Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Matthew rolled his neck back as he walked across the grounds of Foxwood, heading from the stables to the house. A few joints cracked as he did so, relief only lasting a moment before the tightness returned to his shoulders. His whole body was tense, as if he’d just been standing in the stocks for the better part of a week.
If only that had been his punishment. He’d prefer it to what he’d been sentenced to—watching that consultant judge his festival.
He’d seen the disapproving shakes of her head, the perpetual turning down of her lips, the incessant scribbling away at the tablet in her hands. And what he hadn’t seen, he’d heard from others about what they’d seen—bombarding guests with questions, scoffing at the size of the list, throwing away an entire box of nearly uneaten food.
Okay, that one he couldn’t fault her for. Even the mere thought of Dorothy Porter’s food was enough to make him gag. But still, Winnie didn’t have to be so obvious about it. She clearly had no clue as to what he was trying to accomplish with his festival .
And do you know what you’re trying to accomplish with your festival, Matt?
He scowled at his own thoughts betraying him.
Of course he knew. He was trying to bring the magic of the medieval era into the twenty-first century. To share his love of cracking lances glancing off metal armor, of being immersed in a past that was filled with chivalry and tales. He’d accomplished it once before. Surely he could do so again without a pompous American barging in on his territory.
His thoughts continued to barrage his mind until he drew a deep breath of the cool, Yorkshire air. He was in a right sour mood that afternoon. He needed a distraction, something to make him feel joy again.
Pulling out his phone, he checked his messages as he trekked across the wet grass. To his relief, the lads had messaged.
He scrolled down the feed, smiling as he did so, allowing the conversation between his three college friends to fill his mind and ease his stresses.
Cedric
Hope the festival goes well for you today, Matt. Keep us posted.
Graham
Good luck, mate!
Finn
How could it not go well for our boy? He’s the greatest jouster in England. Of course, he’s the only jouster in England…
Cedric
Who’s he supposed to use that jousting thing against then?
Graham
It’s called a lance.
Finn
Hellloooo.
Finn
*GIF of Alan Tudyk with bright red hair pulling a face*
Matthew shook his head with mild amusement at their quoting of A Knight’s Tale . They often did so to wind Matthew up, and he typically could take the teasing. But the mention of the movie today brought Winnie back to his mind, so he chose to ignore mention of it altogether.
He read the rest of the messages, Finn updating them on his grandparents’ health, Graham speaking about his latest white water rafting trip, and Cedric informing them of how his injury sustained on the football pitch was nearly fully healed.
Matthew read each update with real interest. The four of them had made the most unlikely of friendships from the early age of thirteen—Matthew, an English chap, rich and bookish. Finn, an Irish boy thrust into Eton’s arms and kicked out within a year. Graham, a Scottish lad with a determination to live life to its fullest. And Cedric, a Welshman and poor sheep farmer’s son who just so happened to land a scholarship at one of the most prestigious boarding colleges in England.
Over the years, despite the physical distance between them, their friendships had only grown, being kept alive by frequent messages and multi-yearly get-togethers where they participated in charity runs in their respective countries.
This time, they would be gathering in England, and Matthew couldn’t wait to host them all at his home again.
He responded to each of their messages before finally addressing the ones referring to himself.
Matthew
Thanks for all the support, lads.
Matthew
Ced, I hope you were kidding about it being called a “jousting thing.” Have I taught you nothing? Guess it’s time for another history lesson. I’ll be sure to have updated courses for each of you while you’re here.
Matthew
As for the festival, it went fine. Did I mention my dad hired a new consultant? This one’s from New York. She’s taking over the festival.
Matthew
Also…pretty sure she doesn’t like Harry Potter.
She probably hadn’t even read the books, which was a travesty in its own right. He wasn’t exactly a massive Potterhead himself, but even he could see the value the stories had brought to the world.
He clicked his phone off and faced forward. His friends would respond soon enough. Until then, he’d focus on finding some semblance of peace.
Of course, peace was not in his future, as the moment his house came into view, he caught sight of the woman from his thoughts—no, from his very nightmares—standing in front of the doors of Foxwood.
He groaned, slowing his pace so she might enter the house before he’d have to do the same. He really wished Dad would have put her up somewhere else—preferably in a hotel five hundred miles away. But then, every other consultant had been housed there, so why would Winnie be any different?
He watched in silence for a moment. The slower he walked, the longer she seemed to remain. What on earth was she doing? With her back to him, she peered down in front of her, struggling with something. Her purse? No. Her shirt? He didn’t think so.
She dropped her hands to her sides, then propped them on her hips as she looked up and down the length of the doors, clearly frustrated.
Slowly, understanding settled over Matthew, and a smile spread across his lips.
Now this was satisfying. Miss Posh Knox couldn’t open a door. To be fair, those doors weren’t exactly easy to open. They were old and finicky, always managing to get stuck. Still, the sight was a welcome one.
He moved forward with as little noise as possible, determined to take advantage of the situation he’d found her in. Maybe he’d tell Dad his latest consultant was defunct. Although knowing Matthew’s luck, Dad would simply brush it off as normal human behavior—like speeding on their property.
“No matter your aversion to her, Matthew,” Dad had said at the end of their conversation last night, “I believe Winnie will be just the one to save the festival…If not more.”
How a woman who couldn’t open a door was supposed to save Matthew’s festival and “more” was beyond him. Then again, how he was supposed to save the festival was beyond him, as well. Would it fall to ruin like some of the great castles of old? Should he just quit now, count his losses and do something that would actually add some value to his family?
Or…or was Dad right in believing Winnie was the key to securing the future of Foxwood?
Her grunt at the door brought him back to the present as she again tried—and failed—to open the doors. He took in the sight of her as she jiggled the handle aggressively. She had a nice figure. Long legs, curvy features. She must be a runner with those formed calves. Either that, or she’d made all that muscle from wearing those ridiculous high heels all the time.
Still, her face wasn’t half-bad looking. You know, if one liked that perfect flawless-skin, high-cheekbone, thick-hair kind of look.
Noting her fists once more propped on her hips, Matthew hesitated. Shouldn’t he just be nice and help her inside without making her feel the fool ?
In an instant, however, he brushed the pesky thought aside. Winnie deserved a little humbling after the criticism she’d no doubt assailed at his festival today.
With a raised chin and more confidence than he really had, Matthew stepped across the gravel drive, knowing his crunching footsteps would finally give him away.
Sure enough, Winnie turned at once to look at him, surprise registering across her lovely features.
No. Just plain, old, simple features .
“Hey,” she greeted, looking back to the door.
He drew closer. “Having some trouble there?”
“What?” She faced him again. “Oh, yeah. I can’t seem to get the door open. I think it might be locked or something, but I wasn’t given a key.”
He’d expected her to deny that she was struggling, perhaps even blush, but the woman held a remarkable lack of self-shame.
Good thing he had more than enough to share.