Page 4 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
I laugh, too, and trace my fingers along his collarbone. “Never. But I do have to get up. You go back to sleep, though.”
As I slide over him and roll toward the edge of the bed, he catches my arm.
“I love you, Emily.”
His voice is tinged with sleep and passion, and it sends a frisson of tenderness through me.
“I love you, too, baby. I’m gonna hit the shower. Go back to sleep.”
He doesn’t.
When I step out of the shower, legs red from the as-hot-as-I-can-stand water, he’s leaning against the vanity with my towel in one hand and a mug of steaming coffee in the other. He hands me the thick, oversized towel first.
“Thanks.”
After I dry off and wrap a smaller towel around my wet hair, he presses the mug into my eager hands. As the warmth spreads from the ceramic to my palms, I smile down at the melting heart he’s created from milk foam and cinnamon. Tristan took up latte art a few years ago, during the lockdown, and even now, every so often, a cat, a heart, or a bird taking flight greets me with my morning caffeine delivery. I take a sip and feel an inexplicable pang when the heart breaks, dissolving into the hot drink.
“I have an idea,” he tells me while he watches me comb out my hair.
I meet his eyes in the partially fogged-up mirror. “What kind of idea?”
“This deadline’s really starting to stress you out,” he begins.
I open my mouth to protest. I’m preparing to lie and insist it’s fine. Manageable. But he shakes his head and keeps talking.
“You can pretend it’s not, but I can see it, Em. You’re barely eating. You haven’t been running. You put the milk away in the pantry yesterday. You’re a million miles away all the time.”
He’s not wrong—although the milk in the pantry is news to me. I’ve been living in my story world, trying to immerse myself to make the words come faster. It isn’t working.
I frown. “I guess I am distracted.”
“So I was thinking. Why don’t you actually go a million miles away?” He laughs. “Well, five hundred.”
“What?”
He pulls his phone from the pocket of his pajama pants and reads, “Get away from it all in a quiet cabin at the end of the world. Wooded mountain retreat perfect for escaping the grind and returning to nature. No cable, no cell phone coverage, no distractions. Quaint, well-kept cottage-style cabin with views. On-site owner available if needed. Otherwise, you’ll commune with nature and recharge in solitude. Message Alex for details.” Tristan’s eyes meet mine. “There’s a photo gallery if you want to check it out. But I’m thinking this place is perfect. I’ll bet you can whip out the rest of a draft in one week.”
He wouldn’t make that bet if he knew how little I’ve actually written. But the idea is tantalizing. No Internet. No barrage of notifications. Just me, the mountains, and Maid Maleen. The deadline for my retelling of the German fairytale looms, and I’m blocked. Completely and utterly blocked. This has never happened before. And the timing sucks.
Last year, Jillian James reached out to me through our mutual agent. Sam was practically vibrating with excitement when he told me about the opportunity. “She’s putting together something like an anthology, but not exactly. Twelve writers, each of you choose a fairytale to retell. Any one you want. She’ll pay for themed covers, editing, and printing costs. The group will release one book each month, and they’ll all draft off each other. You’ll cross-promote and share your audiences.”
I was interested but cautious. “But, there’s no publisher? No advance?”
Sam deflated and stared down into his bourbon. “No. It’s a self-published thing. Royalty share, but no advance. Look, Emily, Jillian is the real deal. She’s made the bestseller list more than a dozen times. She has a head for business, too. Frankly, she doesn’t need me. She can negotiate her own deals almost as well as I can. Don’t tell her that.” He pointed at me and winked.
I laughed. “I won’t. I know Jillian is a force to be reckoned with. It’s not that. It’s …”
He sighed. “You’re worried about the visibility.”
I nodded because my throat was too tight to speak. It’s been a longstanding issue between us. I turn down good offers if they include personal appearances, refuse to do signings or interviews, and generally aspire to be a cipher. I claim I want my words on the page to speak for me. Sam thinks it’s some artsy affectation. But it’s simpler than any of that: I’m terrified that if I make it big, Cassie’s killer will come for me. I can hardly tell Sam that, though. And it is a plum opportunity.
So, here I am, eight months later, with a manuscript due to Jillian’s editor in two-and-a-half weeks, and I’m quickly approaching the point where I’m not going to make the deadline. In addition to screwing myself over, I’ll be letting down eleven other authors, which only makes the acid that’s taken up residence in my gut churn more.
Tristan’s idea could work. With no distractions, I might be able to write this book. I want to write it. I know my story idea is fantastic. Sam and Tristan agree. I owe it to myself and to Jillian’s group of authors to at least try to execute it.
I nod to Tristan in the mirror. “Send me the listing when you get a chance. I’ll think about it.”
He wraps his arm around me from behind and presses his lips to my ear.
