TWENTY ONE
Bella
“Cup of tea?”
I laugh, which is good because it stops me from crying. “What is it with you and your tea?”
“I’m sorry. It’s a compulsion for us Brits. Like apologizing and standing in queues. We can’t help it.”
I lift my head and finally look up into his face. His expression is soft. His fringe falls into his face and I have the urge to brush it away, but I don’t know if the gesture is too intimate.
“Do you hate me?” My heart races as I study his face for a clue, but his expression is only one of surprise.
“Hate you? Why would I hate you?”
I shift uncomfortably. “Because I didn’t answer your calls. And I didn’t call you. And then we lost touch.”
“I’m just glad you’re here.” He looks so earnest. A teeny tiny bit of the hole that had widened inside my chest closes up.
“Really?”
“Really. What happened?”
I frown. “Can we talk about that later?” I feel guilty that I turned up on his doorstep like this with no explanation, but I’m not ready to face his reaction if he finds out what a drama queen I’ve been today.
“Of course.” He pulls away. “Come on. I’m making that tea. You look like you need it, and I certainly do.” He looks down at himself. “Ah, maybe I should change first?”
I shake my head. “No. You’re perfect. Did I wake you up? Sorry.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re definitely worth waking up for.”
Heart warm for the first time in weeks, I follow him into the kitchen. Of course, my eyes skate around the room, checking to see if everything is the same. I’m relieved to see it is. The sunny yellow paint. The picture of a farm house in the countryside and the haphazard stack of cookbooks stuffed onto shelves everywhere there is a nook or cranny. I love that he has cookbooks, rather than cooking from online recipes. There’s something homely about cookbooks. When my mom was still alive, I used to spend hours sitting in her kitchen, looking through her cookbooks, wishing I could cook as well as she did. I was always too busy to learn.
I regret that now.
It’s quiet in the kitchen. The sound of the boiling kettle and the ticking clock from the other room compete to fill the silence, but Will doesn’t say anything.
What’s he thinking? Is he really glad to see me after all this time?
What if he’s moved on?
What if he has a girlfriend now?
The thought makes my throat close up and sweat prick the back of my neck. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting something,” I say quickly.
He turn to look at me, head tipped to the side. “Only bad dreams. Are you OK, Bella?”
I bite down on my lower lip to stem the flow of tears that threaten to fall again. “No. But I will be. I just...” Am I asking too much? Will he say no? “Would you mind if I stay a while? There’s nowhere in the world that makes me feel like I do when I’m here. Like I do when I’m near you. But if things have changed,” I add in a rush, “if you’ve moved on or if you have a girlfriend—” I can’t force myself to say what needs to be said, so I fall silent.
Will approaches the table slowly and sits beside me. “Bella, there’s something I should have told you before. Something that might scare you, but you deserve to know.”
His expression is so serious. My heart is pounding. What could it be?
“Werewolves mate for life.”
I nod, even though I’m still not sure what it means. Is he about to tell me he already has a mate?
Oh god.
“Bella, what I’m trying to say is, you’re mine. My fated mate. I know that might be hard to understand. It’s not a human custom. I held off telling you because I didn’t want to scare you, and I want you to know I’d never force anything on you—”
I wave my hand to cut him off. “Wait. Wait. Are you telling me you waited? For me?”
He scratches the back of his head. “Well... that is...”
I cover my mouth with my hand, unable to speak for a moment. He wants me still? After everything? He waited!
He looks down at his hands clasped on the table. “It’s OK. You don’t have to accept it—”
“Yes!” I blurt.
He looks up, startled.
Suddenly, images of him hounded by the press, by paps haunted by news stories of my sordid past flash through my mind. I hesitate. “I really want to. It’s a lot to process. But I’m not scared. Not like you think.”
“You’re not?”
“No. Trust me. I just need some time to work out if I can be... well... if I can be what you deserve. Because a guy like you deserves someone special.”
He frowns. “Bella you are special. How could you think you’re not that?”
I give him a rueful smile. “There are still some things you don’t know about me.”
Will gives me space all afternoon. Not space from his presence. We sit in comfortable silence, him cooking and me with a cup of tea and a book. When he’s finished baking and the house is full of the warm, sweet smell of cinnamon and pastry, we migrate into the sitting room and Will puts on some quiet music in the background.
He doesn’t ask me questions. He doesn’t push to know what happened. The longer this goes on, the more I want to tell him. The words rise up in my throat multiple times, impatient to be released. But along with the words, a cold fear constricts my chest and leaves me breathless every time I open my mouth.
What will he do when he finds out?
Will he react like so many other people? Will he still want to look at me?
I remember the last time I ever spoke to my dad. The way his face shut down as if he had wiped any softness from his expression as well as his heart. No daughter of mine prostitutes herself on the internet for the world to see.
It doesn’t matter that I tried to explain to him I never consented to the video being shared. That I didn’t even know.
In his books, just the fact I agreed to film it in the first place was proof of my guilt.
I guess maybe there’s a part of me who believes that too.
Eventually, when the shadows are starting to stretch across the room and the latest song on Will’s playlist ends, I clear my throat. “I guess you probably saw the news about me.”
Will sets aside his book. “I saw you pulled out of a few projects.”
“Yeah. I was in hospital for a little while.”
“But you’re OK?”
I don’t know how to answer that. I mean, I’m not. Not really, but I think maybe I could be. With him around. “And you saw the video?”
I really want to look away. I don’t want to watch the warmth fade from his expression. But I force myself to keep eye contact, and a little of my nerves settle when nothing changes.
“What video?”
I swallow. “The uh... the sex tape.”
“Then it was real?” Will shakes his head. “I thought that was just lies.”
I twist the fabric of my shirt through my fingers. “It was real. A stupid mistake I made years ago. Listen, I understand if that changes things—”
He stops me with a hand over mine. He’s crossed the room and now he sits beside me on the sofa. “Why would that change anything?”
“About the way you feel? If you don’t want me anymore.” My voice comes out all choked.
“Oh, Bella. Never. I could never stop wanting you. Not even if you stopped wanting me. That’s just how I’m built. But this? This is nothing. Is that what you were worried about?”
My eyes well up, and it’s hard to see through the tears. I nod.
He pulls me into his arms and squeezes me tight. “That video should never have been shared without your permission. But that doesn’t make you any less worthy. Any less lovely. You’ve got to believe that.”
I cry quietly into his chest and try to. It helps when he strokes my hair. When he places a little kiss on the top of my head.
“Bella, you are stunning. It’s a cliche, but you light up any room you walk into. People are drawn to you. You’re kind and generous, and you are so talented. One stupid video can’t change any of that.”
“Did you watch it?”
He pulls back, searching my face. “I won’t lie. I was tempted to see for myself. In the end, it didn’t feel right. Why? You don’t want me to, do you?”
“No!”
“Then I won’t.”
I can’t put into words everything that deserves to be said right now. How is this amazing guy here with me? “Thank you,” I whisper, wishing I had a script for this. Wishing someone smarter than me had written the words for me to say, so I could make sure I’d nail this scene.
Only it’s not a scene, is it? It’s real life.
No script, no audience, no awards.
No one to tell me if I’m doing it right, and no second take.
Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe he sees the real me and likes her anyway.
Will gives me a tender smile. “Come on. I’m going to draw you a bath and then make us dinner. How do you feel about risotto?”