Chapter 9 England vs. Scotland
England vs. Scotland
Sage isn’t sure where her newfound motivation has come from, but she clings to it as she dives back into the manuscript.
Predictably, it lasts no longer than thirty minutes.
Or at least that’s how long she thinks it lasts.
She really has no clue, because the next thing she knows, she’s blinking open her eyes, her laptop hanging perilously off the edge of the couch.
One glance out the windows tells her it’s …
“Shit,” Sage swears succinctly.
Her head is heavy in the way it gets when she’s woken up at the wrong time, her brain cottony and throat dry. She scrubs a hand down her face, puts her laptop safely on the coffee table, and reaches for her phone.
4:24.
She groans as she flops back on the couch.
Her own writing put her to sleep.
Excellent.
Her father’s face, lined with age and worry, floats to her mind. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he’d asked when she’d told him she was handing in her notice. The echo of his question is in her ears now, and Sage grabs a throw pillow and screeches into it to drown it out.
Okay. No more writing today, then.
That’s fine.
She’s fine.
She hauls herself off the couch, tugs on boots over her fuzzy socks, and grabs her rain jacket.
Rain wasn’t in the forecast, but if she’s learned anything in her short time here, it’s to always expect to be wet.
She feels a bit guilty as she strides to her car, throwing furtive glances at the main house like some fictional heroine trying to sneak past her guards.
It’s not that she doesn’t want to spend time with Edgar and Greta, it’s just that …
She doesn’t want to spend time with Edgar and Greta. Not when there’s an ache in her jaw from the stress she’s trying to outrun.
Sage makes it to her car—which she’s taken to lovingly calling Hank the Tank since it took her three tries to park it in the minuscule space at the grocery store—and hops in undetected.
She quickly fumbles with her phone to find some music, and then she’s off.
She doesn’t have a destination in mind. She’s merely following her body’s urge to vacate where she was for somewhere new.
It’s not until she hits the main road that leads through Portree that the idea strikes her.
Her grueling yet unproductive writing schedule hasn’t exactly allowed for a quintessential pub experience, and, well … a beer could be nice.
She almost ditches the thought when she arrives in town to see the small parking lot absolutely full.
She circles three times, letting out a sardonic laugh as it starts to rain, and is just about to call it quits when a spot opens up.
Sage parks Hank in one try and tugs her hood up before braving the walk.
The air is biting, her boots clipped on the wet asphalt of the parking lot as she stalks across it, eyes fixed on the battered building with chipped white painted bricks that supposedly is the best location for a pint in town. Bitter wind whips in from the harbor, nipping at her cheeks.
Sage runs the last few feet, shouldering the door of the pub open.
A rusty bell rings as she stumbles across the threshold, but she can barely hear it over the noise inside.
She takes a deep breath and tugs off her hood, letting the heat of the space wrap around her like a grounding hug.
It’s loud, and it smells a bit like beer and rain, a wet sort of warmth permeating the crowded space, but she can’t bring herself to leave.
A rustic mahogany bar stretches the length of the left side, and on the back wall is a stone fireplace, the fire set in the grate a welcome sight as she shivers.
The space is small, but it’s packed with people in soccer jerseys crowded around the tables scattered throughout.
There’s a TV fixed over the bar, and she catches the score in the top left corner as she nudges in. Zero-zero.
“What can I get you?” a bartender asks, drawing her attention away from the screen.
Sage orders the lager on tap. She closes out and keeps her hands tucked into her sleeves, cupping the cold glass with the fabric of her jacket as she nods her thanks to the woman and heads toward the fireplace.
It’s equally crowded at the back of the pub, especially with the larger TV they’ve set up in the back corner, balanced precariously on a stack of wooden crates—an obvious addition just for the game.
She ducks behind a group of fans grumbling about offsides, weaving through bodies as she nears the leaping flames.
She’s just about to let out a sigh of relief for the dry warmth already seeping into her bones, but then she takes in the figure before her.
Sage lurches to a stop, her beer sloshing over her sleeve-covered hands. Her heart jolts before she can think logically, her breath catching in the space where her neck meets her collarbone.
Jesus Christ, Sage. Not every tall blond is Theo.
The man is facing the fire, one hand tucked into the pocket of a black peacoat that stretches across his back, his blond hair disheveled and curled slightly over the collar. He seems to be the only one who’s not completely enraptured by the match.
Theo Sharpe, her brain reminds her, is thousands of miles away, so if her body could go ahead and catch up so she can flip the switch on her fight-or-flight, that would be great.
Embarrassment heats her face as Sage forces her shoulders away from her ears, a short breath releasing with them just as a collective groan comes up from the crowd.
Goal, England.
The man at the fireplace turns, his eyes darting to the TV, and Sage hasn’t even fully caught her breath before she loses it again.
Everything stops. Or more accurately … Sage stops.
Stops moving. Stops breathing. Stops thinking.
And maybe that’s what catches his eye—a stiff figure in a sea of fans who are shifting and shouting and cursing.
Because suddenly, he’s turning all the way around, blue eyes locking on her as his lips part in shock.
This can’t be possible.
This can’t be possible, because of all of the bars in all of the countries on all of the fucking continents, what are the odds that Theo Sharpe is standing in front of her, looking like he’s seen a ghost?
He blinks, and her mind is still trying to reject what’s in front of her when he opens his mouth, his voice curling around her name with a mix of surprise and certainty.
“Sage.”
Sage did wonder what she would do if she ever saw him again. Now she has her answer:
She flees.
She doesn’t get far.
She takes an immediate step back, her shoulder clipping a raucous fan. The man jerks away with some choice words, and she stumbles, but Theo latches on to her forearm before she and her beer can go flying.
“Easy,” he scolds the fan, as if Sage wasn’t the one who plowed into him.
That hint of protectiveness shouldn’t do anything to her insides, but she’s had a lifetime of stomach issues to reconcile the fact that her body often does whatever the hell it wants, and right now something in her stomach is swooping at the way Theo’s voice roughens.
The man is saying something to Theo about being far from home and watching the match in his own damn pub, but Theo simply turns his back and positions himself between the man and Sage. He frowns at her. “You’re here.”
He sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself of the fact, despite his fingers still being wrapped around her arm. She can feel that touch like a searing brand through the thin fabric of her coat that’s made for LA rain.
He hasn’t asked her why, but it doesn’t stop Sage from blurting out, “Writer’s getaway.”
She pulls herself from his hold. Distantly, she registers a couple nearby is eyeing them surreptitiously, and she isn’t sure if it’s because Theo is Theo Sharpe or because she’s certain she looks two seconds away from passing out.
She doesn’t have time to sort through it, though, not when Theo’s saying, “Right,” as his cheeks, already pink from a combination of the cold and the empty beer in his hand, darken.
“Why aren’t you in LA?” Sage tries her best to keep the accusation from her voice—she really does—but it’s there anyway.
He rubs the back of his neck, his lips twisting in a sort of grimace as he says, “Erm. I was just there for a few meetings. I actually live in London.”
He glances around, as if such a confession will get him thrown out of the pub, and Sage takes that brief moment to snap her open mouth shut.
London.
She thinks about the weeks she spent in LA simultaneously hoping to run into him and dreading it and feels like the worst sort of fool.
How is it that she’s kissed this man, but didn’t even bother to confirm where he actually lives?
Isn’t that one of the most basic questions to ask someone?
Why did she just … assume he’d be where she was?
Well, he is, that ever-unhelpful voice in her head provides, and Sage promptly slaps a muzzle on it.
“My family still has the cottage here,” Theo is saying.
“I don’t know if I mentioned that? It’s been years since I’ve been here but after I got home, I …
” He cuts off his rambling, his jaw shifting as his gaze darts away from her for a moment before locking on her again.
There’s something there—something familiar that Sage recognizes in her own reflection recently.
Theo is trying to outrun something, too.
“Anyway. I have some things that need taking care of,” he settles on awkwardly. “So I’m here.”
“So you’re here,” Sage echoes, because it’s all she can bring herself to do. Thankfully, a roar erupts from the pub—goal, Scotland—and it flips Sage’s higher brain functions back on at lightning speed.
“Great,” she says as she glances around for a table to set her beer down on. She can’t find one, so she shoves it at Theo instead, the amber liquid splashing over the lip and onto the sleeve of his coat. “I have to go.”
She hardly waits for him to fully grip the glass before she’s turning on her heel and heading to the door without a backward glance.
She pushes through the crowd, her heart climbing up her throat like it needs to get out just as desperately as she needs to leave this pub.
She yanks up her hood as she pushes open the old wooden door with more gusto than necessary, unsurprised to see that the rain has become more of a steady downpour.
Fuck her inadequate raincoat, fuck her assumptions on where he lived, and fuck whatever cosmic urge had her deciding she wanted a beer.
She never wants a beer.
Sage heads out into the rain, boots splashing through the puddles that now fill the potholes that form a broken path to her car.
There’s another burst of noise from the pub as the door behind her opens.
She hears Theo call her name over the rain, but she ignores him, eyes fixed resolutely on Hank the Tank.
He calls after her again, his voice closer this time, and then his hand is on her bicep and he’s tugging her to a stop. “Just, fuck, just wait a moment.”
He’s soaked, his hair plastered to his forehead, rain dripping off his nose, but he doesn’t seem to care. He takes two long breaths to gather himself. “How … why are you here?” He has to raise his voice a bit because the rain is pounding now.
“I told you,” she urges. “Writer’s getaway.”
But Theo just shakes his head, water droplets flinging from his hair.
He’s looking at her hard, his hand still latched on to her arm.
He’s standing close enough that she can practically feel the heat emanating from him, and it has her pulse ticking up into a rapid rhythm, like a hummingbird trapped behind her rib cage.
His throat bobs as he swallows. “Can we talk?”
Sage looks pointedly around at the utter deluge they’re standing in, and Theo looks like he can’t decide whether he should be irritated or amused.
“Come to mine. I can drive us, I’m just a few minutes from here …
” He trails off, his gaze following Sage’s as she inadvertently looks toward Hank.
She’d like to believe it’s because she’s grown fond of the SUV, but really, she knows it’s because she can’t imagine anything worse than being in an enclosed space with Theo right now.
He clears his throat. “Follow me over, then.”
Sage should say no. That’s what the far corner of her mind, the one labeled Self-Preservation, is screaming. But then Theo steps even closer, breathes “Please,” and it’s somehow audible over the downpour. His proximity makes her head spin.
“Just … give me a moment to explain myself,” he continues. “Afterwards, if you never want to speak again, I’ll understand.”
He holds her stare, and despite the way her throat goes dry, Sage can’t actually believe the nerve of him. She’d wanted to talk after he dipped out on her in the greenroom, but he’d made it clear there wasn’t a conversation to be had. Now he wants to chat?
Why?
It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. Except it does, because she hates unanswered questions. Her brain loops enough without having to puzzle things she doesn’t have all the pieces for.
“Fine. I’ll follow you over to your place.”
Theo’s brows shoot up in surprise. He clearly didn’t think she would give in. But he recovers quickly, shoving his hands in his pockets and giving her a nod. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”