Chapter 15
‘THE FIRST SCENE of Clementine at home shows her sitting under a tree.’ A rosy hue dusts Mum’s cheeks as she stands at the front of the room, absolutely loving that she is the centre of attention.
We’re in the largest of the three sitting rooms, a fire crackling behind us as the moonlight filters through the large windows and falls across the paintings of rolling farmland that hang on the black damask wallpaper.
Amelia is stretched out on the pale brown rug, eyelids drooping with each yawn, while Riley—perched on the leather ottoman—gives her the occasional nudge to keep her awake.
While I initially would’ve shelved this room as not being my style there is something so inviting about it, and Hattie now has a bunch of photos of it sitting in her messages.
Maybe this needs to be our direction for cafe number two.
A girl can dream, right? And my dream involves multiple cafes across the city, all profitable, all a part of my empire.
As long as the first one doesn’t collapse in my absence.
Sabrina: Make sure Felicity has the coconut cakes ready for the book club. And don’t forget the order for the engineering company. They specifically asked for the triple choc brownies. We were running low on white choc. Did you order more?
Hattie: Focus on enjoying yourself. I promise, we’ve got it all covered xx
‘That’s a willow,’ Dad says from one of the sofas, his boots still coated in dried grass clippings. He’d sweet-talked Betty into letting him mow the lawn. Only my father would travel across the world and be happier gardening than sightseeing.
‘The type of tree doesn’t matter,’ Mum says. ‘But what the tree represents does. What do you think the image of Clementine sitting under the tree symbolises?’ she asks, reading from the sheet of paper in her hands.
Beside her, Aunt Carol rocks back and forth on her heels, eyes darting from Mum to the group. It’s killing her that Mum’s asking the first question.
Mum glances nervously at the sheet of paper. ‘I don’t think anyone will get the answer to this one, Adam. He got these questions from the Internet,’ she adds with a shake of her head.
Adam emits a heavy sigh. Leaving him to fend for himself against the wolves, aka Mum and Aunt Carol, might’ve been a touch too cruel.
‘The tree symbolises that Clementine has lived a sheltered life,’ Aunt Carol says, reading over Mum’s shoulder. ‘I agree with that.’
‘And the branches of that willow tree were sweeping the ground so she lived a very sheltered life,’ Dad says. ‘I think that’s why they chose the willow instead of an oak. Willows also symbolise flexibility.’
‘Plus they grow in cold climates,’ Uncle Max adds for a reason that I’m sure matters to him.
‘Flexibility,’ Mum murmurs. Her head flies up, eyes seeking Adam, who is sliding further down in his seat. ‘Adam, does flexibility symbolise anything?’
He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as his lips form a tight line.
‘Adam hasn’t seen the show, Mum,’ I say.
His eyes fly open, finding mine, clearly shocked that I came to his rescue.
I’m not completely heartless. The poor guy looks so uncomfortable that anyone with a soul would feel bad.
I pull my legs up onto the leather sofa and press my shoulder into his to reassure him that I will fend off the wolves. Sometimes.
‘He just watched the first two episodes with us,’ Mum says. ‘Plus, he’s an author. And used to teach English.’
Aunt Carol nods, affirming Mum’s belief that those statements alone somehow make him an expert on Clovedale and symbolism.
‘You also did theatre in high school, didn’t you, Adam,’ Mum says.
‘You did theatre?’ I whisper.
‘They thought it would help me overcome my shyness,’ he whispers back. ‘It didn’t.’ A sliver of sympathy winds its way through me. I should step in before Mum and Aunt Carol drag him up to reenact a scene.
‘Clementine didn’t show any flexibility in those two episodes,’ Natalia says from her seat on the other side of Adam.
‘But maybe that’s going to be part of her character arc.
You know, like, she needs to learn to be flexible in order to make things work with Alexander because at the moment she leads a very stringent life. Adam, what do you think?’
‘That’s very insightful, Natalia,’ Mum says, her tone condescending.
Natalia tosses her hair over her shoulder. ‘I studied journalism and creative writing in university.’ A smile spreads across her lips as she leans closer to Adam, her arm lightly brushing his. ‘You know, I’ve always wanted to write a book. I’d love to pick your brain about the process.’
Mum yawns loudly, stretching her arms into the air. ‘I think we should call it a night. We want to make sure we’re all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for tomorrow’s adventure.’
‘We only answered one question,’ Gabi says. ‘What?’ she hisses when Tommy nudges her. ‘I sat here and paid attention to those episodes because Mum said there’d be a prize for whoever answered the most questions.’
‘Dad won.’ Mum tosses him a Kit Kat with a major side eye thrown at Natalia, whose arm is now draped over the back of the sofa, close to Adam’s shoulders.
She then flashes me a very pointed look, her lips pursed.
I feel like she wants me to do something, but Natalia hasn’t done anything except say she wants to write a book.
And touch his arm. That could’ve been innocent.
We are all sitting quite close to each other on this sofa.
‘But he didn’t even answer the question,’ Gabi argues. ‘Aunt Carol read it off your paper.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Reese says wearily.
Gabi’s jaw clenches as she and Reese enter a staring contest that would put our childhood ones to shame.
Another series of yawns ripples through the room.
‘I guess I’m not back to peak health just yet,’ Mum says as she moves gingerly across the room.
She even throws a limp in there for good measure.
‘Natalia, love, will you make me a cup of tea? One of those herbal ones you were telling us about at dinner that you promote on your Internet.’
I stay back to have a cup of hibiscus tea with Mum and Aunt Carol. I’m not a tea drinker, and while I don’t really believe Mum’s performance, I still want to make sure she is okay. Just in case. Adam bolts from the manor before the kettle has even boiled.
Once satisfied that Mum is fine—and that she totally deserves an Oscar for that performance—I traipse through the damp grass alone, the torch on my phone guiding my way back to the cottage.
When I open the door the warmth inside welcomes me like a comforting hug.
I kick off my grass-covered shoes. Adam is stretched out on the bed, laptop open.
He’s changed out of his jeans and into a pair of grey tracksuit pants.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
Adam glances up. ‘Trying to work.’
‘Not on my bed.’
‘Our bed.’
‘No, we agreed you’d sleep on the sofa.’ I grab a pillow and push it against his arm, trying to nudge him from the bed.
‘There was no agreement.’ He snatches the pillow from me and places it next to him. ‘This can be our barrier.’
I plant my hands on my hips and glare at him. ‘Get off.’
He looks up again and then quickly drops his gaze. ‘I can’t sleep on that sofa, Sabrina. It’s too small.’
‘Then sleep on the floor.’
He removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘We’re adults,’ he says, like he’s just endured three rounds with a demanding toddler. ‘We can both sleep in the same bed without issue. It’s not like either of us is interested in the other, right?’ He puts his glasses back on.
I’m obviously not interested in him. Yes, I think he’s attractive, but the man is utterly infuriating and my admiring his face, physique, heady scent and beautiful lashes is as far as it goes.
And it’s clear that my mere existence annoys him.
Maybe with enough of a barrier I won’t even notice that he’s there. ‘Okay,’ I relent.
I grab the extra pillows from the cupboard and return them to the bed, extending the barrier he started.
He rolls his eyes. ‘One would’ve been enough.’
I fluff the pillows and ignore him.
‘Unless you don’t trust yourself around me.’
‘I trust myself plenty,’ I say. ‘But I don’t want you getting any ideas. I think you enjoyed our hand-holding and hugs far too much today.’
‘Don’t forget that was your idea. Maybe it was just a ruse to touch me.’
My fluffing of the pillows gets a tad aggressive.
Once satisfied that I have a solid barrier in place, I get ready for bed, and the sounds of his fingers clicking on the keyboard follow me into the bathroom.
If he’s typing he can’t be struggling with his novel anymore.
Maybe if I tell Mum that she’s helped him overcome his writer’s block, she’ll decide he needs to go home so he can focus on writing.
I almost laugh before the thought even fully forms. As if!
She’s more likely to subject us to nightly readings of his manuscript.
I switch off the bathroom light and creep over to the bed, trying to stretch the material of my shorts to cover more of my thigh. They felt skimpy enough when he slept on the sofa but now that we’re sharing a bed, they’re downright indecent.
The clicking on the keyboard pauses. My eyes flick to him and he’s shaking his head.
‘If I so much as feel your breath, you’re back on the sofa,’ I say, and pull down the covers and slide into the bed, rolling onto my side, my back to him.
‘Good night, Sabrina.’
I can’t see him but I can hear the smirk in his voice.
The pillow barrier rests against my back and I close my eyes, hoping to be pulled into a deep sleep.
It doesn’t happen. I’m too aware of him beside me, tapping on his laptop.
Too aware of his every movement. Every movement, every sigh, every time his elbow rests on the barrier.
Eventually he goes into the bathroom. I use his absence to push the pillows over to give myself more space.
When the door opens, I squeeze my eyes shut, smothering a laugh as he sees what I’ve done and mutters under his breath. He gets in and I wait for the pillows to be pushed back but he leaves them where they are and switches off the lamp.
I sleep terribly. The thought of him in my bed keeps me awake for most of the night. As aware as I am of his movements, I’m more conscious of every move, every turn, every breath I make. And his joke about me being a snorer weighs on my mind.
Adam’s a blanket hog. He doesn’t move much, except to turn from one side to the other. I tense each time he does, thinking he’s awake, until the slow, steady breaths assure me he’s still sleeping. He doesn’t snore, but he breathes deeply and it’s oddly calming.
When he wakes in the morning his hair is dishevelled and stands on end.
He sits up and runs a hand through it. I roll my head away from him so he doesn’t catch me staring.
He fights a yawn and stretches his arms as he stands up and crosses the room to make a coffee.
A cup clangs against the counter and he drops a spoon into it, a small ping sounding as it hits the rim.
The machine buzzes, and then the room is filled with the mouthwatering smell of coffee.
‘That bed is comfortable,’ he says, his low voice a deep rumble in his throat. He presses a steaming cup of coffee into my hands as I sit up. ‘Half a sugar and a dash of milk.’
‘How—’ I start.
‘I overheard you telling a customer one day when they tried to convince you that black was the only way to drink coffee.’ He turns his back to me and busies himself once more with the machine.
And he remembered. I don’t know what to do with that.
Did he remember because he thought he might one day need to make me a coffee, or does he simply file away all pieces of information he hears?
He might be like Uncle Max, whose memory bank is filled with everything from what he got for Christmas when he was five to how long a snail can sleep for (it’s three years).
He rocks on his bare feet while the machine purrs. Holding my mug close to my face, I breathe in the steam. This whole scene is all so…nice. I don’t recall any of my exes bringing me coffee in bed. One of them maybe filled the kettle. After I asked him to, of course.
I take a sip and pull my knees up to my chest, making sure the blanket covers my legs as I rest the cup on my knee and try to douse this strange fluttering in my stomach the only way I know how. Rattle him. Nothing will extinguish this fluttering quicker than doing away with this nice-guy routine.
Clearing my throat, I stare at his back. ‘Careful Adam, I think you’re settling into the fake relationship too easily. One might think you’re in love with me.’
He turns, brows raised. ‘I’m not the one orchestrating all the touching.’
Goosebumps prickle along my arms as his eyes settle on mine, a glint in their depths like a flash of lightning. ‘Well, you were the one who just invited yourself into my bed.’
He leans against the counter and shrugs, a smirk dancing across his lips as he drinks his coffee.
I roll my eyes at him.