Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Roman
As the sun sets on our second night in the cottage together, the storm is worse than it was before.
The wind has taken a tree down, the thick trunk laying across the cobbled pathway leading to the front door, and the rain has morphed into heavy hail pieces that feel not dissimilar to paintballs hitting your skin.
I know, because I went outside to see what it would feel like.
Now, I’m laying on my stomach on the rug in front of the fire, a game of solitaire laid out in front of me.
There’s a Christmas tune playing, acting as background music to the clicky-clack of Garrett’s typewriter.
He hasn’t taken a break since I joined him in the lounge.
Even when I invited him to come outside with me.
My stomach grumbles and I abandon my card game, rolling onto my back and staring up at the ceiling, much like I did the night before while trying to sleep.
Which reminds me, I have another night on the sofa.
I grimace, remembering how awful the night before was, listening to the creepy sounds of nature in all her frightful glory right outside my window.
“Do you want something to eat?” I ask Garrett. He twists away from his typewriter, stretching out his fingers as he looks at me. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck while answering.
“That would be nice. Do you…” his eyes dart away and he clears his throat. “Do you know how to cook?”
I sit up, then push to my feet, leaving my game and half drunk mug of Assam tea – the perfect brew for rainy afternoons – on the floor where I was lying.
My hoodie is scrunched up into a ball, having stripped it off when I got too hot, leaving me in my favourite blue crop top and leggings.
I notice how Garrett’s eyes dip to my navel before focusing back on my face.
“Because of egg-gate this morning, you think I can’t cook?”
I can’t, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Maybe?” He gives me a sheepish grin.
“Well, you’re wrong.” He’s not. “I am a pro at cooking. I can make…” He stares at me intently, waiting for me to finish my reply. “A lot of things. Toad in the hole, spotted dick, bangers and mash, Welsh rarebit.”
“Are you just listing British meals?” Garrett asks, a smile playing on his lips.
“No, I’m detailing my specialties.” Oh, for fuck’s sake Roman, stop. But I can’t. I’m on a roll now. “Jam roly-poly, bubble and squeak…”
Garrett laughs. “Okay, I get it. You’re a very talented chef.”
“I am. I am very talented in many things.” I give him a suggestive wink, then leave the room with absolutely no fucking clue how to make anything I listed.
Moving through the kitchen like the master chef that I am pretending to be, I throw together four slices of toast, top them with warmed up baked beans (thank God for the microwave) and then sprinkle with salt and pepper.
It doesn’t feel finished, and I want to make a good impression.
Because as much as I was annoyed at first that he was in this cottage too, I admittedly like Garrett’s company.
Even if he keeps mostly to himself while he works, his presence is comforting.
Opening the fridge, I find a block of mature cheddar cheese which I grate over the top and voila – dinner fit for a king.
Garrett is still typing away when I return to the lounge. He ignores me when I call his name, so zoned into his writing that he doesn’t even notice my approach.
“Gare Bear, dinner is ready,” I say, tapping him on the shoulder.
His hands halt, and he looks up at me, blinking a few times before speaking.
“Oh, thanks.”
I don’t move back as he stands – the action brings us chest to chest. I hesitate for a moment, my eyes tracking the movement of his tongue as he wets his lips.
He smells like candy apples and woodsy fire and I’m pretty sure I lean a little closer to get a better whiff.
My breath catches in my throat when he places a hand on my forearm, his warm hazel eyes meeting mine.
“Shall we eat?” he asks, his voice low and husky.
The place where he’s touching me tingles, like little electric pulses sparking beneath my skin, and it takes me a heartbeat or two before I’m able to answer.
“Yeah. Come on.”
Garrett follows me into the kitchen, settling into the seat next to me at the counter.
“This looks perfect, thank you,” he says. His voice is warm and genuine and I preen inside, the praise doing something whirly to my stomach.
“Your writing seems to be going well,” I say, around a bite of toast.
Garrett puts down his fork and turns towards me, his leg bumping mine as he does.
“It is. Better than it has in months. It’s funny, I always wrote my main character to be so like me.
Reserved, a little closed off, a stickler for the rules.
My ex boyfriend would say boring, but that never bothered my fans.
” My mind snags on the word ‘ex-boyfriend’ because that answers a question I had, but I don’t let it wander for long because he’s still talking and I enjoy getting to know him better.
“Readers love his character,” Garrett continues, “and while I’m not changing who he is – the same way, I wouldn’t change who I am – he’s taking more risks in this last part of the series. He’s more daring than he’s ever been before.”
Garrett’s cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink, and he scratches a hand over his beard.
“Sorry, I was waffling. In short, yes, the writing is going well. This cottage is definitely my muse.”
I consider his words. He’s getting done what he set out to do here, which is far more productive than anything I’ll accomplish. Maybe I don’t need this little cottage as much as he does. I know I don’t want him to lose the inspiration this place has brought him.
“I can leave,” I blurt out. “You stay. When the storm is over, I’ll find somewhere else to go.”
Garrett looks over my head, out the window, and then back at me.
“You’d do that?” His bright eyes sparkle and he bites his bottom lip. The move is so fucking sexy and I want to lean forward and save his lip from his teeth. Or slide my thumb into his mouth or… No. I will not flirt with or hit on Garrett. I will behave.
I will try to behave.
I will aim to try to behave.
“It’s fine,” I say with a shrug, all cool, nonchalant, and playful. “You stay. Crank out that bestseller. Just be sure to thank me for my generosity, in the acknowledgments.”
“Thank you.” He touches my arm again. It’s brief, a quick connection of skin on skin, but the feeling lingers long after we’ve finished eating and he’s retreated to the shower and then to bed.
I hate nature. That is the conclusion I have come to as I lie awake for the second night, listening to the noises outside the cottage.
I don’t mind them during the day, when it’s light out and I’m not alone.
I’ve already decided that when I can go into the village to find some place else to stay, it won’t be this isolated.
It’s stopped raining, but that only means that I can hear the wind clearer now. And it is howling. Eerie whistling sneaks in through the gaps in the windowpanes, haunting me as I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m certain I hear the scratch of claws against the wooden front door.
I forgot to ask Garrett what lives in these woods and my mind is running away from me with possibilities. I’m pretty sure Bigfoot lives in America and not Yorkshire, but when there’s a loud thud against the window, I am suddenly doubting myself.
Panic creeps into my chest, my skin itching like it’s stretching around my bones and pulling until I tear at the seams. My stomach churns and I take in a deep, unsteady breath.
You’re okay. It’s just the wind. You’re safe in here.
I close my eyes and try to think of happy things. Waterparks with Liam, Christmas displays in department stores, eating dinner earlier with Garrett. But all my mind wants to do is focus on my worst memory.
Waking up late one night when I was twelve.
It had been raining that day. The wind was howling just as fiercely as it is now.
I was scared then, too. Scared not only because I was alone but because my mom should have been home by that time.
She should have woken me with a kiss when she came in from work at the bar.
But the display on my clock radio said it was two am and still her room sat empty.
I’d hoped she was staying safe somewhere out of the rain until she could cycle home, but the opening of the front door and the look on my aunt’s stricken face a few hours later told me all I needed to know.
A sheet of lightning blazes across the sky, sending a glow through the room and casting eery shadows on the walls of the cottage. It’s followed shortly by a loud boom that I feel deep in my chest. I clutch my weighted blanket tighter, holding it with fingers that ache from the pressure.
My teeth chatter, a result of the panic, and I sit up at the next blast of thunder.
I hate it here. Liam was wrong. This was a terrible idea.
And while I have never loved my house back in London, I wish I was there.
With its thick walls and double-glazed windows and neighbours only a short distance away.
Tightening the blanket around me, I stand and tip-toe down the hallway, to the door of the bedroom. I shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t intrude on his space anymore, but I’m tired and I’m scared and, for once in my life, the loneliness is too much to bear.
Pushing the door open further, I whisper, “Garrett.”
No answer.
“Garrett?” I say a little louder. The room is dark, no light coming through the cracks in the curtains, but enough from behind me I can see the shape of him on the bed.
“Garrett!”
“Hmm,” he grumbles.
One hand grips my blanket, and I rub the back of my neck with the other.
“Can I, um…can I sleep in here with you?” The question has heat streaking across my cheeks. It’s utterly ridiculous having to ask him this.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Garrett asks, his voice sleep rough and the blankets shuffling as he sits up before switching on the bedside light.
He’s topless again – which I was not expecting – and I respectfully look away from his hairy chest and keep my eyes focused on his face and his bed-ruffled hair.
“The sofa is lumpy and hurts to sleep on,” I lie. He narrows his eyes, his stare intense as he looks me over. I’m not sure he’s buying my excuse, pretty sure I’m wearing my fear on my face. But he doesn’t call me on it. He simply rolls more to his side and pats the vacant spot.
On light socked feet, I hurry to the bed, pull my weighted blanket in with me and snuggle in. He flicks off the light and lies back on his side.
He’s far enough from me that I can’t feel his body heat. But I can smell him – woodsy like a fire and sweet like marshmallows. His scent is comforting and I take in a deep lungful, letting it settle the weary pieces inside me.
“Garrett?”
“Yes, Short Stack. What is it now?” He moves, the mattress dipping under his weight and in the darkness I can make out the line of his head and shoulders.
“Has Bigfoot ever been spotted in Yorkshire?”
“Is that a serious question?” he mutters, amusement in his tired voice.
“Yes. No.” I take a deep breath, then blow it out. “Humour me?”