Chapter 20
The gift shop doesn’t have period clothing. In fact, they have no clothing at all, not even an apron. They do have tea towels, but we forgo them for the giant bath towels instead that match the rustic blue-and-white pattern of the wallpapers we saw in the great sitting room. Probably meant to be treasured… and not soiled by pond scum.
The staff and other tourists throw us curious looks. I give everyone a wide smile and move closer to Harper. Even with my shirt around her shoulders, the dress sticks to everything. I try very hard not to look and yet, of course, I notice everything, her curves, the indentation of her ass, her underwear transparent through the see-through wet dress.
I pay for the towels and drop a fifty-pound note into the donation jar next to the cash register. The sales clerk is staring wide-eyed at my shirtless and drenched form.
“Had an accident on the pond,” I say loud enough for everyone in the store to hear. Shove another fifty into the jar. “The water quality is excellent, by the way. Good job on that.”
The cashier dips her head in a tiny nod. “Uh-huh.”
Harper’s hand curls around mine, and she tugs me out of the store. “Come on,” she says with a chuckle. “We were dripping on the centuries-old stone floor.”
“It’s probably seen worse,” I say. “Actually, it’s definitely seen worse.”
“Yes, but those people in there haven’t.”
“I doubt we’ll be allowed back here,” I say.
She wraps one of the towels around herself. It covers her soaked dress entirely. Her hair is wet, too, the curls just starting to dry around her face. There’s a light smudge of black under one of the eyes from her makeup, and I want to reach out and wipe it away.
“What a shame,” she says happily. “The weird Americans who came in a sports car, fell into the pond, and destroyed the gift shop.”
“We donated to the continuation of this beautiful estate,” I correct her. “Tested the pond’s pH levels, and left a memorable impression on these beautiful folks.”
Harper rolls her eyes. “Come on. Let’s drip all over your Italian leather seats.”
“Well, I don’t like that idea.”
She laughs. “Do you have a better option?”
“No,” I say and nudge her shoulder with mine. It’s safer to look at her now, when the shape of her body isn’t so brilliantly on display and making my brain short-circuit. “Let’s go find some rice.”
At the local supermarket, people stare at us, too. A little girl comments about us walking around in towels and is quickly hushed by her parents. We find rice, and then Harper stumbles on a small clothing section. I pick up a pair of striped pajama pants, sold in a cardboard box. “Did you know stores sell both food and clothes?”
Harper chuckles from where she’s digging through a bin of T-shirts. “Yes, I did. Big stores like this usually do.”
“Huh.”
“I’m not surprised you don’t know that,” she says. Her voice is teasing again, and she tugs on the towel to keep it in place. “How often do you grocery shop?”
“Never.”
“Mm-hmm, not surprised.” She fishes out a small package with a grin. “Awesome. This fleece sweater is even on sale.”
“Planning on wearing it to the gallery?”
“Yes, I think it’ll look great paired with heels.” She looks over at the pajama pants in my hands. “Is that what you’re getting?”
“There are no normal pants.”
“There aren’t?”
“No.” I grab a pack of dry underwear and a gray T-shirt. “Come on, let’s get out of here. You must be cold by now.”
She shrugs a little and doesn’t look too bothered. There’s a bright glow in her eyes. “Looking forward to seeing you drive a sports car in tartan-print pajama pants.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’ve both changed in the small restroom by the entrance. Our cell phones are shut off and buried deep inside the bag of rice in hopes of pulling out the moisture. Damned fucking inconvenient, considering our phones were also our maps. This little diversion certainly made the time pass, and although it’s still bright outside, my watch reads almost seven, and May daylight won’t last forever. It’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive back to London.
Harper chews on a granola bar she bought at the store. She looks… Well, it’s hard to look away. She’s sitting on one of the metal chairs by the entrance, her hair damp and wild around her face, drowning in a too-large sweatshirt and munching on a chocolaty snack.
She looks adorable.
“Sure you don’t want one?” She reaches into the package for another bar.
“I’m sure,” I say. “We can stop somewhere on the way home and eat. It’s a long drive.”
“Does your car have GPS?”
“It’s a vintage Aston Martin,” I say dryly.
She raises an eyebrow. “I have no clue if that means a yes or no.”
“It means no. But the roadsigns should be pretty self-explanatory. All roads lead to Rome, and all that.”
She stands, and we head out to the parking lot. It’s sheer impulse that has me wrapping my arm around her shoulders. “Not how you expected the day trip to go, huh?”
Harper shrugs. The movement sends shivers up my arm. “No. But… this was infinitely more memorable.”
“Too bad we didn’t get a picture of the moment the boat tipped. Would your mom have liked that?”
She laughs. “Probably! I would have, that’s for sure. Honestly, a water snake? In an idyllic pond? That’s just rude.”
“We probably bothered it.”
“You might be right about that. But I still feel like it was unnecessary to come so close to the boat.” She shivers again. “I can’t believe I touched it.”
“Lucky it didn’t bite,” I say.
She pushes me away with a laugh. “Don’t even bring that up, or I won’t be able to sleep.”
We get in the car and hit the road, and Harper plays around with the radio dial. There’s a bag of chips on her lap, and she hands me a few every now and then. It’s surprisingly…
Domestic.
Somehow we fall into that often, her and I. Friends. That’s what she wants. But there’s something about the calm, comfortable domesticity of us two that shimmers with so much more than that.
With something I haven’t had in a very long time.
Harper settles on a station that plays old rock music. The road takes a sharp turn, and I follow along, zipping past low hedges. The sun has started to set. It’s painting the sky an amazing shade of orange, and it’ll be at least another forty minutes before true darkness sets in.
I hope we make it to the highway by then.
But my hopes are quickly deflated.
“I don’t think this is the right road,” Harper says carefully. We’re driving through a small village, cute enough, but without any signs pointing us back to the main highway or London.
I slow the car to a crawl and look out for any passersby. There are none.
The hamlet is picturesque, like so much of the English countryside. Crumbling brick hedges, ivy, oak trees. White limewashed houses with black wooden framings. A tiny church at the center of the village, so small that it couldn’t have accommodated a person over the exact population of this place. Maybe it never needed to.
“We might be lost,” I admit.
Harper chuckles. “Dean would never have said that, even if we were.”
The casual comparison to Dean throws me off. I glance at Harper, but she looks perfectly calm, leaning forward to try to read any roadsigns.
“My ego isn’t that fragile,” I say cautiously.
She chuckles. “No, it’s not fragile at all. We could try to turn on a phone to check Google Maps?”
“We could. But I’m not sure it’s worth the risk, not yet. This village looks empty.”
“It’s probably dinner time. Everybody inside.”
“Or there’s nothing to do. It’s abandoned.”
“It’s not. Look, there are flower pots over there.”
That makes me chuckle. “Right. Well, we should probably go back to the main road, where we started.”
I turn around near the small town square and backtrack to the country road. The gravel makes the tires spin, just slightly, before they find their grip.
As I accelerate around a curve, there’s a sharp, violent jolt through the car. I hit the brakes immediately. Harper gives a small shriek, her hands reaching out to brace against the dashboard.
“What the fuck was that?” I ask. The car is in top condition. I hire someone just to maintain my cars. He comes every other week and checks over everything. Tops up the fluids and gas, washes and polishes exteriors, details the insides. The engine of each vehicle always runs smoothly—my maintenance guy is meticulous about oil changes—and I know for a fact my tires are in good shape.
“That didn’t sound good,” Harper breathes.
“That was a tire,” I say with a sinking suspicion. Fucking pothole.
I just know it. But we’re stopped in the middle of the road, so I carefully give it a bit of gas and pull the car to a grassy patch on the side. Right next to the houses we were keen to leave behind.
The car protests.
My soul hurts.
And it’s all confirmed as soon as I get out of my seat. The front right tire, once in mint condition, is deflated. The black rubber is torn, and along the jagged seam, the fibers are flayed.
“Harper,” I call out. My voice is calm, despite the frustration burning in my gut. I should have chosen the Land Rover after all. “Did you see an inn in this little village? Because we’re going to have to spend the night.”
There is an inn.
Harper saw it on our drive through, and after locking the car and grabbing our stuff, we trudge toward it. It’s located right next to the tiny church.
The Crown Bed and Breakfast.
It’s an old stone structure with a single car parked outside. So someone should be inside. And indeed… someone is. She doesn’t look up when we come in through the door, despite the little bell that gladly announces our arrival.
“Percy, is that you?” the woman asks and flips another page of the newspaper. Short gray hair curls around her head, and a pair of red frame glasses rest on her nose. Her rolling accent is stronger than I’ve heard down in London. “I think the Harcourts are dropping by tomorrow with the new bed. Did you clear out the yellow room?”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Harper says, “but we’re not Percy.”
The woman looks up from her spot behind the wooden counter. The decor is all English countryside, with floral wallpaper and carpeted floors.
Her eyes widen. “Oh my! I can see that you’re not. My apologies. Have you come for a room?” There’s an almost hopeful note in her voice.
“Yes,” I say. “We had an accident just around the corner, blew out a tire on the car. We won’t be able to get it replaced until tomorrow.”
“Oh, dear,” the old lady says with a shake of her head. “That’s a shame. Well, we’ve got room for you. And hot food if you’d like, though you’d have to pop down to Ethan’s two streets over to pick something up. Unless he’s closed the kitchen early tonight. He does that sometimes if there’s a good program on telly.”
I blink at her. What a way to run a business. “We might attempt that later. Could we check in? I think we’re both in need of a shower. If you have a phone, too, I’d love to borrow it and make the calls for the car.”
“Of course! Come, come, let’s get you sorted.”
I lay my credit card flat on the counter. Harper looks around with those bottomless eyes, taking in the reception space, peering through the doorway to a room beside it. It’s traditionally decorated… but there’s an industrial table saw in the middle instead of the dining room table.
Renos?
The lady grabs a key from behind the counter. “We have the largest room available for you.”
I clear my throat. “We need two rooms, please.”
She pauses, and a frown mars her face. “Oh. I’m so sorry, dearies, but we only have one available.”
“Is the place fully booked?” Harper asks. It’s a wonder she can keep the disbelief out of her voice.
This place is deserted.
“No, no,” the innkeeper says with a little laugh. “We’re renovating. We have five rooms, you see, but there was some water leakage a few years back, and then, well....” She waves a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Permits, building companies, you know. Things take time. Right now, there’s just one that’s fully ready. I’m Edith, and my husband is Percy. We run this place.” She blinks at us from behind her red frame, smile back in place. “Would you like to see the room, at least? It’s quite lovely and spacious.”
My brain is short-circuiting again.
It happens so quickly and so frequently around Harper that I haven’t gotten a proper handle on it, yet. I should have, after all these years, but now it’s disintegrating.
Spending the night together.
She won’t want that. I look down at her, needing to see her eyes. But she’s looking right at the lady. “Thank you,” Harper says warmly. “We’d love to see it, and if there’s only one room available, that’s what we’ll take.”
Something reaches inside my chest and grips tightly. It makes it hard to breathe.
Harper follows the woman, and I trail after them both through the claustrophobically narrow hallway. Paintings hang on the walls—canvas after canvas of men and women on horseback and English landscapes.
The room isn’t large.
There’s a four-poster bed in the center with a paisley pattern on the cover, a window overlooking surrounding fields and the setting sun, and a door to what must be a bathroom.
And a single chair in the corner.
“This is it,” the lady says warmly. “Please make yourself at home. I’ll be in the lobby for at least another two hours, come down whenever you like to borrow the phone. We don’t have a mechanic around here, or I’d be ringing a repair shop right this minute.”
“Thank you,” I say woodenly. My eyes can’t seem to look away from the bed.
“Really, thank you so much,” Harper says sweetly. “For the help. We’ll be down in a bit.”
The innkeeper steps out and closes the door in her wake. It shuts with a soft, near-silent click, but I hear it like it was a gunshot.
“Well,” Harper says. She takes a few steps forward and sets down the small bag from the grocery store. “I guess this is home for tonight.”