Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Dressed for bed, Fern stood in the middle of the bedroom, arms crossed, assessing the house of horror she had agreed to spend the night in.
The moose head loomed above the bed like a judgmental overseer, its beady glass eyes catching the dim glow of the bedside lamp.
The different-coloured ancient curtains fluttered slightly in the draught from the ill-fitting window.
And then there was the bed itself. Despite Daniel claiming it was spacious, it was actually narrow, lumpy and utterly unsuitable for two people who barely knew each other.
‘You look like you’re trying to summon the courage of a condemned prisoner,’ Daniel observed. ‘I’m not that bad.’
‘That is debatable.’ Fern eyed the lumpy pillows sceptically. ‘Pretty sure these pillows are stuffed with antique dust mites.’
Daniel let out a laugh before disappearing into the bathroom.
The sound of running water filled the room, but Fern didn’t take her eyes off the chaos that surrounded her.
How had this happened? This morning she was in her stylish London flat, surrounded by sleek furniture and pristine everything.
Now she was in a building surrounded by antique horrors and a moose that looked like it was plotting something sinister.
Exhausted, she flopped onto the bed. Just as she’d thought, it was uncomfortable and smelled faintly of something old, though that wasn’t surprising, considering the entire shop was a museum in, and of, itself.
The sound of an electric toothbrush caught her attention, and she rolled her eyes towards the bathroom door, not expecting to see Daniel in just a towel, casually going about his business.
Her eyes fell on his toned shoulders as they flexed with the motion of his arm.
She blinked. It took her a second to process what she was seeing.
Daniel didn’t exactly look like someone who spent their days lifting dumbbells or doing squats. Yet here he was, impressively built.
Her stomach did a little flip. Butterflies.
She actually had butterflies. She groaned inwardly, feeling ridiculous.
She’d known the second she saw him on the train there was something about him, a kind of chemistry, but she reminded herself that indulging that thought could lead to a whole new level of complicated.
Despite the good-looking lodger, she was here to get the shop sold and get back to London as soon as possible.
He walked out of the bathroom, now wearing pyjama bottoms, and she briefly closed her eyes, feeling him slip underneath the covers. The bed dipped alarmingly under his weight and in a moment of sheer survival instinct, Fern reached for the extra pillows and wedged them firmly between them.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Building a wall,’ she said, stuffing another pillow into place. ‘This is a diplomatic boundary. You stay on your side.’
Daniel grinned. ‘Are you actually being serious?’
‘Deadly.’ She fluffed the last pillow and lay back, satisfied with her makeshift fortress. ‘You could be a mass murderer for all I know.’
‘If I was do you think a pillow wall is going to stop me?’
‘Any precaution will help.’
He rolled onto his side and switched off the lamp. ‘Good night.’
‘Good night, Daniel.’
Fern closed her eyes, willing herself to go to sleep.
She was shattered, but she was also wide awake, aware of every little noise as the room creaked around them.
Somewhere in the depths of the antique shop below, a clock chimed ominously.
The wooden beams groaned above them. A floorboard creaked outside the door.
She swore she could hear the mannequin shifting in the bathroom, adjusting its stance in the darkness.
‘Daniel?’ she whispered.
A grunt came from the other side of the pillow wall.
‘Do you hear that?’
Silence. Then a very deliberate ‘No.’
Fern swallowed. ‘I think there’s something in the room.’
‘There isn’t, I promise.’
She leaned over the pillow wall and lightly tugged his arm. ‘I’m serious.’
‘So am I. Go to sleep.’
She tried, she really did, but then something rustled. Her pulse raced and she looked up to see the moose head’s shadow elongate as the curtains billowed. She let out an unholy shriek and launched herself across the bed, straight into Daniel, the pillow wall collapsing between them.
‘Fern!’ he gasped, startled awake. ‘What are you doing?’
‘There was … there was something…’
He gently held her by the shoulders. ‘It’s just the wind. It sometimes gets a little breezy living by the sea.’
She was practically on top of him, breathing heavily, her heart pounding against his chest.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’ His voice was low, amused. ‘Would you like me to check for ghosts?’
‘Don’t joke.’
His hands on her arms were warm, steady, and she became abruptly aware of just how close they were, their noses nearly brushing in the dark. His scent – something woodsy and clean – filled her senses. She swallowed nervously.
Slowly, deliberately, she peeled herself away, returning to her side of the bed. She tried to rebuild the pillow wall, but Daniel just sighed, plucked one from the pile, and tucked it under his head.
‘Try and go to sleep, Fern.’
She lay back down, staring at the ceiling.
It took a long time for her heartbeat to settle, but somewhere in the early hours of the morning, she finally drifted into a restless sleep.
She dreamed of winding corridors, of antique clocks ticking out of sync, of Daniel standing in the doorway of the shop.
Then she woke up. Warm. Comfortable. Safe.
She opened her eyes, blinking against the weak morning light streaming through the mismatched curtains. Something was…
Oh, God.
She froze. Her arms were wrapped around him. Her forehead was resting against his chest. One leg had somehow tangled with his, and his arm … when had that draped around her waist?
Slowly, she shifted back, but the movement made Daniel stir. He mumbled something incoherent and pulled her slightly closer before realising…
His eyes snapped open. Their gazes met.
Silence.
Then…
‘Don’t say a word,’ she ordered.
‘I’m saying nothing,’ he replied, amused, as she disentangled herself and made a run for the safety of the bathroom.
* * *
An hour later, Fern stood leaning on the kitchen counter watching Daniel fry eggs.
The air smelled of coffee and toast, and for a fleeting moment, she let herself enjoy the warmth of the scene, the normality of it.
She couldn’t remember the last time she had cooked breakfast with anyone.
Every time she had ended up in Jax Devlin’s arms, she had been kicked out of the hotel room in the early hours without even the cab fare home, just so the paparazzi didn’t get a photo.
She was thankful to have dodged the embarrassment of being caught, and her face plastered all over the tabloids, but there was always a lingering sting of knowing she was probably just another of the many – many – secrets he refused to acknowledge in daylight.
Here, at the back of No. 17 Curiosity Lane, things couldn’t be more different.
There was no pretence, no carefully curated facade.
Just the two of them, bustling around the cramped kitchen, nudging each other out of the way with playful elbow jabs and lots of conversation, with the sound of the antique radio playing feel-good tunes.
‘Pass me the butter, would you?’ Daniel asked, glancing over his shoulder.
Fern reached for it, but her fingers closed around empty air as he snatched it first. ‘Too slow,’ he teased, grinning as he held it just out of reach.
‘Very mature. What are we, seven years old?’ She shook her head, suppressing a smile as she grabbed the butter from his hand then began to spread it over thick slices of toast. The butter melted instantly, pooling into golden pockets.
She took a sneaky sideward glance at him, realising it felt like she had known him for years.
‘I know you’re watching me.’
‘I’m not,’ she protested as she placed the toast on two mismatched plates.
Daniel slid the eggs on top then handed her a plate. ‘Look at us,’ he mused, sitting down at the table. ‘We’re like a proper domestic couple,’ he said with a twinkle in his eye.
‘Aren’t we just,’ she replied, cutting the corner of the toast and dipping it in the egg before taking a bite, all the while watching him.
Daniel’s hair was doing its best impression of a bird’s nest, sticking up at wild angles like it had staged a rebellion against gravity.
His stubble was just the right amount of scruff to make him look good, and he wore a well-loved Blondie T-shirt, the graphic cracked and faded from years of devoted wear.
They ate in companionable silence, the occasional clink of cutlery the only sound filling the space between them.
Every now and then, Daniel took a slow sip of his coffee, looking so completely at ease.
There was no hurry to his movements, no performance; it was just him existing.
Jax had never been like that. With Jax, everything had been about image, about carefully orchestrated moments, about control.
As Daniel reached over to steal the last bit of her toast, grinning as she swatted his hand away, she thought, maybe, just maybe, there was a better life out there for her without Jax.
She wondered what it would be like to be in a relationship with Daniel, but pushed that thought from her mind. She needed to have a serious chat with him and this seemed like as good a time as any, so she took the plunge.
‘We need to talk.’
‘That phrase never leads to good things.’
‘I’m going to call the estate agent today, get this place valued, and then I’m putting the shop up for sale.’
She had Daniel’s full attention now. ‘No, you can’t.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You can’t sell this shop. Matilda wouldn’t want that.’
‘She’s no longer here, and I don’t really want or need an antique shop.’