Chapter 3
Three
EVIE
“ I t’s a freaking lighthouse,” I utter as my gaze darts around the large circular space.
A genuine, real-life lighthouse. Stunned, I stand with my bag in hand.
A door slams behind me, and I twist to see Callum pass by the tiny window of the small cottage connected to the lighthouse by a gravel path.
He stops in his tracks and tugs a tattered curtain past the frame, disappearing from view.
Okay then.
I spin back, taking in the cozy surroundings.
The ground floor has a kitchen, a fireplace, a wide shelf stuffed with books, a worn blue sofa, and a coffee table that looks absolutely handmade.
It’s full of natural light, with three generous porthole-shaped windows with black shutters.
The curved interior walls are whitewashed stone.
The light fixtures look like something from an old maritime movie.
I guess this is the essence of man living among the sea, so it fits.
That brings me back to the fact I’m alone on an island with a stranger. A man I know nothing about. Surely, Livvy wouldn’t have arranged this if he could be a problem, right?
Still, there’s nobody else here.
Just me.
And him.
The recent stalker letters have my nerve up, sending an anxious knot tightening in my stomach.
Forcing my mind anywhere but fear, I take a second glance at my home for the next nine months.
Past the sofa, a spiral staircase leads to the next level.
Dropping my bag, I head for the twisty treads.
Their black metal glints in the sunshine pouring in.
Grabbing the curved rail, I make my way up the treads with my gaze stuck above me.
A moment later, I’m on a landing of sorts.
A large spiral staircase curls up the inside of the lighthouse, heading to what I assume is the very top.
On the other side is a door. I turn the knob and let it fall open to find the bedroom, wood-paneled and homey.
A large, antique-looking cast iron bed sits in the center, made up with a light grey duvet and navy pillows.
A porthole window is above the headboard, and two small wooden nightstands flank it.
A low-hanging light that looks like something made from a recycled buoy is suspended over the enormous bed.
Another fireplace, smaller and on stone tiles, sits in the curved corner space.
A small desk stands under the only other window.
A rustic wardrobe and an old wooden chair are the only other items in the room.
Crossing the room, I open the window. The round metal-framed glass swings open easily.
A great span of sea with choppy waves crashing into the beachy shoreline fills the scene.
You can see forever from here. A never-ending swash of blue.
The ocean meets the steady blue of the horizon.
It’s serene. Vast. Making me feel smaller than ever.
I inhale and let the sea air flood my lungs.
It’s amazing.
Maybe this is the place where I’ll finally be able to write. Finally move on.
The desk is neat, mostly bare, only sporting a small wooden cup with three pens and a worn carpenter pencil. A wooden box sits on the other side, its brass clasp shut tight. I close the window, leaving it how I found it, and try the only other door in the room.
It opens to a small bathroom with a pedestal vanity and a clawfoot tub and brass showerhead. Black-and-white tiles that look well cared for cover the floor. A small wooden cabinet, no higher than the vanity, sits between the toilet and the shower. It’s quaint. Clean.
Lovely.
I pad back downstairs and stand in the center of the room.
For the first time in five years, the weight on my chest anchoring me down is gone. Like somehow, I escaped out from under it by changing location. Maybe it’s the thrill of my new surroundings.
Maybe this is what moving on feels like?
My stomach grumbles.
Damn, I’d been so focused on finding the cottage, I forgot to grab groceries. Wandering to the fridge, I pull it open. Beer, condiments, something in a casserole dish that looks like stew, and a chunk of cheese sit on the otherwise bare shelves.
“Shit,” I mutter.
I hunt around the rest of the kitchen, hoping for coffee at the bare minimum.
Nope, no coffee.
A small canister of sugar. Some pantry staples and half a loaf of very stale-looking bread.
Ugh. This means I have to make a trip back to the mainland, and soon.
I can barely function without coffee and regular snacks, let alone write a ninety-thousand-word novel with high-concept world-building and an original magic system woven around a romance arc that will knock the readers’ socks off.
“Well, that’s just great.”
I turn back to look around. I’ll unpack first. Then go ask about the food situation.
Sounds like a plan.
I haul my bags upstairs, dropping one on the chair and the other by the desk. I start unpacking my clothes. With an armful, I manage to open the wardrobe.
It’s full of clothes.
Man clothes.
Double shit.
“Well, this is awkward.” I turn to dump my clothes back on the bed. Movement catches my eye.
Callum stands in the bedroom doorway, a crate in his hands and a scowl that would scare the feathers off a gull plastered all over his face.
“This is your stuff? I?—”
He shoves past me and goes about tossing his belongings into the crate.
I stand rooted to the spot as he clears out the room before disappearing into the bathroom.
With his crate loaded, he walks out and trudges down the spiral stairs.
I follow, desperate to ask about the food, to apologize for the inconvenience I’ve obviously imposed on him.
He stalks to the bookshelf, tossing a handful of tomes on top of his already overflowing cargo. Next, he tugs open a kitchen cupboard and takes a handful of things. The last item he grabs is a navy tin mug.
“I’m sorr?—”
He flicks me a glance that looks more like a warning than acknowledgement, and I close my mouth.
But I need groceries and to not feel like I’ve hunted him out of his home. I move a little closer, hands wringing my shirt, and decide to try again.
When I open my mouth to say something, nothing comes as he stalks for the front door.
It slams a second later, and I stand staring at it. No closer to figuring out this mess I have found myself in.
“Great, thanks a bunch, Livvy.”
Good lord, it’s going to be a long nine months.
With a belly full of cold stew and stale bread, I lay on the bed, not game to breach the covers and lay in the man smell that shrouds this room.
With a heavy blanket I found downstairs, I huddle up against the East Coast winter.
It’s been a long, long time since I was among anything masculine. It’s heady. A little nerve-racking.
Staring up at the ceiling and studying the design of the upcycled light fixture, I try to outline a plan for the next few weeks. So far, I have three chapters. A measly six thousand words into a ninety-thousand-word project.
Rolling over, I glance at the night sky through the window. The stars seem as if they are hanging just outside, so low you could touch them. Waves crash outside the open window, lulling me into a mesmerized state. A stark contrast to the noise, the sirens, the chaos of the city.
The lights in the little cottage were out before I even threw together my makeshift supper.
I don’t recall them coming on at all, now that I think of it.
Maybe he’s one of those “to bed with the birds” types.
Most likely will be up before the sun. A polar opposite to the night owl I’ve become as a writer.
I roll over without thinking. His scent hits me.
Like a ton of bricks.
Memories of having a man in my bed rush back like the punishing waves on the rocks outside.
Joshua.
The pang that used to turn to unbearable agony stays just that, a pang.
Letting my eyes drift shut, I breathe in the salty air like it can heal my wounds from the inside out.
But my mind won’t slow, and my heart thumps heavily. I need to make this work. What other options do I have? Writing is all I’ve ever done, ever wanted to do. I have no useful real-life skills. Not one. Starting again from scratch would be painful, to say the least.
I toss the blanket off and grab my robe from the end of the bed. With the moon high over the lighthouse, shining its silver spears over the polished wood floor, I take out my laptop and place it on the small desk. My phone buzzes, the screen lighting up.
A text from Allie.
She’d be up still. Always my nocturnal companion.
I lift my phone, and the service disappears.
The screen says SOS. No service.
Great.
I decide to stick with the inspiration that hauled me out of the warm comfort of the bed and ignore her. Opening the laptop, I fire it up and wait for the telltale ping of a trillion emails and updates.
Nothing comes.
I check my phone.
Two bars . . .
I hold it up, moving side to side. A bar disappears. Then both ghost me. SOS stares back at me.
Again.
Shit.
Wait. There’s no Wi-Fi?
I didn’t even think of that.
Hell.
That absolutely puts a damper on my research abilities. Making my laptop useful for one thing only. Writing.
Huh. This must have been Livvy’s plan all along.
How villainess of her. I shove my hands through my hair and let it hang.
Right, so, taking stock.
I’m isolated on an island with a stranger.
A stranger who is a man, and older than me by a fair bit.
I’m down to rations and living in someone else’s home.
I have no Wi-Fi or contact with the outside world.
No way off the island, because who am I kidding? I can’t drive a car without incident, let alone a boat.
And the one other person on this island hasn’t spoken a word to me since we met.
With those pleasant thoughts, I shrink into the only safe place I know. My imagination.
Pulling up my writing project, I’m determined to make the most of this.
I keep coming back to the fact that Livvy sent me here.
She would have known the lay of the land, so to speak.
If she thinks I can get this book done without the distraction of the city, the hustle and bustle, Wi-Fi, and other people, who am I to say otherwise?
I read the last few paragraphs of the last chapter I wrote, pulling my outline up to refresh my memory. Oh, that’s right, the two MCs just met. Realized they are enemies. Blah, blah, blah. Okay... time to up the stakes. I tie up my hair in a this-means-business messy bun.
My hands fly over the keyboard as the night wears on, the moon rising higher and higher before it finally peaks and starts to plummet.
The small clock on the desk ticks, the only other sound in the dim moonlit room. I shiver and reach over to close the window. The blanket from the bed finds its way around my shoulders, and I write on.
I get caught up in the fantasy world of my characters. The angst and the stakes. The banter and the high-octane emotions. As sleep tugs at my eyelids, I finish the paragraph and scroll up to read it over. Resting my chin in my palms, I yawn. I’ll check it over once more and call it a night.
Just once more.