Unexpected Company (A Home in You #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Garrett

“What do you mean, bored?”

I pull a stool out from beneath our marble kitchen counter, perching myself on the edge while staring at my boyfriend of three years.

Nico rolls his eyes, moving further into the kitchen.

“Bored, Garrett. I. Am. Bored.”

“I got that,” I reply, pulling on the hem of my jumper for no reason other than to give myself something to do. “But, I don’t understand. I thought we were good?”

His eyes dip from mine, down to my fidgeting hands. He makes a dismissive sound that pinches at my heart.

“Good?” Nico scoffs. “Jesus, Garrett, we barely talk. And when we do, it’s about work or bills or something equally mundane.

” He takes a deep breath, clearly not done yet.

“When was the last time we went out and had fun? And when last did we fuck without pre-planning it? There’s no spark or spontaneity left in this relationship. ”

I hear what he’s saying. I do. But I’m not that bad, am I? Work is important. Bills have to be dealt with. We’re adults with responsibilities – that’s a fact of life.

“Bored of me?” I ask for clarification, as if it wasn’t clear from the way he’s looking at me sadly.

Pressing up to stand, I pace the length of our small kitchen.

The kitchen, which I honestly hate, with its white walls and white counters and oddly placed black tiles.

A kitchen in a house he chose because I wanted him to be happy.

If anything is boring here, it’s this entire fucking place.

“Bored of you. Bored of us. Bored of this,” Nico continues, waving a hand around, and gesturing to the home we moved into six months ago. Back when I thought this life was what he wanted.

Funny how five minutes can change everything.

“You’re no fun anymore, Garrett. All you care about is your next book. Your next deal. You live in your boring jumpers and your old man trousers and you barely step outside of your office. The excitement is gone.”

His assessment of me – of our life together – stings. I am no different now from the man I was when we met. Maybe I work harder than I did before, but everything about me is the same as it always has been.

And our relationship is good. At least, I thought it was.

Sure, we’re not overly affectionate. We don’t cuddle or hold hands and it’s not that I don’t want to be that way with someone.

I just have no experience with that sort of relationship and Nico never seemed interested.

He never wanted me to fuss over him or dote on him.

So maybe I can come across as aloof, a little distant even, but I’m a good partner and fuck him. I am fun.

I am.

“You liked my ‘old man trousers’ when we met, Nico.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand where this is coming from suddenly.”

“I’ve met someone else,” Nico blurts. He at least has the decency to look away from me when he delivers that truth.

But at least now it all makes sense. Out with the old (even though I’m only turning thirty-three tomorrow) and in with the new, spontaneous and shiny.

“Someone else,” I repeat his words, cringing at the fact that is all I seem to do lately.

For someone who writes novels for a living, I have few words to offer.

I pause in front of the kettle and with nothing else to do, I flick it on, moving on autopilot to take out two mugs and the container of dark roast coffee.

“Yes.” Nico comes to stand in front of me, pausing my movements with a hand on my arm. It’s awkward and condescending and I dislike it very much. “I haven’t cheated on you,” he adds. “But this guy and I, we’ve clicked. There’s something there and I want to see where it goes.”

Oh! He didn’t cheat. Didn’t fuck some other guy. Whoopty-fucking-do. I guess that makes this all okay, and he deserves some sort of award. Maybe I’ll get him one that says ‘wanted to cheat but was decent enough to have waited’ or something far more eloquent than I am capable of right now.

Dipping my head, I clench my fists against the counter. Nico steps back, but says nothing more. Silence, thick and heavy, falls between us until I finally look up at him.

Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I say, “Okay.”

Because what else is there to say? He’s made up his mind and I’m not about to beg him to stay.

Maybe he’s right and things haven’t been good between us for a while.

When you get to the end of the day and haven’t so much as thought about the person you supposedly love, maybe that’s a sign you should take seriously.

The timer on the oven rings, and my eyes dart to where my birthday cake is rising behind the glass doors, the scent of vanilla lingering in the air.

Happy fucking birthday to me.

My agent’s office sits on the fifteenth floor of a glass fronted tower in central London. The usually impressive view is today obscured by thick fog. A reminder that it’s December and winter has well and truly settled in.

From behind her desk, Mary looks at me, narrowing her stern blue eyes.

“Tell me you’ve at least started your first draft?”

I fiddle with the button of my chunky knit cardigan, crossing my legs and then uncrossing them again. Her eyes drill into me and I struggle to meet her knowing gaze.

“Uh…”

“Garrett!” Mary’s voice booms around the scarcely decorated office. “You have four months to deliver the final installment of the series. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that you signed a contract?”

I shake my head. I know what is expected of me. I just have nothing. Detective Inspector Jack Sniper is playing hardball and refusing to have his story concluded. Blaming my characters for my writer’s block is my new low.

Mary sighs, reminding me of my old English teacher, who seemed perpetually disappointed in me. “Your last three releases haven’t done as well as expected and now, with this final book, your fans and the publisher are hoping for great things.”

My chest tightens, the pressure to produce something amazing weighing heavily on me. I love being a writer. I love my characters and I love my fans. But somewhere along the line, I stopped writing for myself or for enjoyment and I think that’s showing in my work.

“For want of a better word,” Mary continues, “you’ve been a bit lacklustre lately.”

At least she didn’t say ‘boring’.

I open my mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand.

“Don’t mention your breakup. That was months ago and let’s be real. It was over long before Nico left. But I do think your living situation is stifling your creativity. That house is not you. It’s too bland and sterile. It’s suffocating the writer in you.”

When I wrote my first novel, no one warned me against having my best (and only) friend as my agent. She’s far too honest sometimes.

Leaning back on the sofa, I tip my head to look at the exposed pipework in her ceiling, scoffing at how similar this office is to the modern place Nico insisted we pick over the old Victorian semi-detached I had my heart set on.

Ironically, I now live in it alone and he lives…

well I don’t actually know where. Nor do I care.

“What do you suggest?” I ask, sighing and running a hand through my chestnut hair. “Christmas is a few weeks away. It’s not exactly the best time to look for a new place.”

“I have an idea.” The clicking of a keyboard has me straightening, watching Mary behind her big white desk as she taps away at the laptop in front of her.

“Here.” She spins the device to face me.

“I’ve booked you this charming little cabin for a few days over Christmas.

” A carousel of images flits across the screen and I get a glimpse of a quaint, stone faced cottage, ivy creeping up around the front door, and a chimney standing proud from one end of its tiled roof.

It’s surrounded by nothing but trees, thick and dense, acting as a guard to the sunshine trying to break through behind them.

“That’s your solution?” I ask, leaning closer to the screen.

“It is. The change of scenery will help you find your spark and give you a chance to refocus. It’s cosy and remote and it has no Wi-Fi or cell phone reception.

You go and do what you do best – write – with no interruptions or distractions, and I’ll keep working on getting this series picked up by a TV network. ”

Using her pen, she points to the text below the images. “This is just what you need.”

‘Perfect for those who want to get lost while finding themselves.’

While I don’t think I need to ‘find myself’, I will admit that I need to find my muse, or my creativity or a fucking hammer to take to this mental wall.

So while the slogan is cheesy, the logic is sound and the idea of escaping to the middle of nowhere feels right.

It’ll be me, my typewriter and DI Jack Sniper.

And maybe by the end of it, I’ll have a complete – far from lacklustre – manuscript.