Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Iwake up to the smell of browned butter taking over the lighthouse. Opening my eyes, I’m sprawled out on the couch with a fleece blanket on top of me and a wet drool stain on the throw pillow my head was resting on.
I’m still wearing the black sweater.
It still smells like him.
Using my arms to prop myself up, I stretch and look over to the kitchen, where Dylan’s standing over a cast-iron pan on the stove, flipping what looks like fish over with a metal spatula.
“Hi,” I mumble, still a bit groggy from my nap. “How long did I sleep?”
He looks at his old analog wristwatch before answering. “About two and a half hours.” What? “It’s six now. I’m making dinner if you’d like some. Fried mackerel I caught early this morning. With pickled vegetables and boiled potatoes.”
My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since the yogurt parfait I made for breakfast early this morning. “Only if you have enough,” I say casually, hoping he does, in fact, have enough.
“I do.” He pulls the pan off the stove, placing it on an old dishtowel. “It’ll be ready in five.”
I stand up and stretch, looking around me. “Where’s your bathroom?”
“Not on this level. Go up one, and you’ll see it.”
I head upstairs and discover this is the level with his bedroom. At the far wall is a double bed with a white cast-iron frame and a navy blue comforter. Very simple. On the same side is another wood stove; it must connect to the one on the level below because they look to be in the same place.
A dark wooden end table sits to the right of the bed.
I pick out another book, The Giver by Lois Lowry, on the nightstand along with a notebook, pencil, and a half-full glass of water.
There’s a dresser on this side of the lighthouse as well, the same dark wood as the other tables.
At the opposite end of the room, to my left, is a door with a wall breaking up the space.
This must be the bathroom. I take another look around his bedroom, noticing he has no art or pictures of himself or family anywhere, then turn and open the door.
It’s a small bathroom, which makes sense, given that I’m literally inside a lighthouse right now.
But it’s got everything you’d need. A toilet, a small white ceramic standing sink, a claw-foot tub with a shower attachment, and some hooks on the wall for towels.
The Irish Spring soap sits on a small table beside the bathtub, causing a smile to form on my lips.
I use the bathroom, wash my hands, and go back downstairs.
Dylan has the coffee table set for us, and the food looks and smells delicious.
“I can’t believe you caught and cooked this,” I say as I take a seat beside him, the couch so small that we’re in close proximity to each other. I can smell the soap on him and feel the warmth of his body next to mine.
I don’t mind him in my personal space.
Not at all.
“Hmm,” he responds, lips twitching.
“I can barely boil water,” I say, half-joking, half-serious, as I take a bite of the deliciously seasoned fish.
“Takes practice,” he responds after taking his own bite. “I could teach you. Next time.” He looks at me, piercing green eyes crinkling, locked on mine.
“To cook fish?” I ask.
“No, to boil water.” A smile teases at the corners of his lips, and we both erupt in laughter.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“Just promise not to burn down my lighthouse.”
I use my left pointer finger to draw an X over my heart, giving him a wink back.
The smirk grows, and then he picks up his glass of beer and takes a drink.
“I didn’t peg you for a beer guy,” I say, watching as his Adam’s apple juts out each time he swallows his drink. “Figured you had coffee morning, noon, and night.”
He laughs and offers the glass to me. “Want a sip?”
Now it’s my turn to swallow.
I grab the glass, the condensation making my hand wet, and look up at him as I take a slow sip of the cold beer, my mouth on the exact place his just was.
It’s a lighter beer, very hoppy. I’m not usually a beer girl, but this one isn’t too bad.
As I swallow it down, I can’t help but notice him clear his throat and adjust in his seat.
“It’s good. Thanks,” I finally say.
“We can share.”
After dinner, we sit together on the couch and play a game of cards. He teaches me how to play Spit, and we sit together, drinking beer and laughing while I destroy him in a game I’ve never played before.
“How are you so good at this?” he asks, eyebrow cocked and my favourite smirk stuck on his mouth.
“Beginner’s luck, I guess?” I shrug as I draw another card from the top of the deck and place it on top, facing up. A seven.
As quickly as I can, I grab the six I’ve been saving and go to slap it down on top of the card at the same time Dylan grabs his own eight and slaps it down.
We both act so fast that our hands touch, and the spark that flies up my arm from his hand on mine causes me to shiver.
Goosebumps erupt, and I feel my cheeks redden from the reaction.
We look up at each other, and his dark green eyes crinkle at me, a small laugh forming on his face.
His hand lingers on mine, and we both look down at them, his engulfing mine, and then back at each other. As I start to wonder if something might happen, his gaze falls, and he pulls his hand away.
“It’s getting late,” he says without looking at his watch. “I have an early start tomorrow. Another storm. Might not be a good day to visit.”
What felt like a growing spark between us now feels like someone doused the flames with water. Cold. Fizzled out.
“Uh, okay,” I say. Reluctantly, I take off the sweater he lent me and leave it on the couch as I get up.
He brings our empty glasses over to the kitchen without looking back at me. Dropping them in the sink, he finally turns around, lips drawn together in a line, eyes dropped in a pensive stare. “Thanks, Lucy.”
“Bye, Dylan,” I respond as I trudge down the stairs, opening the familiar red door and walking out into the cool August night.
As I make my way to my car, I turn around once more, looking at the tall structure.
Wondering if I’ll ever be back.
Feeling sad that I might not be.