Chapter 5
5
CLARA
I wake up to soft light filtering through the sheer curtains. I must have forgotten to close the heavy blackout drapes again last night with all the confusion and the chaos and the freezer situation we had going on. The villa is silent, and the only sound I can hear coming from outside is a gentle thud in the distance, the same one I heard when I got off the shuttle bus that brought me from the airport.
I toss the covers off and swing my feet onto the hardwood floor, shivering a little as the cold bites at my toes. I must have taken off my cozy socks while I was asleep, because they lay discarded by the closet door. I put them on and shuffle to the bathroom, splashing some water on my face to shake off the remnants of sleep. I tossed and turned for a few hours after the heating fiasco until finally sleep caught up to me, and I’m tired, but there’s a spark of energy because it’s my first full day of vacation. A vacation I have been waiting for for so long, sometimes it feels a little surreal that I’m here.
Today, I’m going to stick to my plan. I’ll have my breakfast alone, enjoy my morning, and pretend I’m not sharing this villa con un idiota .
The kitchen is quiet when I walk in, and I let out a breath of relief.
No Tom in sight. I can do this.
I’m halfway to the coffee maker when I hear the familiar sound of a chair scraping against the floor and I freeze. There he is, sitting at the dining room table, his back to me, hunched over a newspaper like a disgruntled old man. I blink, my earlier confidence evaporating as I realize he’s already here, breaking our agreement. I really, really want to be by myself, carajo .
He glances up, his eyes meeting mine for a split second before he goes back to whatever he’s doing with that newspaper. He’s dressed in a different t-shirt and sweatpants than last night, his hair still damp from yet another shower. When did he even…? I shouldn’t be thinking about this man taking a shower at all. I shouldn’t care when he took a shower !
The sight of him is disarming—unexpectedly casual and almost…domestic. But there’s nothing casual about the tension that fills the room, thick and uncomfortable.
“Morning,” he says under his breath, his voice gruff, like he’s trying so hard to keep it light but failing miserably.
“Good morning,” I reply, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. I make a beeline for the coffee machine, trying to ignore the way my heart is hammering in my chest. This is fine. We’re just two adults sharing a kitchen. No big deal.
I fumble with the buttons, trying to start the machine, but my hands feel clumsy, and I can’t seem to get the water tank to fit right. I can feel his eyes on me, and the heat creeps up my neck.
“Is there a problem?” he asks, not unkindly, but still managing to sound like he’s judging me.
“Nope, just…just fine,” I mutter, finally getting the machine to cooperate. I can hear the faint hiss as the coffee starts brewing, and I grab a mug, clutching it like it’s a lifeline.
I open the refrigerator door and, to my surprise, it’s fully stocked. Three different kinds of milk, cold cuts, condiments. A few options of fruits and vegetables and eggs. There’s a loaf of bread sitting on the counter by the toaster, the bag still closed.
“Um,” I say out loud, trying to find the words in my brain. But when I turn around, the man is gone and the villa is silent once again.
I spend the day wandering through town, taking my time with every little shop and café. The snow is powdery and perfect, blanketing everything in a crisp bright white, and I feel a strange kind of giddiness watching kids build snowmen and couples skate on the frozen rink in the center of the mountain village. I’ve never felt anything like this—this crisp cold, this brightness. It’s invigorating, and for a few hours, I manage to forget about the mess back at the villa and back home.
By the time I return, I’m exhausted and cold, in desperate need of a shower to warm me up, and the thought of seeing Tom again has my nerves frayed. The sun is setting, casting a golden light over the snowy landscape, and when I step inside, I can already feel the shift in the air. He is sprawled on the sofa, flipping through the TV channels with the remote. One of his legs is stretched long on the cushions, the other is bent, foot planted on the floor.
He glances up as I close the door, and I can see the weariness in his eyes.
“Rough day?” I ask, kicking off my boots near the door. They land with a wet thud, leaving a trail of slushy snow on the floor. I shrug out of my coat, suddenly feeling too warm, even with the chill that’s clung to me since I left the café.
My roommate sets the remote down, rubbing his shoulder absently like it aches. “You could say that.” His voice is lower than usual, tired, like he’s been carrying more than just ski gear on his shoulders. And it’s there again, that faraway look, that says everything but nothing at the same time. I shouldn’t want to decipher it.
I hesitate, torn between wanting to retreat to the shower and this unexpected urge to linger just a little longer, to know more. “What happened?” I end up blurting, and a blush starts creeping up my neck and into my cheeks. I’ve never been more grateful for dim lighting in my life.
He sighs, leaning back against the sofa. “Nothing.” He runs a hand through his hair, and for the first time, I notice the faint traces of exhaustion etched in his features, lines that weren’t visible in the sharpness and heat of our previous encounters.
I look at him, studying his face for a second longer than I intend.
“Binding broke on my left ski. Halfway down a slope. Had to hike back up in the snow with one good ski and a whole lot of bad luck.”
“I did not understand a single word of what you just said but it sounds… awful?” I move closer, still ke eping a polite distance but suddenly aware of how small the villa feels with the two of us in it. “I don’t ski, but even I know that sounds miserable.”
He chuckles, a sound so brief it’s almost easy to miss. “Yeah, it wasn’t my finest moment. This trip has been one thing after the other, I swear.” His face softens for just a second, and I catch a glimpse of something more vulnerable beneath the layers of irritation and distance. It’s unexpected, this little crack in his armor.
“Yeah, but maybe look at the bright side,” I say, straightening and walking towards the stairs. “It’s led you to me.”
There’s a flicker of a smile, not warm but not harsh either. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know why I’m doing it. I shouldn’t be tempting fate, but I can’t help but smile back. I shift, suddenly feeling out of place in my own villa. Or at least, what should be mine. “That’s why you’re such an asshole, then?” I tease lightly, trying to pull him back from wherever his mind has wandered.
He glances at me, and for the first time, his smile reaches his eyes, if only just. “I’m not that big of an asshole. I just happen to not like blonde, blue-eyed intruders in my own hotel room.”
I let out an incredulous laugh, the sound escaping before I can stop it. “Oh, is that what we’re calling it now? Because I distinctly remember being here first. And I probably can get you some receipts.”
He snorts and his gaze finds my lips. It catches me off guard, and I feel my cheeks heat. Is he…flirting? No, probably not. But still, there’s something different here, something warmer that throws me off balance. I latch on to it, curious despite myself. “Why didn’t you just… I don’t know, yell at me or something? You seemed more annoyed than surprised.”
He shrugs, leaning back and crossing his arms. “I’ve been living out of hotels and rental places for months. Mistakes happen. I figured you’d freak out and leave. But you didn’t. You stayed. That was… unexpected.”
The admission lands heavier than I anticipate, and I find myself holding his gaze a second too long before glancing away and looking into the fireplace. Unexpected. Yeah, he has no idea.
“Well, I don’t scare easily.” I meet his gaze, and for the first time, it feels like we’re on even ground. “And I was promised a solo adventure. Not an adventure with the prickliest man in town.”
His smile lingers, softer now, and I see a flicker of understanding there, an unspoken acknowledgement of our shared annoyances. It’s not friendship, not by a long shot, but it’s something.
“I’m not usually like this,” he says, almost to himself. “Just… been a long year. ”
“It’s only February,” I say with a laugh. “But I get it.” I sink into the armchair opposite him, feeling the weight of my own few years settle on my shoulders. “I’m not usually this snippy either. But this year’s been… well, weird.”
Tom raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Weird how?”
I hesitate, but his question doesn’t feel invasive, just curious. Like a little deeper small talk you would have with your local barista. “I had this plan, you know? Go on a trip, disconnect, figure things out. I’ve been running on autopilot for a while—work, relationships, just…life. Thought I’d take a break and maybe find whatever it is I've been missing.” I glance at him, suddenly self-conscious. “Not that it’s working out exactly how I planned.”
He nods, absorbing my words, and for a moment, the tension between us dissolves, replaced by something quieter, more understanding. “Sometimes you just need to get away from it all, even if it’s just to figure out what the hell you’re doing. The forest for the trees and whatnot.”
I smile, the warmth in his tone surprising me, yet again. It’s the most real moment we’ve shared since this whole mess started, and I feel a small flicker of something that wasn’t there before—maybe it’s understanding, or maybe it’s just relief that he’s not the one-dimensional jerk I’d painted him as.
“Well,” I say, pushing up from the chair, “at least we’ve got a good view while we figure it out.” I nod toward the window, where the mountains are bathed in the last light of day, snow glistening like a scene from a fairytale.
He follows my gaze, his eyes softening at the sight. “Yeah,” he agrees, his voice quiet. “Could be worse.”