Chapter 14
Aaron
I’m in the kitchen when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Light, cautious ones, like she’s still getting used to the place. Bernard lifts his head from his spot by the Aga, gives a single thump of his tail, then decides to save his energy for something more promising.
I'm removing the teabags from the pot just as she appears in the doorway, looks around the kitchen, takes in the low beams and the mismatched mugs, then smiles.
“Smells good,” she says.
“Nothing fancy,” I reply, pouring two mugs. “Just proper tea. Thought that was the safest choice.”
“Safe is good,” she says lightly, stepping closer. “Tea’s one of the few things I don’t overthink.”
I hand her a mug, our fingers brushing briefly. It’s nothing, really, just one of those accidental touches, but I feel it all the same.
She takes a small sip. “Perfect.”
“I’ll take that as approval,” I say.
Her lips twitch in a small smile. “You’ve set the bar high already.”
Bernard decides this is his cue and wanders over to investigate her boots. She bends down to greet him, scratching gently behind his ears until he melts into a puddle of contentment.
“I think he remembers me,” she says.
“Hard to say. I have learned his approval isn’t actually that difficult to obtain. He’s affectionate with anyone who might feed him.”
She glances up at me, smiling. “Smart dog.”
“He has his moments,” I say. “Mostly between naps.”
I nod toward the table. “There’s lemon tart if you’re hungry. Thought we’d start with dessert and lower the bar from there.”
That makes her laugh, soft and genuine.
“Thank you for picking me up,” she says after a moment.
“Anytime,” I reply, and I mean it.
For a second, she just looks at me, that small, searching look that feels like she’s trying to figure out something neither of us has quite named yet.
Then, Bernard sighs loudly, clearly impatient for crumbs, and she laughs again, shaking her head.
I turn to cut the tart, still smiling, and try not to notice how natural it already feels having her here.
We talk so long, by the time I realise hours have passed, the light outside has slipped into dusk. The kitchen has gone soft and golden, the last of the day filtering through the window while the teapot sits empty between us.
Eve’s leaning forward in her chair, eyes bright, asking more questions about the Himalayas—how cold it really was above six thousand metres, whether the silence feels different that high up.
She’s been like this for over an hour, alive with curiosity, her words tumbling out faster than usual. I’ve never seen her so animated.
And I can’t stop watching her.
Somewhere between the story about the monastery at dawn and the avalanche that never quite reached camp, she stopped looking like someone trying to stay polite and started looking like herself.
It hits me then, no longer just an idea, now I am determined—one day, I’ll take her there. She doesn’t know it yet, but I’m already imagining it. The two of us standing somewhere above the clouds, her cheeks pink from the cold, that spark still in her eyes.
I clear my throat and push back from the table before my thoughts can wander too far.
“I should make us some dinner,” I say. “I’d love to claim I’m a decent cook, but my repertoire mostly consists of sandwiches and regret.
So, your choices are one of Abby’s frozen lasagnes or one of her frozen cottage pies. ”
She grins, still a little flushed from laughing. “Cottage pie sounds perfect.”
“Excellent choice. I’ll save the lasagne for tomorrow.”
While I hunt down the oven gloves and try to remember what Abby told me about the Aga, Eve gathers the plates from the table. I tell her she doesn’t need to, but she waves me off and carries them to the sink.
I glance over as she washes up, sleeves pushed to her elbows, her movements steady and unhurried.
It’s such an ordinary moment, but it catches me off guard. She looks completely at home here, like she’s been part of this kitchen far longer than an afternoon.
When she turns and catches me looking, she smiles, and for a second, I forget what I’m supposed to be doing.
She dries her hands on a tea towel. There’s a look on her face—thoughtful, almost shy—like she’s about to say something important. Her mouth opens slightly, then she catches herself and looks away.
“What?” I ask, half smiling. “You look like you’re about to deliver a revelation.”
“It’s nothing,” she says quickly. “Just… nothing.”
I tilt my head, trying to read her expression. “That didn’t sound like nothing.”
She shakes her head, avoiding my eyes now, a small smile tugging at her lips. “It’s fine. Forget it.”
I want to ask again, but there’s something in her tone that makes me stop. She’s not retreating exactly—just holding something back until she’s ready.
“I might take him out for a quick walk while dinner cooks." She glances toward Bernard, who’s been pretending to nap by the Aga but perks up immediately at the mention of movement.
“It’s getting dark,” I protest, glancing towards the window. The reflection of the kitchen lights sits against a stretch of deepening blue. “You’ll vanish after ten steps.”
She smiles. “I’ll be fine. Bernard will protect me.”
That makes me laugh. “Protect you? He’d sell us both out if someone rattled a treat tin.”
She laughs too, shaking her head. “True. But at least he’d look cute doing it.”
Bernard wags his tail, entirely unbothered by the slander.
“Just down the drive, all right?” I say, giving in. “Stay where I can see you from the window.”
“Down the drive and back,” she promises. “Scout’s honour.”
“You were never a scout.”
“You don’t know that,” she says, already reaching for her coat.
She clips on Bernard’s lead and gives a little wave as she heads for the door. I watch her step out into the cool evening, framed by the small light above the entrance. Bernard trots happily at her side, nose down, tail swinging.
As the door closes behind them, the cottage settles into quiet.
I move to the window, purely to make sure she stays in sight, and spot her at the end of the drive.
She turns back for a moment, catching my eye through the glass, and lifts her hand in a small wave before continuing to the little patch of grass to the left of the drive.
Aaron, you are so falling for her!
After dinner, we move into the small living room next to the kitchen. Bernard trots in first, dragging a pink stuffed pig almost the same size as his head. He drops it in front of the fire, gives it an affectionate nudge, then curls around it like a dragon guarding treasure.
Eve laughs softly. “Please tell me that isn’t his.”
“Oh, it’s his now,” I say, pouring two glasses of wine.
“Apparently, it used to belong to Layla—Jon and Abby’s daughter.
Bernard found it the moment he arrived yesterday and decided it was his soulmate.
I had to hide it this morning just to get him in the car to collect you.
Thought he’d forgotten about it, but clearly not. ”
Eve smiles, watching Bernard settle against the firelight. “That might be the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s classic Bernard,” I say. “He’s got a soft spot for anything that doesn’t argue back.”
She laughs, the sound warm and low, and crosses to the sofa. When I sit down beside her, she shifts slightly, tucking one leg under herself and turning just enough that we’re facing each other. I hand her a glass of wine, our fingers brushing briefly as the fire pops behind us.
For a while, we just sit there. The cottage smells faintly of woodsmoke and dinner, the kind of scent that belongs entirely to winter evenings.
“This is nice,” she says after a pause. “I’d forgotten what it feels like to just… stop.”
“You should do it more often,” I tell her. “You look like you might actually be enjoying yourself.”
She smiles. “Don’t ruin it by pointing it out.”
I grin. “Noted.”
The conversation drifts after that. We talk about Bernard’s tragic love affair with the pig, the sound of the wind outside, and how quiet the village feels at night. Each pause lasts a little longer. The air feels thicker, softer, threaded with something neither of us wants to name.
When she leans forward to set her glass down, her knee brushes mine. Neither of us moves.
Her eyes lift, meeting mine in the flicker of the firelight, and the world narrows to the faint sound of Bernard’s breathing and the soft crackle of the fire.
It would take almost nothing, just a breath, a tilt forward, for our mouths to meet.
And that’s when Bernard lets out an almighty fart.
There’s a beat of stunned silence before the smell hits. It’s catastrophic.
Eve jerks back first, grimacing. “Oh no. No, no, no.”
I choke on a laugh. “That’s… potent.”
“It’s a weapon,” she says, already standing. “We have to go.”
I’m up too, waving a hand in front of my face. “Evacuation confirmed.”
We flee to the kitchen, both laughing by the time we make it through the doorway. She leans against the counter, trying to catch her breath between giggles.
“Unbelievable,” she says. “How can something that small produce that?”
“Years of practice,” I manage.
She presses her hand over her mouth, still laughing, her eyes bright. “Well. That was… atmospheric.”
“Ruined by a beagle,” I say. “The story of my life.”
At that exact moment, Bernard appears in the doorway, pink pig in his mouth, tail wagging gently. He doesn’t even look guilty. He just strolls past us, pads up the stairs, and disappears towards his room as if he’s clocking off for the night.
Eve watches him go, still smiling. “He’s very pleased with himself.”
“He should be,” I say. “Mission accomplished.”
We stand there for a moment, the laughter fading into a quieter kind of warmth. The air’s still faintly smoky from the fire, the smell mercifully left behind in the other room, and all I can think is that even with the chaos, I don’t want the evening to end.
She glances towards the stairs, her smile softening. “It’s probably time for bed.”
“Good plan,” I say, though the thought of the evening ending sits heavier than it should. “I’ll lock up in a minute. What time do you want breakfast?”
She hesitates, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Eight?”
“Eight it is.”
For a moment, neither of us moves.
“Well,” she says at last, her voice softer now. “Good night, then.”
“Good night, Eve.”
She gives a small nod, starts towards the stairs, then glances back once—just long enough to meet my eyes again. There’s nothing said, nothing obvious, but something in that look feels like a promise of sorts.
Then she disappears up the stairs, her footsteps fading overhead.
I stand there for a while, listening to the house settle. When I head upstairs, the warmth of her smile still lingers, as if my brain hasn’t quite let go of her yet.