27. Haven
Chapter 27
Haven
I should be worried that Professor Rooke is holding a fire poker, right? That there’s something off about him. That if I don’t get warm and dry soon, all I have to look forward to is a bout of pneumonia.
But I’m not worried about that. Not even a little.
My mind is a hundred percent fixated on trying to figure out how the fuck I got here.
“Haven?” My professor steps out of his house, glancing around his backyard like he’s wondering if there are more surprises out here. He was getting undressed. Half the buttons on his shirt are open, his sleeves flapping against his wrists. No shoes.
But that’s not what’s out of place.
He looks…drunk.
God, Haven, why the hell did you think this was a good idea?
Gee, brain, I dunno. Tell you what, though. If you figure it out, be a doll and let me know.
I give him an awkward, trembling wave. An uneasy, “Hi.”
Deja-vu hits like a freight train, but I shove it away along with my disorientation, my panic, my fear.
I mean, I could turn around and leave. Have no idea where my car is. The way I’m shivering, I can’t tell if I walked here or drove here, so my junker could be waiting for me all the way back at Lookout Point.
“Don’t just stand there, girl. Get inside.” Professor Rooke uses the fire poker to gesture, and then looks at it like he realizes he might be sending mixed signals.
He tosses it to the flagstones at his feet, and I flinch at the loud, ringing clang. Then he gestures again, frowning even deeper.
But I can’t seem to move.
He makes an angry, growly sound and storms through the drizzle to come and fetch me. I watch, mesmerized, as his feet splash through the multitude of little puddles that have collected in his pristine, zen-like garden.
As soon as he’s close enough, he reaches to grab me.
My body moves on instinct, leaning back so quickly that I stagger.
The annoyance on his face melts into confusion. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this expressive, but that’s booze for you. It dissolves the masks people wear around each other, the one you put on to hide what you’re really thinking, what you’re truly capable of.
He lifts his hands in mock surrender.
“Okay. Okay. You want to stay out here? Fine. But you’ll catch your death.” His features flinch, and he shakes his head. “You. Will. Get. Sick.” He enunciates every word, like he’s trying to rewrite something in his brain.
Carefully, he holds out his arm. Not touching me, but cautiously herding me. Urging me closer to his house so I can avoid his touch.
And it works.
My muscles unlock, and I walk all the way inside.
It’s warm in here, even though I saw the professor turn on the fireplace only a few minutes ago. I’ve been watching him ever since he got home, trapped in my shivering body as I tried to piece together the last hour.
Or two.
Or three.
My toes dig into the soft carpet. Why is my mind so foggy? My head so light and floaty?
“What time is it?”
“Late. Much too late for you to be wandering around in the woods.” He comes up beside me, and I’m hit with the smell of booze.
Something similar to the bourbon he put in my cocoa, I think. I’m no expert. When I still lived with them, my dad drank vodka and my uncle, beer.
They both preferred meth much, much more, of course.
Fuck. Bad timing for those memories to resurface.
“Haven?”
“Yessir.”
“Where the fuck are your shoes?”
My toes curl again. I look down, see how muddy they are. “Oh. Shit. I’m getting dirt all over your nice clean house.”
I thought my shivers were getting less, but a violent shudder goes through. Maybe it’s the horror of getting mud on this white carpet.
“We need to get you out of these wet clothes.”
“We really don’t,” I mumble, slowly wrapping my hands around my chest.
“So you want me to watch you shiver to death?” He stalks away, and I watch him head into the kitchen to start up his coffee machine, my eyes wide and my jaw clenched to stop my teeth chattering.
He’s not wrong. I am freezing my fucking ass off. But something tells me it’s really not a good idea to take off my clothes. Sodden as they are, they’re the only protection I have right now.
Not that my professor is a threat or anything. Right?
He keeps his eyes on his task as he takes out two cups. “Coffee will be done in about five minutes. There’s a bathroom to your left. Warm clothes in the closet. I’d really appreciate it if you could change into something dry. At least, if the ambulance arrives, I won’t be charged with negligence.”
I huff out a laugh, even though I know he’s not trying to be funny.
My legs turn and take me into the bedroom, survival overruling my gut feeling that I should head out the backdoor, not stepping deeper into the lion’s den.
I pass the fireplace and step into Professor Rooke’s bedroom. There are two barn doors on either side of the massive fireplace that I guess he can close to make this area more private. The walls in here are bare concrete and tinted glass windows, just like the rest of the house.
There’s a walk-in closet, and beside it, a partially open door that must lead to the bathroom, if those dark tiles are anything to go by.
Despite having his permission, I still feel like I’m intruding in his personal space. I guess because, despite how barren and lifeless this house feels, I can see glimpses of the professor everywhere.
The stack of weathered, spine-cracked books on the nightstand. A pair of reading glasses. Inside his closet, the row of suit jackets, most tweed.
And his smell.
It’s so intense inside this space, I can almost taste him on my tongue.
Pine trees. Leather. Rain-soaked soil.
I realize I’m just standing there, drinking in his smell, that he might come and check on me any minute.
Clothes.
It feels criminal going over to the stacks of folded clothes and rifling through them. And my eyes keep drifting over to the stack of vests and boxers nearby. Are those silk?—?
I grab the first thing that feels warm and thick, and thank God when it unfolds into a hoodie.
A really massive hoodie.
Professor Rooke isn’t brawny, but he sure is tall. He’s got at least a foot on me. So I guess he has to buy larger sizes.
I hold the hoodie up against me, pressing the shoulders under my neck, and folding a hand over my tummy.
It reaches almost to my knees.
Well, I already know I don’t stand a hope in hell of getting into— fitting into —his pants. This will have to do.
It’s definitely warm, and dry, and since my sundress is plastered to my frame, it’s a hell of a lot less scandalous. I hear the faint sounds of the coffee machine percolating in the kitchen, and hesitate before letting myself into his bathroom.
Fuck, it’s gorgeous. And that’s saying a lot, for a bathroom.
Slate slabs, dark gray and just rough enough to avoid slippage, but still smooth. The shower takes up the entire width of the back wall, with a small bench inside. Jets on the side, which I assume can turn it into a small steam room.
There’s a tub on one side, a double-sink vanity on the other. A small table used exclusively to store towels, it seems.
Weird that he has two sinks when he’s so obviously single.
Guess it’s just as strange that he has a king sized bed.
Okay, I need to stop fucking judging.
I gaze longingly at the shower, but I don’t have the courage to step inside and use it. Instead, I shut the door and take one of the dark gray towels from the table.
Peeling off my dress, I hesitate, and then take off my undies too.
How long was I out in the rain for?
Why are my feet so muddy?
Then my eyes slide up, up, up…
To the scratch marks on my thigh. The bruise on one hip.
Shit.
I dab myself with the towel, but when I see my muddy feet again, I stop.
My eyes move back to the shower.
Fuck propriety.
I obviously came here for a reason. Soon as I’m done showering, I’m going to figure out what it is.