Chapter 8 #2
‘Dais?’ Astin’s face comes too close to mine and my heart does several somersaults in rapid succession. Oh, hexes. It’s happening already. His breath ghosts my mouth, warm and sweet and – ‘Are you okay? You’re all pale and clammy.’
I blink. They’re not the words of adoration I’d expected, but maybe the anticipation of being in one bed has caused him to confuse most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen with .
. . well, the truth. A quick glance in a mirror hanging by the stairwell tells me the colour has, indeed, drained from my face and been replaced with a sheen of moisture so thick the ends of my hair are stuck to my skin.
Mud is streaked across my clothes from when we fell.
‘I do feel a little sick,’ I say, fanning myself. Maybe if I faint right here, right now, there won’t be time for the magic of the bed to take hold.
‘We need to get your weight off that ankle. Come on.’
‘I know, but – where are you going?’
He’s already walking towards the staircase.
Clearly, he hasn’t noticed there’s a crisis at hand.
I rush after him, forgetting the state of my ankle and swallowing a cry when it wobbles under the weight of my leg.
I clutch the banister for support. Aside from this being a terrible idea, I can’t manage those stairs alone. ‘Astin, wait!’
‘I’ll help you in a second,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘I’ll drop off our bags first.’
‘That’s not the issue!’ For a moment, I think he hasn’t heard me. Or he has heard and chosen to ignore me.
Two steps later and he halts, stomping down to meet me at the foot of the stairs. ‘What?’
I press my lips together.
‘Daisy, you have five seconds.’
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ I blurt out. ‘You and me. In a room.’
‘We’re in a room right now and nothing terrible’s happened.’
I take a step closer and hiss, ‘You know what I mean.’
He manages to make a face that’s simultaneously devoid of expression while also appearing extremely unimpressed. ‘No. I don’t.’
Oh, hexes. I don’t want to spell this out for him. It might give him ideas. I certainly have ideas. My cheeks burn hot again. We can’t both have ideas. We’ll never survive.
Astin must take pity on me, because before I can find a way to phrase my explicit thoughts in an inexplicit manner, he says, ‘But if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, I can assure you, we’re going to be fine.’
‘But –’
‘Listen to me. We are not going to fall in love by sharing a bed.’
‘But people do.’
‘In your head, maybe.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘In fact, this’ll be an excellent opportunity to prove your theory wrong.’
‘It’s not a theory.’ My indignation has me hopping after him, because he seems to have decided this conversation’s over. ‘I’ve seen it in action. We both have! You can’t deny it.’
Astin dumps our bags outside door number seven and jams the key in the lock. ‘Fine. Maybe you’ve succeeded in getting some people to admit their feelings for each other. Feelings that were already there.’ The lock clicks. ‘But we don’t have that problem, do we?’
I don’t answer.
His gaze slides to meet mine, and the air leaves my lungs.
I don’t think the question was an accusation, but it came close; a bruise being prodded to see if it hurts.
My body is in overdrive. The blue in his eyes is a whirlpool sucking me in, stronger and more inescapable than any quicksand, and as I lose myself in his stare it’s like I’m stripped bare, like he can see every thought I’ve ever had about him that implies I very much have that problem.
‘Daisy?’ he prompts.
I clear my throat. ‘Right,’ I say, the word coming out garbled, as though it’s had to force its way through a net full of lies and parts of it got stuck in the mesh.
Whether he believes me or not, he nods. ‘Good.’
‘Good.’ I nod back. We have yet to stop staring at each other. I can’t decide if I want to laugh or cry at the absurdity of the situation.
Another beat, two, three later, and we lunge for the door, our hands reaching the knob at the exact same moment. His fingers graze my skin for all of a second before he pulls away like I’ve scalded him.
‘Sorry,’ he says.
‘No, it’s – I’m sorry.’ Honestly, I’m not sure what either one of us is apologising for. I do know we’ve been standing in the corridor for far longer than is considered normal, and we’ve yet to open the door.
‘Look, I . . .’ There’s an intent in the way he paces forward now, frowning as though he’s about to tell me something serious – I cringe against the wall, imagining he’s going to give me a list of reasons why all the depraved thoughts in my head are unacceptable – but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.
He closes it. Opens it again. I get the slightest whiff of something floral before he says, ‘Never mind.’
Astin opens the door to reveal a room that cannot be big enough for two people.
One side of the bed is flush against the window, threadbare curtains skimming the top of the sheets, while a tiny strip of wooden floor separates the other side from the washroom.
The rest of the space is occupied by a dresser jammed against a small wardrobe.
‘Hm.’ I try to find something nice to say. Running a hand along the dresser to find it free of dust, I go with, ‘It’s smaller than any of our rooms, but at least it’s clean. A solid two out of five stars. Maybe three, if breakfast is nice.’
‘We won’t be staying long enough for you to rank the breakfast options.’ Astin drops our bags on to the small patch of floor available, before jerking his head at my leg. ‘Can you manage getting in the bath with that ankle?’
I gape at him – something I’m doing a lot of today.
Leaving Honeysuckle Inn has been the equivalent of entering some parallel world, one where I am forced to be in his proximity for longer than I’m used to, and it’s making me notice new things about him, like the way there’s a faint scar above his upper lip – I dread to think where it came from – and that one eye is a slightly lighter shade of blue than the other.
Meanwhile, he’s going around saying unexpected things like, Should we bathe together?
He raises a brow, as though I’m the one acting strange. ‘Daisy? Did you want a bath? You’re covered in mud.’
Oh. Oh, well, that makes more sense. Of course he wasn’t suggesting –
I take a deep breath. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ Clearly, I need a cold one.
I grab my pack and bring it with me. Once I’m in the washroom, it’s evident cold water is, in fact, my sole option, because I’m presented with two buckets of freezing water and no fire to heat them.
Another tick in the pros of Honeysuckle Inn column.
I fill the tub and sit on the edge, allowing the water to soothe the swelling in my ankle before scrubbing the rest of myself clean.
When I’ve finished, I change into my nightdress, cringing as I check the mirror.
Packing in a hurry this morning wasn’t a good idea.
The straps are too thin, the material too flimsy.
It clings to me in all the wrong – or I guess, depending on your opinion, the right – places.
Between this and my strange behaviour in the hallway, Astin will think I have some misguided notion of seducing him.
Clutching my pack to my chest in a desperate attempt to hide what I’m wearing, I limp out of the washroom.
Although we’re only here for one night, Astin has taken it upon himself to unpack.
His shirts are hanging in the wardrobe in the order he wears them, and the bread and cheese we brought are piled in a neat stack on top of the dresser, although the packages are squashed.
He wrings his hands together like he doesn’t know what to do with them now he’s run out of things to rearrange.
I clear my throat. ‘Washroom’s free.’
He jumps at the sound of my voice, head whipping round at top speed before he goes utterly still. There’s a mild note of horror in his voice when he asks, ‘What are you wearing?’
‘A nightdress. It was the first thing I found to pack,’ I say defensively. ‘If you hadn’t rushed me this morning, perhaps I’d have given the matter more consideration.’
I expect him to tell me it doesn’t appear I gave it any consideration at all, but he merely flicks a brief glance at where the hem of the dress skims my thighs, swallows visibly, and throws a towel over his shoulder.
We glide past each other – him to the washroom, me towards the bed – avoiding contact in the cramped space.
Two years living together have left us attuned to each other’s movements; able to sense where the other plans to step from the simple shift of their body.
It’s only once he’s locked away that it feels safe to breathe, although my nerves don’t fully settle.
Goosebumps erupt down my arms as I sink on to the mattress.
That I’m about to share. With him. What if we touch in our sleep and I go all Souleatery on him?
What if I wake to find him throttling me because he’s realised what I am?
What if I’m simply in bed with my gardener wearing a skimpy nightdress, and we become so overwhelmed by the situation I accidentally kill him with my kiss instead?
By the time he’s finished, I’m a shivering mess who’s fully convinced that only one of us is making it out of the room alive.
When the door clicks open, I quickly shuffle underneath the covers and slide to the far side, as though the wall will protect me from the situation at hand.
Instead, I’m suffocating. It’s so stuffy under here I could be wearing several cloaks.
I poke my head out for some air, and immediately regret it when I catch sight of Astin.
His back is bare, muscles shifting between his shoulder blades as he towels his hair.
Water gleams on his skin. Loose black trousers hang low on his hips.
The image has me biting my lip and closing my eyes, tucking myself beneath the sheets while ignoring the parts of me that ache for a life I’ll never have.