Chapter 4
4
CLARA
My body is freezing cold. The kind that creeps into your bones, that pulls you out of a deep sleep and forces you to pay attention to the way your toes are curling up for warmth. I tug the blanket tighter around myself, but that does nothing to help. Every breath I take is visible in the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains, as if I’d forgotten the actual window open instead of the blackout drapes. I blink into the darkness, and it takes a minute before I realize what is wrong.
My room feels like a freezer.
I lie there for a second, groggy and disoriented, trying to figure out if I’m still dreaming. But when I exhale again and see another puff of my breath in the air, I know I’m not. I shiver as I sit up, the cold air biting at my skin like I’m outside in the snow rather than wrapped up in the most comfortable bed I’ve slept in in years. My fingers fumble for my phone on the nightstand, and the clock reads 2:14 AM.
Wonderful.
The blanket offers no relief from the biting chill, so I throw on my cardigan and grab my wool socks from the floor, yanking them on with cold, clumsy hands. The villa is silent except for the distant hum of a fan that can’t possibly be the heating system since I’m freezing cold. My breath fogs up in front of me again as I stand up, my body protesting the cold.
What the hell happened to the heat? This has to be some kind of joke… First the mishap with the reservation, and now this… Could this possibly be why the room was so cheap? I had thousands of points saved up for an extended vacation from my many years of traveling everywhere, and yes, I admit maybe this was too good to be true… and now it’s starting to feel that way.
I step out of the room and into the hallway, moving as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake… him. The idea of bumping into Tom, who is sharing my dream villa, in the middle of the night when I’m already on edge from the cold doesn’t sit well with me. I tiptoe down the stairs, shivering the whole way, and as I get closer to the living room, I hear the soft crackle of the fireplace.
Of course. Jesus, this might be a nightmare. If it weren’t for the fact that my body is so cold, I would pinch myself to actually prove that I’m awake.
There he is. Sprawled out on the couch like it’s his personal throne, one arm draped lazily over his eyes, the other hanging off the edge, his fingers lightly brushing the floor. He’s shirtless. Again. I’m beginning to think he has an aversion to clothes, this man. Meanwhile, I’m freezing my butt off because he’s turned the villa into a freaking igloo.
I stand there, teeth chattering, staring at him. He’s got the fire blazing, but it’s doing nothing to heat the rest of the place. The thermostat, which is faintly glowing on the wall, reads a solid sixty-four degrees. I don’t understand Fahrenheit, but even I know that this has to be way too low. I feel my jaw tighten, and I resist the urge to stomp across the room and shove him off the couch. How can anyone be this inconsiderate? Is he trying to freeze me out?
I walk over to the wall and twist the dial to what I think is a reasonable temperature. The system clicks on immediately, sending a warm blast of air through the vent directly above me. I let out a slow breath, feeling a bit of relief as the warmth starts to circulate. But just as I’m about to head back upstairs, my new roommate stirs on the couch, groaning slightly. His arm drops from his eyes, and for a moment, he just stares up at the ceiling.
I freeze.
“What are you doing?” His voice is thick with sleep, rough around the edges in a way that makes me wish I had left ten seconds earlier. His eyes are still adjusting to the dim light, but there’s a sharpness there now, like he’s waking up to a problem he hasn’t registered yet.
I cross my arms, the warmth of the heating system not doing enough to thaw my irritation. “What am I doing?” I snap, trying to keep my voice low but firm. “What are you doing, turning this place into a walk-in freezer? It’s freezing upstairs.”
His brow furrows, and he sits up slowly, rubbing his face with one hand. “I like it cold when I sleep,” he mutters, as if that explains everything. “Helps me relax.”
I roll my eyes, my arms still tight across my chest. “Then turn off the damn fireplace!”
He blinks at me, as if this entire conversation is just an inconvenience to him. His gaze flicks to the thermostat, where the temperature is gradually climbing. “Eighty degrees? Are you insane?” he spits out, although his voice is still low, still sleepy, but there’s an undercurrent of something--sarcasm, maybe? Or indifference. Or maybe just the same annoyance he’s had all day .
“I don’t know! I don’t understand Fahrenheit! I thought it was only Americans that used that.” I huff, my frustration slowly starting to boil over. This is not the conversation I should be having and I don’t owe him any explanations.
“Well,” he lazed, sleepy and cozy. “I don’t understand Celsius, because I’m American. And I didn’t think it would affect you so much.”
“Of course it affects me,” I reply, my patience unraveling. “I’m not some Yeti monster. I actually like sleeping at a temperature where my blood doesn’t freeze.”
He watches me for a second, his eyes narrowing slightly. And then, to my complete and utter disbelief, a slow smile spreads across his face. “Of course you’ll be cold if you’re parading around the room half naked. Are you even wearing any clothes under that sweater?”
I stare at him, my mouth falling open. “Ugh! What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, standing slowly and walking in my direction. His gaze falls to my legs again, my toes curling inside my fuzzy socks at his perusal. I feel my blood start to boil, the cold long forgotten in the face of my rising frustration.
“What did you just call me?” My voice is sharp now, cutting through the quiet of the room.
He raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained, and walks past me to the dial, turning it down to somewhere in the low seventies. “I’ll keep the room warm for you, sweetheart, don’t worry.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or scream. The nerve of this man. “Don’t call me that,” I say through gritted teeth. “And don’t act like you’re doing me some grand favor. I shouldn’t have to ask you to keep the place at a livable temperature.”
He shrugs, completely unfazed by my anger. “Calm down. You don’t have to get so worked up about it. Just tell me next time.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “Tell you next time? I shouldn’t have to?—”
“Hey,” he interrupts, his voice softening just a fraction. He’s walking back to the couch now, his back on full display and his muscles so chiseled, even in the dim lighting. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
I blink, caught off guard by the dismissal in his tone. I cross my arms tighter, trying to hold on to my frustration, but the fight is draining out of me.
“Fine,” I mutter, not really sure what else to say. The warmth in the room is starting to settle over me, and I suddenly feel exhausted. I glance back at him, shirtless on the couch, his hair a mess and his expression oddly serious. “That can’t happen again.”
I turn to leave, but as I reach the bottom of the stairs, I glance back. He’s already lying down again, one arm thrown over his eyes, his body half lit by the glow of the fire. For some reason, I can’t help but wonder what’s behind that stoic exterior. What’s hiding behind the annoyance and the careless attitude. There’s more to him than just the irritation he causes me—something deeper, something I can’t put my finger on.
“Goodnight,” I say quietly, not really expecting a response.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t lift his arm from his face, but his voice drifts toward me, low and rough and strangely gentle. Maybe he’s exhausted, too. “Goodnight.”