Chapter Twenty
7pm. Kendric House
Jack refuses to leave. Everyone’s already in the minibus and waiting for him. But his face crumples into pure misery. “I want to stay. Please don’t make me go back there.” He begs.
“Come, Jack,” Raff urges gently. “I’ll help you up and when we get home, I’ll help you to your room. Don’t you want your own bed?”
Jack grabs my hand in both of his. “Can’t I stay here? I don’t need a room. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
It breaks my heart. “Oh, Jack, I would welcome you with all my heart. But it’s not my house. I am a guest here and the owners are away. I can’t even ask them.”
“Come on, now. It’ll be alright.” Raff puts a hand under Jack’s elbow to help him off the chair. It only makes Jack’s grip on my own hand more urgent.
“I don’t want to go there. I like you. I want to stay with you.”
His face, so animated and happy earlier, is now wet with tears. Nothing, not even a toothache, is as painful as watching a man who once worked at the United Nations, gave instructions to Fidel Castro, now crying like a frightened little boy. How bad is The Glyn if he is this desperate not to go back?
“Jack?” I slip down to one knee in front of him. “I promise as soon as Evan and Haneen come back – they are the owners – I will ask them if we can give you a room here. I’ll even furnish it myself.”
“You don’t have to, I have money. I’m paying that place three thousand a month. You can have it. I can pay rent.”
He’s still holding my hand.
Raff looks around towards the entrance. All the others in the minibus must be getting cold, eager to get home. Then he turns back to us and leans down towards me. “Why don’t you come with us?” he asks in a quiet voice. “You can see him to his room and stay until he is in bed.”
I ask Jack. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“Yes,” he says faintly, but his eyes beg me.
“I can drive you back after,” Raff assures me.
Behind us, the dining table is full of dirty plates and cups, and there’s a mountain of washing up in the kitchen.
Meredith, who’s been hovering nearby guesses my worry. “You go. I’ll clean up. Ricky will help me.”
So, we go. Jack leaning on his walking frame, my hand on his arm so he knows I’m with him. Raff was right; even if my presence doesn’t cheer Jack up, it seems to help reassure him. I even wait in his room. My face turned to the window while the nurse undresses and helps him into his pyjamas and into bed.
Then I sit beside him and offer to read to him from one of the books by his bedside, a spy novel by Len Dayton. The choice surprises me because it’s bound to be a complex story.
“I’m not senile,” he says from his pillow. “Nothing wrong with my mind. I just feel like…” He sighs. “Like a boy on his first day at a new school and it’s full of strangers. It takes its toll after a while, having no friends.”
I don’t know what to say, so I just start to read, and he soon starts to drift off. Yet, when I get up to leave, he reminds me, “Don’t forget to speak to the owners about me. Tell them I can pay rent.”
“I won’t forget. It might take a little while to clean and decorate the room so we might have to be a little patient.”
I say this to prepare him because what he wants can’t work. He’s far too feeble to climb stairs. And Kendric House is in the midst of a major renovation. There are ladders and wires everywhere. It isn’t a place for an old man.
Raff is outside, leaning against a wall just outside the door. He straightens as soon as I come out of the room. Nearby, a care assistant is pretending to read something on the cork board but when she sees me, she turns to face me. “You’re leaving now?”
“I’m just going to drive her home,” Raff says in that calm way of his, but his hand on my arm is too tight and his steps are too fast to be any kind of calm.
The care assistant follows us, not even pretending. Clearly she has orders to see me off the property.
“I have a bad feeling they won’t let me visit Bill after this,” I grumble as Raff manoeuvres the minibus out of The Glyn car park.
“They can’t do that.” He swings onto the country road. It’s raining outside and the wipers are going full speed.
He adjusts his rear-view mirror until he can see me behind him. Catching my eyes but says nothing.
It’s a short drive home; he keeps glancing in his mirror, on and off. Since we’re the only thing moving on the road, it must be me he’s looking at, but he says nothing.
And for a strange reason, I don’t seem able to look away. Hopefully, he doesn’t get into trouble with his boss. It was supposed to be an afternoon tea, but we didn’t bring everyone back until after seven and no one wanted to eat dinner. Cynthia is bound to wonder.
“They won’t be happy about this, especially Mrs Jenkins who works for the catering contractors. She must be fuming.”
Raff is about to answer when my phone dings with an alert. When I pull it out, it’s Jarvis. My agent rarely contacts me. It’s usually me who has to call him.
It’s 9pm. On a Saturday night. What’s going on, have I been nominated for an award? I swipe the message with nervous fingers.
JARVIS: Have you seen the email?
What email? I go to my emails and sure enough, there’s one from him, sent this morning. When I was busy preparing.
It’s a long, long email with a forwarded string of communications between him and several others.
“We’re here.” Raff’s voice drags me back a few minutes later.
I look up. Ah, yes; he’s parked in front of Kendric House with the engine switched off. I put my phone away. “Thank you for the lift.” I unclip my seat belt and try to get up but my legs feel heavy and wobbly at the same time; my bum plops back down.
“You okay?” He gives me a concerned look.
I force a smile. Only an hour ago, half an hour, even, I was happy. “It was good today wasn’t it?”
“It was a triumph,” Raff says. “Far better than anyone dreamed. I don’t think I’ve seen them this happy. Ever.” His voice softens. “Not just tonight. The last two weeks have also been a great success. Since he met you, Bill has been a changed man. ‘My granddaughter is coming to visit me. She’s a great actress.’ He keeps telling anyone who’ll listen.”
“He’s a lovely man, the best kind of grandfather to have.” This time I can’t fight the tears, they spill on my cheeks.
Without a word, Raff eases himself from behind the steering wheel. There’s a box of Kleenex tissue on the dashboard; he pulls a couple of sheets and comes back to where I’m sitting behind him. Sliding into the seat next to me, he hands me the tissues. He doesn’t speak, just sits there giving me a little support with his solid presence. This big hairy man with the nice smile and wide green eyes.
“I lost a job,” I start talking even though he hasn’t asked me anything. “That was my agent. Aladdin has been cancelled. Which means I’m not only unemployed now but also homeless because they were supposed to pay for our accommodation. He’s trying to get me compensation but it’s unlikely because the production company have gone into receivership.”
Raff puts an arm over my shoulders and squeezes lightly. “I’m sorry. This is a shitty thing to happen. There’ll be other better plays to come, I’m sure.”
I wipe my tears with impatient fingers. “Yes, there are. Jarvis says another company want me for Sleeping Beauty . I don’t have to audition just turn up for the read-through in January.”
“That’s great news. Congratulations” He cheers, giving me a final squeeze before removing his arm. Even after such a brief contact, it feels cold when he shifts slightly away from me.
I know what he’s thinking. What a storm in a teacup. Silly girl crying when she’s got another part without even auditioning.
“It’s just letting Bill down when he’s been so proud of me. I told him I was playing the demon in Aladdin .”
“I think he’ll be just as chuffed you’re playing Beauty.”
Beauty.
It’s the last straw.
I get up and start to move; Raff automatically stands and moves aside to let me out. My throat jams on my hasty “Good night.” So it comes out half strangled as I open the door and jump out before he can see the tears spilling down my face.
I rush towards the door. Not the front door where everyone came in today but the side entrance that leads to the kitchen. It’s thirty yards away; the rain drenches me before I even reach it.
Gravel crunches behind me; a hand on my arm. “Hey, hey.” His voice is low, and soft with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. What should be wrong?” I slap on my best stage smile. One advantage of the downpour, my tears look like raindrops so he won’t be able to tell. It was a mistake to have even told him about the play at all. This isn’t a thing to discuss with people, especially not a man I hardly know. It’s far too humiliating.
I push through the door. “You’d better get back before you drown in this.”
But he follows me inside. I’ve never been any good at getting rid of people.
“Leonie? It’s something I said, isn’t it? I’m sorry if I’ve upset you but please tell me how because I really didn’t mean to.”
He called me Beauty. Sleeping Beauty. But he won’t understand. “You didn’t upset me.”
“But you're clearly upset.” He pushes wet hair off his own face and waits for me to say more.
Something about the way his eyes study me makes it hard to look away from him. He looks troubled; two vertical lines deepen between his eyebrows.
“It’s not you.” I try for another smile.
“A good effort,” he says lightly, gently. “But not even the best actors can pull it off when they’re this upset.”
Oddly, a small laugh breaks out. I wipe my cheeks with my sleeve which makes my face even wetter. Seeing this, he smiles quickly. “We’re both dripping wet and making a mess on your floor.”
“Come upstairs. I have dry clothes and towels.”
I head up the side stairs and after a moment, he follows. “I doubt your clothes will fit me.”
“No but we have some work clothes for the teenagers helping on the cleaning and decoration. I’d offered to wash these, so they’re folded on my radiator.”
My room, when we get there is cosy and warm. I point to the folded tracksuits and T-shirts. “There should be some towels there, too.”
Leaving him to change, I go to the bathroom to dry myself and change into a hoodie and leggings. In the fluster of the moment, I seem to have done this all wrong. I should have sent him to the bathroom across the hall from my door and I should have changed in my own room. A bit late for that now.
When I come back, he’s in a grey flannel tracksuit. It’s a bit tight across the shoulders and chest. Now he’s not in baggy clothes, he doesn’t seem so hulking anymore. He’s big, to be sure, tall, broad shoulders and wide chest, but his stomach is flat and his hips and legs narrow.
Grabbing the damp towel he’s draped on the radiator, he tips his head forward letting his hair cascade down and rubs it with the towel, then ties it back in a man bun. When he notices I’m back, he strikes a mock modelling pose. “Arms and legs are a bit too long for this tracksuit, but miles better than wet jeans.”
He’s funny. Not the joke-cracking, attention seeking, ‘look at me’ kind of funny. But the kind, gentle, subtle kind of funny. Inviting you to laugh at him.
I see why Philomena thinks he’s sexy. He is a bit. Maybe more than a bit. Can’t explain why, but he is even with the wrong clothes and too much hair.
He must catch me watching him because his face colours.
Oh dear. This is exactly what I wasn’t supposed to do. Now, I’ve given him the wrong idea.
“Tea?” I offer quickly.
“Please,” he says sounding a little surprised.
Another mistake. I should have let him go home. But now I’ve offered tea, I can hardly take it back. There’s a small kettle in my room for sleepless nights when I don’t want to go down a long corridor and two flights of stairs to the kitchen.
Another mistake.
We should have gone to the kitchen because, in my room, it feels a bit…well…the wrong idea.
Why did I even invite him up here? I’m sure a little rain was never going to hurt him. The first time we met he walked three miles in the drizzle.
At least we’re in the sitting part of the room and there’s a wardrobe screening off the other side where my bed is.
I usher him to the sofa, the deep red velvet sofa Wyn and I carried across from the north wing. It’s one of those vintage things with high sides and back which tie together with rope. It creates a cocoon, like a box with one side missing. After handing him a steaming mug, I stay standing, not knowing where to sit. The chair would make it look like I’m avoiding him and sitting on the sofa enclosed in that cocoon would feel a bit…well…yeah, the wrong idea.
Raff solves the problem but wedging himself into the corner and turning slightly, one bent leg up on the cushion. I take the opposite corner and turn to face him. Yes, this looks comfortable, casual and not too…friendly.
Then he ruins it by asking, “Are you going to tell me how I upset you?”
Why can’t he talk about the weather like normal people?
He waits.
“It’s silly really.” I give him a corner of the truth. “It’s just that I was looking forward to playing the demon in the bottle. I had this idea to play it like Joanna Lumley in Ab Fab .”
His mouth twitches with a suppressed laugh. “What? A chain-smoking alcoholic with attitude.”
“Exactly.”
He’s surprisingly clever.
“I thought when the genie first appears, I could make it look like I’d been interrupted at some show biz party.”
His eyes gleam with amusement. “Go on, show me.”
“Now?”
“Why not?”
Why not, indeed. I won't have the chance to play it on stage so at least let me give it a go now.
Leaning forward to put my mug of tea on the floor, I stand up.
Annoyed posh voice. “What do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy?” I mime drinking champagne then pretend I’d seen someone and head away “Darling, there you are.” Then pretending I was pulled back by Aladdin. “What?” I put maximum derision in my voice. “Look, little man. You don’t understand there’s a time and place for everything and my cocktail party isn’t the right time to fix your life.”
Raff is laughing now. “You really sound like the Joanna Lumley character.”
Encouraged by his appreciation, I offer another idea. “Or I could play the Genie as Prunella Scales in Faulty Towers .”
“Actually.” He leans forward completely into the game. “Play it like the Spanish waiter. What was his name?”
“Manuel? Yes, why didn’t I think of that?” – I put on a Spanish accent – “Qué? Three wishes?” I pretend to be confused. “I know nothing!”
“You should absolutely do this in Sleeping Beauty .” He laughs. “Wake up after a hundred years having turned into Manuel.”
If only. If only.
“No,” I huff, sitting down again. “All Sleeping Beauty has to do is look beautiful and lie down. Not much acting there.”
He catches the change in my mood and we sit in a small silence. Then he says, soberly, “that’s what I said. I congratulated you on a losing the funny genie and getting a sleeping part.”
If only he knew. I toy with the fringing on the arm of the sofa. “It’s not just one sleeping part, all my parts are like that. Aladdin was the exception. Last year I was in Romeo and Juliet . Who do you think I played?”
He waits for me to answer, but I can tell he’s impressed with the mention of a Shakespear play. Ha bloody ha.
“I played Rosaline.”
He frowns, eyes flicking sideways. What actors do when they want to show they’re thinking. Nice to see it in real life.
“Rosaline is Juliet’s cousin. She appears on stage because Romeo was supposed to love her before he claps eyes on Juliet. Rosaline has no lines to speak, most directors don’t even cast the part. See? That’s me. Always the pretty girl with nothing much to do. In My Fair Lady I played one of the dancers. I got a moment to curtsey when the prince walks by. That was all. Regional theatre and panto give me a bit more, but always roles where I have to look pretty and not much else. Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Goldilocks .”
Raff sits up a little straighter; he has his problem-solving face on. He scratches his jaw under the beard. “Have you had any film or TV work?”
Heat floods my face because this is going to be humiliating. But I’ve already started so may as well finish. “I’ve been in a hundred films.” I hold up my hand and count them off. “ Always a Bridesmaid about a lonely jealous woman. I was the beautiful bride. I didn’t have a single line to speak. In Gold Dust ” – I hold another finger – “I was the nameless naked girl between the sheets when the wife comes home and finds her husband cheating. I’m the barmaid getting ogled by the customer, the sexy passer-by, the legs, the cleavage, the cute smile.”
It's the first time these thoughts have been spoken out loud. Normally I’m too ashamed.
“Once, I had to play a snow fight scene, and the director wanted me in a crop top to show off my stomach. Can you imagine? In a winter scene! When someone argued it wasn’t realistic, you know what he said?” – I imitate the director’s voice – “‘Audiences won’t mind as long as her stomach is nice and smooth’.” I blow out an angry breath. “They always put me in clothes too tight, too short, too see-through.”
Raff has lost the problem-solving face, he offers no suggestions. And who can blame him? This isn’t an easy problem to solve. Any minute now he’s going to say something hollow like I’m sure it’ll get better , or I’m sure something will turn up . But he doesn’t. He just sits still, watching and listening.
“Don’t think me ungrateful. I know lots of actors would love to get as many jobs as I do, but I’ve had to take my clothes off more than is good for anyone’s self-respect. It gets humiliating after a while. You think Bill is proud of me? He wouldn’t be if he knew the truth. Directors look at me and just see the cute blonde. Even people, normal people, out there in the world.” I point a finger at the dark window behind which the wind and rain are getting worse.
“No one sees the real me. It’s one thing to play the nameless blonde in films, quite another to be the nameless blonde in real life, in my own real life. You shouldn’t be an extra in your own life. You should be the lead, the star of your own life, shouldn’t you?”
Slowly, Raff places his mug on the floor. “Okay,” he says, voice very calm. “Tell me. What do you want people to see? If you weren’t pretty, who would you be?”
My mouth opens and closes a couple of times. I never had to answer a question like this. No one ever asked me a question like this.
“Don’t know.” I have to think for a minute. “All my life, my mother told me to make the most of my looks. She is bitterly disappointed in me for failing to catch or hold on to a gorgeous rich guy. It’s what she did, flitting from one affair to the next. Dad” – I have to fight to keep the wobble out of my voice when I mention him – “he never said a word against her, not to me. But once he told me something I’ve never forgotten. He said ‘ Choose a partner for character not looks. Beautiful or plain, soon you get used to them. You don’t notice anymore. But character, good or bad, you never get used to, you always see character’ .” I breathe out slowly. “ More and more I find myself thinking of those words.”
Funny how talking about it to Raff, having to explain it in words and sentences makes me see it clearly for the first time. All my boyfriends were good-looking and by the time we broke up I couldn’t see it anymore. Or they, me. They started admiring me, but by the end, the adoring looks faded. They got used to my appearance and found my character had nothing in common with theirs.
“It’s difficult to answer your question.” I look at Raff across the red velvet sofa. “In some ways I wish I knew what character people think I have. Do they ever see past the legs, cleavage and a cute smile.”
Raff studies me for a long moment. His eyes travel over me from the still damp hair to the loose hoodie that doesn’t show curves, to the yoga bottoms that cover me to the ankles.
He clears his throat. “You want to know what I see when I look at you?”
My heart kicks up, huge thump-thump in my chest.
“I see a woman who wants to make everyone happy.” His grey-green eyes meet my gaze, steady, no pretence, no attempt to be funny or flatter.
“The woman who goes every day to sit with a bunch of old people and make them smile. Everyone else, even the kindest of staff in that house treats them like patients, like things to be fed and wheeled around. Not you. You listen to their stories and ask them questions, you care. They light up when around you. And” – he holds up a finger to stop me interrupting – “before you say it’s only because of your cute smile, it’s not that. Yes, any old man is going to light up when a pretty girl comes to sit with him, but that’s not it. You have something fierce in you, a crusading passion. You jumped to defend Philomena when she was accused of stealing biscuits even though she actually had stolen them. Not from the kitchen, but from you. You went to so much trouble for Jack. An old man that until last week you’d never met. And. Leonie?” He tilts his head and his expression softens with sympathy. “I know you want to make him happy. But he can’t come to live here, he needs lots of nursing. I love that you sat by his bed and read to him so he didn’t feel abandoned.”
He curls a hand around his own chin, rubbing a thumb on his bearded cheek. The brown hairs burnished copper by the light from the small lamp.
“You may have a” – he mimes quotation marks – “a nice smooth stomach, I don’t know. And yes, your eyes are a dazzling baby blue. But your character is the most dazzling, beautiful, radiant human being I even met.” He stops suddenly as if embarrassed by what he just said.
He looks anywhere but at me, as if he’s said too much and revealed something he wanted to keep secret. As if he’s gone out on a limb and now he needs to excuse himself. In fact, I start to look around the way people do when they’re preparing to get up and leave.
“Raff?” I wait until he meets my eyes. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?”
His mouth quirks. “A yeti? Not a handsome man, for sure.” He pushes a hand though his hair which pulls the bun loose and makes the long waves fall about his face hiding it.
“Maybe not in the traditional way. But I’ve dated handsome men. Lots. With expensive suits, designer haircuts and sports cars.” I move up on my knees so I can reach over and brush the air away from his face. “I see a man more beautiful than all of them.”
His hair under my hands is surprisingly silky and rich, and now I’ve pushed it away from his face, I can see how smooth his skin is, slightly tanned a warm honey colour. The strong eyebrows are a nice shape and frame his wide eyes. And there are silver flecks in the green eyes, very unusual. And very nice long lashes.
He blinks slowly which makes me notice where I am, suddenly. I seem to be straddling him, and his hands somehow are around my waist.
We stare at each other.
“You know my mum warned me about not leading you on.”
He quirks his eyebrows in that way he does; he uses them very effectively. And, God, I could dive and drown in his green eyes. “Lead me on?” he asks.
I sigh. “Because I won’t be here for long. We would never have a future. It would only be a short adventure.”
Understanding, he looks away. Thinking? Remembering? Considering? His eyebrows knit together.
“Leonie, there’s something…” He looks back at me; two vertical lines deepen between his brows. More than anything I want to smooth my fingers over his forehead.
“You should know something about me.”
“What?” I ease myself down to sit on his knees.
His hands are still on my waist, but he’s silent for so long I think he’s not going to tell me.
At last, he speaks. “I got into a little trouble – big trouble. Recently. It’s not public knowledge, but a lot of people I know do drugs.” He swallows. “Me included. But recently it…well, to cut a long story short, I had to take a long break from working.”
“What kind of…?” Then I wish I hadn’t asked. It must be embarrassing for him.
He shrugs. “Oh, recreational stuff.” He seems to be debating before he goes on. “Recreational to begin with but it soon got out of hand. I had an accident.” He lifts the hem of the sweatshirt to show me his midriff.
There, among the six pack and other muscles, three scars run down his side, one vertical, two at a slight angle. I can’t help tracing my fingers over the longest. They’re healed, but the marks of stitches are clear enough. “What happened?”
“Fell through a glass wall. I don’t remember any of it. I just woke up in hospital. I’d lost a lot of blood before someone found me. The doctor told me I could have died. It…”
He pulls the sweatshirt back down. “It was a wake-up call. I went to a recovery centre for a month and have been working the Twelve Steps since then.”
I’ve heard of the Twelve Steps. Who hasn’t? But I don’t know much about them.
His eyes on mine unexpectedly glitter with amusement. “You’re wondering if it’s polite to google this while I’m still here.”
I laugh. “Sorry, was I that obvious? I was just wondering how long it take to do all twelve.” In my mind, they sound like something you do in a four-week rehab stay, but didn’t he say last year?
He grins easily. “I can tell you if you want. It won’t mean much unless you’re in the program, but one of the steps is to give service. Stop thinking about yourself and focus on helping others. Be of use to others.”
Ah…the pieces begin to fit together. “So, you work at The Glyn.”
His eyes close briefly to indicate a ‘yes’. He really knows how to use his face.
“I’m very happy to be clean and sober now, but for a while before that, I was…not in a good place and relied on” – he mimes taking pills – “to get me through it. So,” He threads a hand through my own hair. Involuntarily, I tilt my head into his palm enjoying the heat of his touch, the strength of his fingers sliding through to the ends of my hair then down my arm.
“Before we get into any short adventures,” his voice roughens. “I wanted to be honest with you.”
And we’re back to the moment when things began to really change between us. My heartbeat speeds up I can barely keep up with it. My whole body reacts to his voice, to the touch of his hands on my arm. Inside, I’m trembling. It’s an effort to ask logical questions.
“And now?” My own voice sounds unsteady. “You’re clean and sober?”
“Fourteen months.”
“Thank you for being honest. It can’t be easy. I really appreciate it. And I appreciate you.” I touch his brow, smoothing the vertical lines. His skin is velvety soft. And his beard, when my fingers reach his jaw, is also silky smooth. I can’t stop touching him. “To me you’re a beautiful, amazing man.”
His eyes burn into mine as his hands slide up my back to cup my face, and he slowly meets my lips in a soft kiss.
Something inside me dissolves into a warm puddle; my body sags against him. His kisses are warm, soft and rich; I’ve never been kissed like this, as if he finds my mouth delicious.
Gradually, our kisses become hard and demanding. And wild. I don’t care about anything but this, here. The sofa, the floor of my bedroom and the rug. Our clothes scatter around and his skin is hot, hot like the hungry touch of his hands.
It goes on a long time, a very long time. Because Welsh Hagrid is an amazing lover. He makes me forget everything. I don’t care about carpet burn on my knees, on my back and hips. We do it four times in many positions.
The best thing is that he makes me feel like Leonie. Not Barbie or Cinderella or Snow White. I feel appreciated, inside and out, and – let’s be blunt – devoured.
And can I say, his body is far less hairy than his head. The man is gorgeous, lean and long-limbed with velvety golden skin that burns like a furnace.
“I have a confession,” he says around six in the morning. It’s still dark outside and still raining. “I’ve wanted to do this since the first time I saw you. When you were lost down a farm track.”
I raise myself on one elbow. “You didn’t even know me, then.”
“Didn’t you wonder why I got into the car with you? I just couldn’t bear the idea of pointing the way and letting you go.” He folds his arms under his head and stares at the ceiling. “In the car, next to you, my knees felt like jelly. I kept my eyes on your hands. Could have sat there for hours watching you turn the wheel, fingers tapping lightly on the leather. Christ, I so wanted your hands on me.”
“You liar.” I mock slap his chest just above his flat nipple. “All that talk about not seeing my outside but my personality. You hadn’t a clue about my personality back then.”
He shifts on his side to face me. “Yes, but the worry in your eyes, the fear when you saw me. It was clear you thought I might be some apparition. Yet, you forced yourself to be polite.” His eyes dance around my face. Then he gives up. “Okay, and I did find you beautiful, too.”
“Ah, I knew it!”
“Wait…” He grabs my hand before I can smack him again. “Wait, a sec. I may have been attracted to your beauty, but in the end I discovered your personality and that was the real attraction.” He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my fingers, each one.
“It’s the opposite of what happened to me.”
He looks up from kissing my knuckles.
“I didn’t think much of your appearance. I thought you looked like Hagrid.”
His lips twitch and his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“I actually named you Welsh Hagrid before I found out your real name.”
This time he laughs, flopping back on his back. “ Cymraeg Hagrid , I love it.”
He looks beautiful like that. Naked, his hair spread around on the pillow. “True, I didn’t think you were attractive at all. I was attracted to your personality and only afterwards did I discover how utterly beautiful you are.”
“Beautiful, am I?” He laughs, grabbing me close, wrapping his arms around me. “Call me Welsh Hagrid again.” He growls rolling us both until he’s on top. “Go on, say, Cymraeg Hagrid.”
“You’re turned on by the weirdest things.”
And he is. Over the next hour I call him Cymraeg Hagrid several times and his response sends us both wild.