Chapter 6 A Missed Course
A Missed Course
Lily-Anne
I startle awake, hunger pangs tightening my stomach. It’s dark. Barely a trace of twilight graces the sky outside. I scrabble for my phone, squinting at the bright screen.
Shit.
A notification sits on the lock screen, sent nearly four hours ago.
Brandon: Everything alright?
And then, two hours ago:
Brandon: Didn’t want t o wake you - just sorting dinner if you surface.
He was waiting. A tiny flush warms my chest, but I’m swept up in embarrassment.
Groaning, I roll out of bed and nearly trip over my guitar case.
“Shit, fuck!” I yelp, massaging my toe.
“Language, Lily. It’s not very becoming of a lady to swear.”
“Oh, fuck off, Toby,” I snarl, hurrying to pull my shoes on.
I race downstairs, raking my fingers through my hair in a bid to look presentable.
I rush towards the bright kitchen—only to collide with Brandon’s chest as he steps out.
“Oh—sorry,” I blurt, stumbling.
He catches my arms and steadies me. “Whoa there. I thought I heard you come down.”
“Yes, sorry. I just woke up,” I mumble, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. His hands are warm on my arms, his face close. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves, the air humming between us as heat prickles my cheeks. Then, as if by unspoken agreement, we step back, leaving a careful distance.
“Sorry,” I say again. “I think I slept through my alarm. Or maybe I forgot to set it.”
A small smile plays across his face. “That’s quite alright. Are you hungry? I’m afraid the pub won’t be serving food now, but I made us some dinner.”
“You did?” Guilt prickles beneath my relief. “You must have been starving.”
He shrugs. “A little peckish. But I can fend for myself.”
“I hate that I kept you waiting. And that you had to cook.”
His mouth quirks faintly. “I really don’t mind. Gave me something to do while you caught up on your sleep.”
“Still—”
“Come,” he says gently. “I left you a plate. Might still be warm.”
As I follow him down the hall, my eyes wander. He’s changed, wearing just a T-shirt and dark jeans now, his reserve softened by the casualness of it. The fabric stretches across his shoulders as he moves, lean strength in every quiet step.
It’s comforting that he doesn’t keep up the formal front at home. It makes me feel less like an intruder.
And yet, my cheeks are heating again.
Ridiculous. I came here for professional guidance, not to get flustered over an older man still nursing a broken heart.
The kitchen is warm and smells of garlic and butter, rich and homely. A breeze drifts in through the open window, lifting the curtains and cooling my flushed face. I’ve always felt the cold easily, but tonight it feels almost good, raising goose bumps on my arms and reminding me that I’m alive.
“Thank you for making dinner,” I say as he sets the plate before me and removes the tin-foil covering.
“It’s nothing special,” he replies, drying his hands. “Just some roast chicken and potatoes.”
“It smells amazing,” I sigh.
I take a cautious bite, and he watches for a second before looking away.
“So,” he says after a moment, leaning back against the counter, “what’s your plan for tomorrow?”
“Plan?”
“In regard to your music.”
My plan was to come here. That was the plan, I nearly say.
“I might check out town.” I dodge. “And then…I’ll see.”
He nods, folding his arms loosely. “You mentioned wanting to write again. Is your goal to perform them one day?”
I pause, fork halfway to my mouth. “Honestly? It was, but I don’t know anymore.” My gaze drops to my plate. “Is that bad? To not have my goals figured out?”
“Far better than to be following the wrong ones. But, if I may…you don’t strike me as someone without a goal.”
Before I can think of a reply, he checks the clock. “I should turn in. Early tide tomorrow.”
I momentarily forgot he still has work. I’m already in holiday mode. “How early is early?”
“Five-ish.”
“Ouch.”
I toy with a piece of roast chicken, my voice innocent. “I suppose the cows will need milking.”
A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “Indeed. As do the oysters.”
I snap my head up, then I realise he’s joking. Oysters don’t need milking. I’m fairly certain.
Still, I hold his gaze, trying to look like someone who knows that—and who also wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if it turned out oysters had udders.
Brandon chuckles softly. “Call me if you need anything. I’m usually home mid-afternoon. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight. And…thank you for dinner,” I call after him.
“You’re welcome.” He pauses by the door, glancing back with a faint smile as he indicates the light switch. “Lights are here once you’re done.”
His footsteps on the floorboards fade, the house settling into quiet once more. The silence feels too big for me, too new. It’s surreal to realise I’m actually here, in an Englishman’s cottage, on the other side of the world, far from everyone I know.
I hope I know what I’m doing.
A faint rush of water drifts down the hall—the muted sound of a shower starting. It’s strangely intimate, the reminder he’s still here, moving through the same space.