Chapter 46 Hidden Surprises
Hidden Surprises
Lily-Anne
Warmth.
Soft, steady, and everywhere.
I surface slowly, awareness filtering in like light through fog. The mattress cradles me, the sheets smelling faintly like laundry powder and something warm and masculine.
Last night returns in fragments.
A strong arm curls around my waist, heavy and protective. His chest is pressed solidly against my back, his leg tangled with mine as if we drifted towards each other without thinking. A soft, rhythmic snore rumbles against my shoulder.
And then I feel him.
Oh.
Heat flares, pooling low in my belly. His arousal, hard, solid, and unmistakably male, pressing against me. Not by conscious choice. And yet, even in sleep, he desires me.
My heart bolts, but I stay perfectly still, barely breathing.
If I move, I’ll break the moment.
And I don’t want to just yet.
He murmurs something, voice gravelly with sleep, then shifts slightly—only to freeze a second later. His whole body goes rigid, and I sense the moment he realises how closely we’re fitted together.
No doubt remembering last night, replaying it in his mind, just like I am.
Carefully—so carefully—he withdraws his arm from my waist. Inch by inch, he peels himself away. Cool air rushes against my back as he rolls to the other side of the bed.
Then he clears his throat, low and flustered. “Lily, are you awake?”
I sit up, finding him sitting on the far edge of the mattress, his back to me. “Yes.”
“I—that wasn’t deliberate.”
“That’s alright. I don’t mind.” If anything, I wanted more.
He glances over his shoulder at me, his expression unreadable, then stands abruptly. “How did you sleep?”
“Great. You?”
He scrubs a hand over his face, hair rumpled, voice still sleep-rough. “Very well,” he says, “just not quite enough.”
Though we didn’t do anything more last night, we both wanted to. It was ages before either of us fell asleep.
He moves around the room, searching for clothes but opening all the wrong drawers first. He looks…frayed. Off-balance. It’s rare to see him anything but composed.
At the en-suite door, he pauses and glances back.
He smiles faintly, shy and warm.
Then he crosses the short distance back to me, bends, and presses the lightest kiss to my temple. It’s barely-there, a soft brush of lips, but it steals my breath.
“Back in a minute,” he murmurs, voice low.
Then he disappears into the bathroom.
Dizzying heat arcs through me.
I want him.
I want him so much it hurts.
I’m tempted to follow him, though having to don the waterproof cast protector in all its plastic glory isn’t my idea of seduction.
For a moment, I just breathe. Without him beside me, the bed feels strangely empty. My leg throbs as I shift; the pain meds wore off hours ago. With a groan, I sit on the edge of the bed and stretch.
Dust particles dance lazily in the thin beam of light peeking through the curtains.
I reach for my phone—one notification from last night.
Ellenor: Don’t forget to use protection!
“Ugh.” I toss the phone aside. How did she know?
A flutter of something—trepidation, maybe excitement—moves through me as I remember: Brandon and I are going to London today to see the luthier. Just the two of us.
I kneel by the guitar case at the foot of the bed. It’s become a morning ritual of mine to look at it, as if I’m expecting to find it has magically repaired itself. Except now, thanks to Brandon, the prospect of restoring it is within reach.
I open the case and stare down, chest tight with cautious hope.
The wood gleams in the faint light, but it’s difficult to see.
I stagger to my feet. I’d normally turn the light on, but I suddenly want natural light.
It occurs to me I’ve never opened these curtains before.
It’s felt wrong to touch anything of Brandon’s while I’ve been staying in his room, but after last night, I don’t feel like such a guest anymore.
“Do you mind if I open these? Let in some light?” I ask as he emerges from the bathroom, fresh and fully dressed.
He’s wearing tailored trousers, polished oxfords, and a crisp shirt, and the quiet authority of him dressed like that makes me want to prowl across the room and see if I can lure him back to bed.
My cast ruins any hope of said prowling. I clunk towards the curtains instead.
“Go on,” he says. “I never bother. I only come here to sleep, and there’s a hedge in front for privacy, so there’s not much light to be had.”
“Let me guess…you didn’t want Barbara peeping through with her binoculars?” I tease.
“You say that like it’s not a legitimate concern.”
I grin, sweep the curtains open—
And scream.
“Holy—mother—FUCK!” I yelp, leaping away from the window.
“What?” Brandon vaults over the bed and is by my side in an instant.
A garden gnome with a blue coat and a red pointed cap leers at us through the glass. I shield my face like it might attack me.
I regret ever calling it cute—it’s fucking creepy.
“What the fuck…?” I hiss.
Brandon chuckles. “I was wondering where Barb hid it.”
“But why would she put it there? Right outside your bedroom?”
“She said she wanted me to have good luck.” He shrugs, relaxing now that the danger has passed. “I can’t think of a better place for it.”
My gaze snaps to him. “You’re kidding, right?”
His lips quirk. “Yes, I am.” He tilts his head at the window, which is obscured by an overgrown hedge. “She must have crawled through there like a WWII soldier.”
Which makes the whole thing even more bizarre—imagining the old woman pushing her way past the thick branches to set the gnome down. I suppose she found it amusing.
“We have to get rid of it,” I decide.
“Get rid of it?” Brandon turns wide eyes at me, tone serious. “Oh no. No, no, no. That would be bad luck. Very bad luck indeed.”
“You’re messing with me,” I growl, poking his arm.
He seizes my wrist. “I am.” His thumb sweeps the sensitive skin there before releasing it. “It’s adorable to see how scared you were of a harmless garden gnome.”
I groan and follow him into the hallway. “That’s not fair.”
“No?”
“It caught me by surprise!”
Ellenor waggles her eyebrows at us over a frying pan as we step into the kitchen. “Morning lovers! You guys are in luck. I made you eggs to help replenish protein after a vigorous night of—”
“Ellenor…” I warn. I go to the fridge for milk while Brandon deals with the espresso machine.
She props a hand on her hip. “What’s got you so cranky? Brando not performing?”
He chokes on air, coughing hard as he tries to smother the reaction.
“No.” I scowl. “We found the garden gnome.”
Ellenor blinks. “Oh? Well, good for you!” she crows, clapping me on the back. “About freaking time. You know, garden gnome is a fun name for it. I’ve yet to name Sean’s. I was thinking, maybe basilisk?”
“Oh—My God.” Heat blasts up my neck as I reconcile the enormous killer serpent from the Chamber of Secrets to what she actually meant—and immediately wish I hadn’t.
I thunk my forehead against the fridge door, letting the metal cool my face. “I hate everything,” I whisper to it.
“You okay?” Ellenor asks, far too innocently.
I make a strangled noise. “I wish to cease existing.”
Brandon pretends to focus on the espresso machine, but it takes longer than usual for him to prepare our coffees. I hear him curse under his breath as the beans run out and the blades whirr, spinning uselessly in empty air.
I’m relieved when Mum joins us for breakfast. Ellenor always behaves slightly better when she’s around.
My face is still burning when we sit at the dining table for Ellenor’s Canadian pancakes. I like them, but Brandon looks mortified as I slosh my bacon with maple syrup.
“That isn’t right,” he says.
“I don’t want to hear it, Brando,” Ellenor says briskly. She still hasn’t forgiven him for preferring crêpes.
Mum is quiet over her coffee, smiling constantly as she chats online with a friend in London she’s reconnected with.
“Alright, back to business,” Ellenor announces, pushing a dossier to me. “Let’s talk road trip. As soon as your cast’s off, I want us on the road. Now, I know this was meant to be a sisterly-bonding thing—”
“Yippee,” I breathe.
“—but I thought we could invite the boys along. Make it a double date. Plus Mum, of course.” She stirs her coffee, her aloofness betrayed by the way she bites her lip. “What do you think?”
I pretend to think about it. “You really like Sean, huh?”
“I do,” she says without batting an eyelid.
I smile. I knew they were serious, but to have her admit it so casually is huge.
“You’re keen, right, Brandon?” Ellenor asks.
“I am. But we can’t just quit our jobs,” he points out.
“Why not?” She turns to me with a wicked grin. “We’ll make it impossible to refuse. I’m thinking your red dress and my hot pink bodycon with the cutouts ought to do the trick.”
I laugh. “You want me to seduce Brandon so he’ll quit his job? That’s ridiculous.”
“Not so ridiculous,” Brandon mutters under his breath.
Ellenor leans in. “Ten bucks says I can get Sean to wear wizard robes.”
“Aha,” I say sceptically.
“Another ten says you can get Brandon to dress like Snape.”
He frowns.
“That’s definitely not happening,” I scoff, even as a vision appears in my mind of him striding along a castle battlement in billowing black robes. Then again, I don’t hate the idea…
Ellenor’s lips curl. “You’re imagining it, aren’t you?”
“No!” I reply indignantly, taking a quick sip of my too-hot coffee before changing the subject. “Anyway, I’ve had an idea, too. I’d like to throw you a belated birthday party.”
“Ooh!” She brightens. “Like a surprise belated birthday party?”
“Err, sure.”
“Wonderful. Let me know the time and the date, and I’ll be there, suitably surprised.”
“I was thinking of the weekend, when everyone can come. I thought we could invite Rupert and Barbara too.”
“And Sean?”
“Of course.” I’m surprised she has to ask.
“We should get going soon,” Brandon murmurs. “A coffee to go?”
I join him by the espresso machine as he fills his thermos.
“Is it crazy?” I ask softly, my voice barely steady. “This road trip. Would you really give up your job?”
He glances up, gaze lingering on mine. “If you wore that red dress.”
“Be serious!” I laugh, pushing his arm playfully.
“I am.”
I’m breathless and elated all at once. I shuffle around to hug him from behind, my arms slinking around his waist as he cleans the espresso machine.
“And what would I have to wear to get an extra shot of coffee?” I whisper.
His entire body goes tense, his voice gravelly as he replies, “Very little.” He turns slowly, capturing my when I try to step back, his lips curling, his eyes hooded. “Is this the sort of teasing I’m to expect all the way to London?”
“Just a taste,” I say, my voice breathy as heat unfurls low in my stomach.
It turns out to be a good distraction as we drive—laughing with Brandon, teasing him about his terrible playlist, letting flirtation fill the spaces where my nerves would otherwise live. But beneath every joke, the question thrums: Can my guitar be saved?
***
When we meet the luthier in his workshop, he examines my Cole Clark in silence, thumb tracing the fractured body like he’s reading a secret map.
“Can you fix it?” I ask at last, terrified of the answer.
“Structurally…maybe. But I’d need to get inside it first. Aesthetically…” He pauses, brow creasing. “I honestly can’t promise anything. It might not blend well.”
He looks dubious when I show him the sea glass, and it feels pointless to even be asking about decorative elements for a guitar that might be broken beyond repair.
Then he glances at Brandon—something unspoken passing between them—before saying only, “Leave it with me.”
So I do, trusting it with a stranger.
“A good luthier won’t make promises,” Brandon says to me softly as we return to the car. “But I’m sure he can fix it.”
I open the car door but don’t get in, casting him a wary look. “I thought you didn’t want to raise my hopes?”
“I think you could afford to hope a little.”
I swallow and nod.
He’s right. But sometimes, hoping hurts.