Chapter 8 Theodore #2
I knew he was only winding me up—that goddamn twinkle was back in his eyes again, the corners of them doing the crinkly thing.
I turned off the motorway, navigating down increasingly narrow country lanes. Each twist in the road seemed to heighten Rory’s restlessness. His fingers drummed against the dashboard, tapping out an irregular rhythm.
He’d somehow managed to resist asking the “are we nearly there yet” that looped around his mind.
Finally, we pulled into a tiny village—barely more than a cluster of stone buildings huddled around a single main street. The sign for “Heather’s Haven B&B” swung gently in the evening breeze, its paint faded but welcoming.
I parked in the small gravel lot beside the building. Rory was out of the car before I’d even switched off the engine. He remained outside as I entered the B&B’s tiny reception room to find it empty.
After ringing the small brass bell, I cast my eyes over the numerous tourism leaflets scattered all over the place.
Through the window, Rory stretched his arms above his head like he was trying to touch the sky.
The fading sunlight caught in his hair, turning it to gold as he tilted his face upward, eyes closed.
“Can I help you?”
I almost jumped out of my skin. Turning, I found a cheery-looking woman behind the desk.
“We need rooms for the night,” I said, glancing back through the window where Rory had wandered over to examine a weathered stone wall, running his fingers along the moss-covered surface.
“Beautiful view, isn’t it?” the receptionist said, and I snapped my attention back to her.
“Yes…”
“How many rooms?” she asked, tapping at her computer. “We have two left.”
I hesitated, then felt confused at myself for hesitating. “Umm… yes, two…”
What the hell was that pause for? I needed two rooms. Of course I needed two rooms. One for me, one for Rory. Separate. As they should be.
The receptionist looked at me curiously, her gaze drifting to the window where Rory was visible. Her eyes flicked between us, a small smile forming on her lips.
“You sure about that?” She winked. “You don’t look sure.”
“Yes, I’m—”
She suddenly started bashing her keyboard with theatrical force.
“Oh, silly me! Honestly, I think I need my eyesight checked. I’m afraid we actually have just the one room available, sir.
With one bed.” At this, she sighed dramatically.
“Though it is queen-sized.” Another wink, more obvious this time.
I stood there, stunned into silence, as she slid a key across the counter. My brain offered precisely zero helpful responses. I should have corrected her. I should have insisted on checking elsewhere. I should have done anything except stand there like an idiot while she assumed Rory and I were—
Christ. How was Rory going to react?
“Breakfast is served between seven and nine,” she continued cheerfully, then proceeded to witter on about this and that, including countryside walks and the dinner menu that evening.
I nodded mechanically, my fingers closing around the key as my brain struggled to catch up with what had just happened.
Tell her you need the other room. But my mouth refused to form the words, and my tired brain started replaying the entire scenario, wondering if maybe I’d imagined the winking, that she did only have one room after all.
I stepped outside, the key heavy in my hand. Rory had wandered over to a small patch of grass where Freddy was now scampering around his feet, the ferret’s matted fur almost blending with the ground.
“We’ve got a slight problem,” I called out.
Rory looked up. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s only one room available.” I held up the key, dangling it between us like evidence at a crime scene. “With, um, one bed.”
His eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Rory shrugged. “It’s fine. I’ll sleep in the car.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, the words tumbling out sharply. The image of him curled uncomfortably in the back seat made my chest prickle. When had I started caring about Rory Thorne’s comfort? “You’re not sleeping in the bloody car.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.” Something dark flashed across his features.
“We’ll manage with the one room. It’ll be fine.”
Rory studied my face for a moment, then whistled for Freddy, who scurried up his leg and into his pocket with surprising agility for something half decomposed.
“Fine,” he conceded. “But you’re not sleeping on the floor or whatever. I’m not letting you play the martyr and then sulk about it.”
For fuck’s sake, what have I done?
If I hadn’t been tired from driving all day, I would have managed that situation like a normal human being.
Or perhaps I was losing my mind. Because for a split second, when she’d winked at me, there’d been a flash of… something. Not revulsion. Not horror. Just a brief, treacherous thought of what it might be like to—
No. Absolutely not. I was overtired. That was all.
Yet the receptionist’s knowing smile continued to haunt me as we trudged upstairs to room seven, grabbing two vile-looking coffees from a vending machine en route.
The room was small but cosy—floral wallpaper, wooden beams crossing the ceiling, and a queen-sized bed dominating the space. A tiny bathroom was visible through a door to the right.
One bed. One very clearly not-quite-large-enough bed for two grown men to share without some level of proximity.
I swallowed hard, the room shrinking around me.
Or maybe it was just that Rory, already peering at the view out of the window, seemed to fill whatever space he occupied with his energy, his movement, his very presence.
The door clicked shut, and Freddy jumped out of Rory’s pocket and started weaving around in mad circles. Rory headed to the bed and began stripping it of its excess pillows. I watched, confused, as he arranged them in a neat line down the middle of the mattress, creating a barrier.
“There,” he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Now we can both sleep in the bed without a repeat of the octopus situation.”
“Yes,” I said dryly. I’m sure this was exactly what the receptionist had in mind.
I should have felt relieved. This was practical. Sensible. Problem solved with minimal fuss. So why did I feel a strange disappointment at the sight of that pillow barrier? It was ridiculous. I should be grateful for Rory’s unexpectedly mature handling of the situation.
I set my bag down with more force than necessary. Tomorrow we’d reach his family’s estate, and this strange, confusing day would be behind us. One night. I could survive one night sharing a bed with Rory Thorne.
Couldn’t I?
“We’ll have to share a bed when we get there anyway,” said Rory.
I stared at him, my brain struggling to process his words. “What?”
“You know, because of the whole couple thing? I’m not sure we’re going to be particularly convincing if we insist on sleeping in two rooms.” His tone was casual, almost flippant, but I caught the flash of fear in his eyes.
“Oh, right. Yes.”
My stomach dropped as the reality of our situation crashed over me, my pulse quickening.
We’d be sharing a bed not just tonight, but potentially for days.
Nights upon nights of lying beside him, separated by nothing but a flimsy barrier of pillows—if that.
The thought sent a confusing jolt of what felt like nerves through me.
But who wouldn’t be nervous spending that much time with someone who hated you?
“There will be a sofa or something, though,” Rory added. “We can take turns. Or you can just have the bed because you are doing me a favour after all.”
Is that how he saw me accompanying him? As if I were some reluctant participant, dragged along against my will?
“I’m being paid to come with you,” I pointed out, slightly clipped.
Rory pulled a very strange expression before looking away. “Yeah, I know.”
Silence fell awkwardly between us. For some reason, it felt like I’d said the wrong thing entirely.
I cleared my throat. “It’ll be dark soon, and you can go for a run.”
Rory’s face brightened instantly, the tension draining from his shoulders. It was remarkable how quickly his mood could shift.
I hesitated, then added, “Can I… come with you?”
Rory’s eyes widened, and he blinked rapidly. “Okay,” he said after a moment, the single word carrying a weight of surprise. Then his eyes bulged, and he shouted, “Fuck!”
I twisted to see Freddy nose deep in the small paper coffee cup, which I’d taken one sip of and rejected. The ferret’s matted grey tail twitched with alarming enthusiasm.
“Quick!” Rory scrambled to his feet. “You know what he’s like on caffeine!”
I lunged, but Freddy, sensing the approaching threat to his beverage consumption, leapt straight up into the air with supernatural agility. Coffee droplets scattered across the floral wallpaper as he sailed past my outstretched hands.
“Gotcha!” I made another grab for him, but the little bastard twisted mid-air and sank his yellowed teeth deep into the flesh between my thumb and forefinger.
“ARGH!” The scream tore from my throat as white-hot pain shot up my arm. Freddy dangled from my hand like some demented Christmas ornament, his glowing yellow eyes rolling back in what looked suspiciously like bliss.
I shook my hand frantically, trying to dislodge him, but his jaw had locked with rigor mortis determination. “Get him off!” I shouted, dancing around the small room like I was being electrocuted.
Rory rushed over, but instead of helping me, he immediately started cooing at the ferret. “Oh, Freddy, sweetheart. You naughty boy. Let go of the nice man.”
I stared at him incredulously, still trying to shake Freddy loose. “I’m bleeding!”
He only gently stroked Freddy’s fur whilst the creature remained firmly attached to my hand.
“RORY!” I bellowed.
“What?” He looked up at me with genuine confusion, as if it were perfectly normal to prioritise a zombie ferret’s emotional wellbeing over a human bite wound.