Page 13 of Unexpected Company
“No wolves. Just every day people doing everyday things, while trying to solve crimes.”
“Everyday things like fucking?”
He runs a hand over his face, his palm rubbing over his neatly styled beard.
“No sex. Crime and murder and justice.”
“Oh.” Well, that sounds boring. I don’t say as much because if there is one thing my aunt taught me, it’s being respectful of others' feelings and I’m certain criticising his livelihood would be disrespectful. Who am I to judge, anyway? I’m sure lots of people love his no vampire fucking, wolf-free stories. “Are you famous?”
In a gesture I don’t see coming, Garrett pushes the half eaten cottage pie towards me. I take it with a mumbled ‘thanks’ and start digging in.
“I’m relatively well known.”
The cottage pie is meaty and salty and the mash is creamy and I am suddenly so hungry, I’m shoveling it in like a wild animal.
“That’s cool,” I say with my mouth full,a spot of mash falling to the counter and making Garrett frown. “So you came here to find inspiration?”
He nods. “Something like that. What about you? Why are you holing up in the middle of the woods all alone for Christmas?”
I finish my bite of food, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Escaping. Hiding,” I reply, giving him the short, truthful answer.
Garrett taps a finger on the wooden counter.
“What does that mean, exactly? What or who are you hiding from?”
I shrug. “Everyone. My fans. Myself. The trolls of the internet.”
“Areyoufamous?” he asks, repeating my question.
“Kinda.”
“Are you a rockstar?” He does a quick assessment of me, his eyes scanning my face, his head tipped to the side like he’s trying to determine if he knows who I am.
“Nope.”
“Athlete?”
I snort a laugh, looking down at my body. I’m skinny but not muscular. I can’t run without getting winded, and I am sure I have two left feet.
“Nope. I’m a content creator.”
He pulls the dish back, spearing the cottage pie with his fork.
“What does that entail?” he asks, bringing the food to his mouth.
I tell him all about what I do, his frown deepening when he asks if it’s a ‘real job’ and I explain to him my business model and about sponsors and investments and all that goes into the less than exciting side of social media stardom.
“You fucked up and now you’re hiding until people forget about it?”
“In short,” I nod. “Yes.” I pull the dish towards me and take another forkful. Without either of us realising, we’ve fallen into a rather companionable process of sharing a meal.
“This is the perfect place to do that, I guess.” He gestures with his fork to the window. “No chance of running into anyone who knows you, and no way to sit and doom scroll through comments.”
“Exactly,” I reply. “You get it. But now you see why I can’t be the one to leave. And this close to Christmas, it won’t be easy finding something as remote and cosy.”
“Hmm,” he mumbles. “That may be true, but I can’t leave either. Sorry, sweetheart.” His eyes go comically wide, and there’s a subtle pink hue spreading from beneath his beard and over his cheeks. I gather he did not intend to let the pet name slip out. I like it far more than I care to admit to myself.
