Chapter Twenty
Ciara
There is a man in my house.
It’s the only thing I can think of that night as I stand in the dark hall, gazing at Sam’s sneakers lined neatly by the door.
That upstairs, across the landing from my room, there is a man, and he is asleep.
And I put a vase of flowers by his bed. I don’t know why I did that.
Probably because I panicked. It’s been a long time since I’ve hosted anyone.
We had another beer over dinner and chatted about the book and then he got some work done and I got some work done and it’s so domestic it’s downright confusing. It’s nice, though. Easy.
There was only one awkward moment when he fell asleep in front of the television and I stressed out, wondering if I should wake him, but he solved that dilemma by rousing a minute later. And then he gave an apologetic smile and took himself off to bed.
That was an hour ago. And now here I am. Staring at his shoes.
I’m not used to it. Sharing the house with someone other than Dad. I mean, sure, Maddie’s crashed here a few times, but that’s about it. Not that Sam’s a bad guest. He washed up after dinner. He got rid of a spider. He has not, as far as I can tell, stolen anything.
But it’s more than that.
Ever since Dad died, this house has never felt like home to me. But now it feels different. More comforting knowing that Sam’s upstairs in bed, sleeping soundly.
I wish I could sleep. I wish my brain could swallow the hours. That I could close my eyes and when I open them again it’d be morning.
I slept fine when I lived in London. I shared a small house with an opera singer and a quiet, tidy man who told us he worked for the civil service but who I was convinced was some sort of James Bond spy.
I’d moved there after the whole pen-name debacle, wanting a fresh start.
The plan was to eventually get back into writing. Maybe travel a bit.
And then everything went tits-up.
Dad got sicker, and I moved back to look after him. He’d been doing okay before then, but he needed full-time care, and I wanted to be the one to do it.
The insomnia began a few weeks later. Stress about the move. About him. I thought it would stop, but it didn’t. If anything, it got worse.
I didn’t want to sleep in case he needed me during the night.
In case something happened and I missed it.
So, instead of resting, I would spend hours lying in my bed and thinking about all the bad things that could happen to him, snatching a few hours of sleep only when someone else was in the house with him.
That was when Maddie started coming around. It was as though she sensed it. And then Ronan would pop in before opening the pub and someone else would drop by with food or flowers and another just to sit with him and chat. Whatever we needed to get through.
I don’t know when I stopped that. When I started hiding from the doorbell instead of answering it. No one was trying to pry. They were just doing what they’d always done.
I leave Sam’s sneakers where they are and move into the kitchen, where I work in fits and starts for the next few hours, taking only short breaks. I nap on the couch. I eat some cheese and crackers I didn’t know I had. I move chairs and wipe down the counters. I write and write and write.
Sam wakes just after seven.
It terrifies me at first. The sudden noise. I have a real guess I’m about to be murdered moment before I remember his existence, and then I’m just nervous. Expectant.
I track the unfamiliar footsteps across the floor, the snip of the bathroom door followed by the rush of pipes followed by more footsteps getting closer and closer until he appears in the doorway, his eyes scrunched in sleep and his hair sticking up in such a way that I realize Sam Avery is someone who must style his hair every morning.
I file that away as if I’m keeping a catalog of him, right under early riser and likes maps.
He shuffles into the kitchen, scratching his stomach through a gray cotton T-shirt, and I stare at him. I know I stare at him. I just can’t look away. I try to. I command myself to. But I can’t.
He just looks so darn sleepy.
So sleepy that he doesn’t realize I’m here until I say good morning, at which point he definitely wakes up.
“Jesus!” His back hits the fridge door hard enough that its contents rattle, and I wince.
“Sorry.”
Now it’s Sam’s turn to stare. “I’d ask if you normally get up at this time, but let me guess.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say with a shrug. It’s no big deal. “Are you usually up this early?”
“No. Well, sometimes.” He glances at the fridge. “Do you mind?”
“Go for it.”
“I’ll go into town and get some food today.”
“You don’t have to,” I say as he grabs some orange juice. “Maddie keeps me well stocked. Besides, you’re a guest.”
“You want some?” he asks, pointing to the carton.
I shake my head, watching him grab a glass from the shelf. Remembering him doing that another time when he had his hand on my hip and his chest against my back and—
His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he checks it briefly before placing it on the counter.
“Who the hell is emailing you at this hour?” I ask.
“Film agent on the West Coast. It’s late over there.”
“And my question still stands.”
He just smiles at me, as if I’m being funny. “Did you get much done?” he asks.
“Too much. My brain is dead. I think I’ve reread the last page twelve times now.”
“You should go to bed.”
I nod, because I should, but I am not sleepy. I am the opposite of sleepy.
I am wide fucking awake.
“Can I ask you a question?” I say as he takes a seat at the table. “When did you get Finn’s mark?”
Sam pauses, glancing down at the tattoo on his underarm as if he forgot it was there. “My eighteenth birthday,” he says. “My parents were furious.”
“Really?”
“Mostly because they felt they had to be. And that I didn’t tell them. And that I didn’t ‘think about it,’ ” he adds in air quotes. “As if I hadn’t been thinking about it since I read the book. But they gave me money toward the next one, so I think they forgave me.”
“You’ve got more than one?” I don’t know why this shocks me so much. My gaze drops down his body as if I’ve got X-ray vision, and it suddenly becomes incredibly important that I know exactly where else the man has ink. His chest? His legs? His d—
“I guess you wouldn’t have seen it,” he says, thankfully interrupting my imagination. He puts the glass down, deliberating for a moment before he stands.
Putting me at eye level with his hips.
I fidget as he reaches a hand behind his head and tugs his T-shirt off. He turns as he does, and I get a glimpse of the flat length of his stomach and a light dusting of dark hair before he shows me his back. And then all I see is ink.
This is not a small symbol on his arm. This is art. An intricate weave of spirals that represent the arrival of the ancient kings and queens. The heroes of old.
Sam shifts self-consciously in front of me. “This one took a little more time.”
“I bet,” I murmur, reaching for the smallest circle in the center. He flinches as soon as I touch it, and I draw back immediately. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Just wasn’t expecting it.”
“Cold hands,” I say, and he nods in agreement even though they’re not. “Can I…” I trail off, watching as his whole back tenses, making the design move.
“Go ahead.” This time, he relaxes when I press a finger to his skin, tracing a Celtic knot that must have taken hours. Heaviness settles between my thighs, and I press my legs together, following each line until there’s no part I haven’t explored.
I don’t stop. I don’t think anything could make me.
Instinct overwhelms reason, and I keep going, trailing a straight path down his back. My touch is so light I wonder how he even feels it, but he reacts as though he does, his muscles bunching and releasing beneath me as I reach the elastic waistband of his sweatpants.
I pause, but he doesn’t move away, and after a beat my eyes drift back up as he turns his head over his shoulder.
The look he gives me is like a dare.
A moment passes, thick and heavy. My heart is beating so hard I can hear it, and my imagination runs wild, warm, needy thoughts of him flooding my mind, giddy and heady and—
A sharp, ugly buzz ruins the moment, and another a second later kills it altogether.
Reality crashes in, embarrassment swift on its heels as his phone lights up, and I let my hand drop away as I stand. Sam just stares at me as if he didn’t even hear it.
“West Coast,” I whisper, clearing my throat, and I avoid his gaze as I snatch up my laptop and flee back upstairs.
Our new routine continues as June becomes July. I sleep most of the day and work during the night, and in the hours that Sam and I overlap we tease out plot points and smooth over writing and, bit by bit, connect the dots until an actual book takes shape.
One day, we work so hard that I fall asleep on the couch in my office and wake up in my bed sometime after eleven, completely disoriented and absolutely starving.
Sam must have carried or corralled me, which is all sorts of embarrassing, but I’m mainly relieved because the last time I slept on that thing, I had a crick in my neck for days.
Judging by the soft light streaming from the crack under his bedroom door, he’s awake, but I still creep by, trying not to disturb him.
I’m not inclined to make a proper dinner, and my stomach can’t decide what time of day it is anyway, so I make do with a bowl of cereal and an apple while I watch a YouTube video on medieval plagues and then a makeup tutorial by a woman with skin so clear it looks airbrushed.
When I’m finished, I clean the kitchen and do twelve minutes of a thirty-minute yoga video before finally heading back upstairs.
Sam’s light is turned off now, so I’m extra quiet as I shut myself in my office. And then I get to work.
I write until my brain gives up.