Chapter 4
Chapter four
Garrett
My hands hover over the typewriter keys, the blank page mocking me.
I know it’s old school to use a typewriter instead of a laptop (I have one of those with me too) but I have always found the click clack of the keys inspiring. And since my debut did so well after being typed on this very machine, I’ve not written a first draft on anything else since.
Right now, though, its mere presence is pissing me off. Taunting me with its silence.
“Come on, Jack. Tell me your story,” I plead with my fictional character. “Give me something, buddy.”
I bang my head on the desk when the only reply that greets me is more silence. Maybe I’ll knock a storyline out if I hit it hard enough against the mahogany surface.
Defeated after an hour of producing nothing, I get up from the small desk and head to the kitchen.
It’s dusk out, the rectangular window above the kitchen sink looking out over the lake. Thanks to the cloud cover, the lake and surrounding treeline look ominous, like something out of a horror film.
“Maybe DI Jack will meet his end at the hands of a killer deep in the woods,” I say out loud, despite my solitude. I hadn’t intended to kill off the well loved character, but if he’s going to continue to be a pain in my derriere, it may well come to that.
Shaking my head against the turn my thoughts have taken, I switch on the oven and throw in a cottage pie I made earlier in the day, not waiting for the oven to preheat.
Then, setting the old school egg shaped timer, I head down the hall and into the bathroom where I strip out of my clothing and climb into the exceptionally tiny shower.
At six foot with broad shoulders and a little extra cushioning around my middle, it’s safe to say this shower was not built for me.
I’m lathering shampoo in my hair when there’s a bang at the front of the house. Turning off the water, soap still covering me, I pause to listen. Nothing.
It must have been a fox or a badger. The brochure in the welcome manual said to be careful of the critters who have a habit of digging through any trash left outside.
I flick the shower back on, finish washing and, once done, climb out and wrap the bath sheet around my waist.
Stepping into the short hallway that runs between the bathroom and the single bedroom, my footsteps falter when I’m certain I hear a voice coming from the kitchen.
Odd. I didn’t leave music playing and I couldn’t find a radio station earlier when I tried.
“How thoughtful,” the voice says, and I close the space between me and the kitchen in a few hurried strides, rounding the partition wall to find a guy leaning over the counter eating my cottage pie straight from the dish!
He’s young, probably early twenties, wearing a hoodie at least three sizes too big for him and bright purple leggings. His blue hair flops in front of his face as he brings a forkful of my dinner to his mouth.
“Who the hell are you, and why are you eating my food?” I bellow.
The guy shrieks, holding the fork out as if it’s a knife he’s using to ward off an intruder.
There’s a hint of fear in his eyes, but it only lasts a heartbeat before those same warm brown eyes, lined with black liner, are trailing my body, landing on the place where the towel is sitting low on my hips.
Then he smiles.
“You scared me for a moment! This is typical Liam. He sent you, didn’t he? He joked I’d find a sexy lumberjack up here.” He flicks his head and his fringe falls to the side.
My brows furrow.
“I’m sorry, what? Who is Liam?”
The guy stabs the fork back into the dish, pushes away from the counter and takes three steps towards me.
“My friend. The one who paid you to be my companion. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” There’s something about the way he says ‘companion’ that has my brows pulling together even harder. I open my mouth to repeat my earlier question about who the hell he is when he holds up a hand to stop me.
“I’m not entirely sure how this all works if I’m honest,” he says, his eyes meeting mine. “You are very good looking.” He bites his bottom lip, giving me an assessing gaze. “I could climb you like a tree. Liam knows my type, that’s for sure.”
What the actual fuck is going on right now? Who is this guy?
“It’s warm in here. Thanks for putting the heating on.
” He removes his hoodie, throwing it on the floor of all places when there was a perfectly good stool next to him to hang it on.
Removing the item leaves him in a black crop top which shows off a smooth sliver of porcelain skin that I can’t pry my eyes off of.
My cheeks heat at the fleeting – unwelcome – thought about what it would feel like to dip my tongue into his navel and…Now I’m distracted. He’s like a little demon creature, causing chaos in my mind while I’m trying to circle back to what he’s doing standing in my space.
“I’m not…” I clear my throat, averting my eyes when he rubs his hand over the naked sliver of skin. “I don’t know any Liam and I have no idea who you are or why you’re in my cottage.”
He squints at me, his lips pursed in confusion.
“You’re the owner? Oh shit, sorry! How embarrassing!
My friend Liam made a comment about me finding a rugged mountain man out here, so I presumed he sent you as a joke!
I wasn’t expecting the owner of said cottage to be here when I arrived.
” He doesn’t stop talking long enough for me to refute his assumption.
“I’m Roman.” There’s a silent duh at the end of his sentence, like I should know exactly who he is.
He gives me a wave. “Roman Otley? My name’s on the reservation. ”
He looks over his shoulder towards the window and then back at me. Something flicks in his gaze, like a realisation has hit him square in the face now that he’s paused his rambling.
“Hold up.” His statement is redundant given I’ve barely moved since walking into the kitchen, but I bite my inner cheek, standing stock still nonetheless. “If you’re the owner, where is your car and why are you only in a towel?”
His mouth falls open, and he takes a step back, reaching behind him to brandish the fork like a weapon again.
“Are you here to kill me? Oh God, I rented a murder cabin. I’ve read about these. Well, only in fiction, but still, they could exist. I have money. Will you not kill me if I give you money? Fuck, I knew the woods were dangerous. Bloody Liam.”
Jesus this guy has no off button.
“I’m not going to kill you!” I yell above his incessant talking, and he slams his mouth shut, looking adorably chastised.
“You didn’t need to yell at me.” And then he pouts because, of course, this is all my fault.
“I’m sorry. I think there’s been some confusion.” I wave a hand around the kitchen.
“I’m not the owner. My name’s Garrett and I rented this cottage for Christmas.”
Roman opens and then closes his mouth while shaking his head.
“No, I rented this cottage for the next few weeks.”
“Maybe you got your dates wrong?”
He shakes his head harder while digging in his pocket and pulling out a sheet of paper. Unfolding it, he holds it out for me.
I take it, my eyes scanning over the words. It’s an email confirmation for his booking. Of this cabin, starting today until the new year.
“Well fuck,” I exclaim, heading out of the kitchen and into the lounge, where I open my laptop and find the confirmation I’d downloaded.
The details are identical.
“You got your dates wrong?”
I just about jump out of my skin, spinning around to find him right behind me, having snuck up as quiet as a mouse. Or a serial killer.
He has to tip his head up to look at me, but he’s so close; I can smell his cinnamon scent and see flecks of amber in his rich brown eyes.
Given our sudden close proximity, I can only deduce that he either has no concept of self-preservation or he’s decided I am not a threat after all.
“No,” I reply, stepping to the side so Roman can see my screen. “It looks like somehow the website has double booked us.”
“Well then, big guy,” he turns to face me, tapping his smaller hand against my naked chest. My eyes dart to his hand and he drops it.
“Best start your trek into the village to find alternative accommodation.”
“And why would I be the one to leave? I got here first,” I ask, taking a step away, suddenly very aware of the fact that I am only in a towel.
Roman props his hands on his hips. “Because I don’t want to.”
“Oh sure, well, in that case, let me get my bags.”
His eyes widen and his lips tip into a grin.
“Really?”
“Fuck no,” I scoff. “Obviously not. I’m not going anywhere. I’m already settled in.”
Roman huffs, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, then rotates on his heel and marches through the cottage to the bedroom where he proceeds to lie on the bed, shoes and all. I can practically feel the germs from them rubbing against my clean sheets.
“Now I’m settled in too,” he mumbles, his face pressed to my pillow.
Oh, he’s a stubborn brat, this one.
A loud crack of thunder chooses that moment to rattle the windows, highlighting the sky moments later with a burst of lightning. Rain batters the glass and I sigh, leaning against the door frame and keeping a distance between me and the chaos kitten.
“You could at least take your shoes off,” I grumble.
He shuffles on the bed, knocking his feet together before two Converse trainers clunk to the floor. Then he rolls over and sits up, his eyes on the storm brewing outside.
“Guess neither of us are leaving tonight.”
“I guess not,” I say. “Could you at least leave the room so I can get dressed?”
His eyes dart from the window to me, making a quick perusal of my still naked chest before he shrugs, pulls the duvet off the bed and, like a toddler, drags it out of the room with him.