” Richard’s voice changed. Sharpened. Interested now, predatory. “You’ve read the manuscript?”

“I—yes. Part of it. He let me⁠—”

A sigh. “And?”

“It’s good.” The words came out before she could stop them. “It’s really good, Richard. Better than the others, I think. The prose is stronger, the emotional beats are⁠—”