Page 18 of Unexpected Company
As the sun sets on our second night in the cottage together, the storm is worse than it was before. The wind has taken a tree down, the thick trunk laying across the cobbled pathway leading to the front door, and the rain has morphed into heavy hail pieces that feel not dissimilar to paintballs hitting your skin. I know, because I went outside to see what it would feel like.
Now, I’m laying on my stomach on the rug in front of the fire, a game of solitaire laid out in front of me. There’s a Christmas tune playing, acting as background music to the clicky-clack of Garrett’s typewriter. He hasn’t taken a break since I joined him in the lounge. Even when I invited him to come outside with me.
My stomach grumbles and I abandon my card game, rolling onto my back and staring up at the ceiling, much like I did the night before while trying to sleep. Which reminds me, I have another night on the sofa. I grimace, remembering how awful the night before was, listening to the creepy sounds of nature in all her frightful glory right outside my window.
“Do you want something to eat?” I ask Garrett. He twists away from his typewriter, stretching out his fingers as he looks at me. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck while answering.
“That would be nice. Do you…” his eyes dart away and he clears his throat. “Do you know how to cook?”
I sit up, then push to my feet, leaving my game and half drunk mug of Assam tea – the perfect brew for rainy afternoons – on the floor where I was lying. My hoodie is scrunched up into a ball, having stripped it off when I got too hot, leaving me in my favourite blue crop top and leggings. I notice how Garrett’s eyes dip to my navel before focusing back on my face.
“Because of egg-gate this morning, you think I can’t cook?”
I can’t, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Maybe?” He gives me a sheepish grin.
“Well, you’re wrong.” He’s not. “I am a pro at cooking. I can make…” He stares at me intently, waiting for me to finish my reply. “A lot of things. Toad in the hole, spotted dick, bangers and mash, Welsh rarebit.”
“Are you just listing British meals?” Garrett asks, a smile playing on his lips.
“No, I’m detailing my specialties.” Oh, for fuck’s sake Roman, stop. But I can’t. I’m on a roll now. “Jam roly-poly, bubble and squeak…”
Garrett laughs. “Okay, I get it. You’re a very talented chef.”
“I am. I am very talented inmanythings.” I give him a suggestive wink, then leave the room with absolutely no fucking clue how to make anything I listed.
Moving through the kitchen like the master chef that I am pretending to be, I throw together four slices of toast, top them with warmed up baked beans (thank God for the microwave) and then sprinkle with salt and pepper. It doesn’t feel finished, and I want to make a good impression. Because as much as I was annoyed at first that he was in this cottage too, I admittedly likeGarrett’s company. Even if he keeps mostly to himself while he works, his presence is comforting.
Opening the fridge, I find a block of mature cheddar cheese which I grate over the top and voila – dinner fit for a king.
Garrett is still typing away when I return to the lounge. He ignores me when I call his name, so zoned into his writing that he doesn’t even notice my approach.
“Gare Bear, dinner is ready,” I say, tapping him on the shoulder.
His hands halt, and he looks up at me, blinking a few times before speaking.
“Oh, thanks.”
I don’t move back as he stands – the action brings us chest to chest. I hesitate for a moment, my eyes tracking the movement of his tongue as he wets his lips. He smells like candy apples and woodsy fire and I’m pretty sure I lean a little closer to get a better whiff. My breath catches in my throat when he places a hand on my forearm, his warm hazel eyes meeting mine.
“Shall we eat?” he asks, his voice low and husky.
The place where he’s touching me tingles, like little electric pulses sparking beneath my skin, and it takes me a heartbeat or two before I’m able to answer.
“Yeah. Come on.”
Garrett follows me into the kitchen, settling into the seat next to me at the counter.
“This looks perfect, thank you,” he says. His voice is warm and genuine and I preen inside, the praise doing something whirly to my stomach.
“Your writing seems to be going well,” I say, around a bite of toast.
Garrett puts down his fork and turns towards me, his leg bumping mine as he does.
“It is. Better than it has in months. It’s funny, I always wrote my main character to be so like me. Reserved, a little closed off, a stickler for the rules. My ex boyfriend would say boring, but that never bothered my fans.” My mind snags on the word ‘ex-boyfriend’ because that answers a question I had, but I don’t let it wander for long because he’s still talking and I enjoy getting to know him better.
“Readers love his character,” Garrett continues, “and while I’m not changing who he is – the same way, I wouldn’t change who I am – he’s taking more risks in this last part of the series. He’s more daring than he’s ever been before.”
