Page 19 of Unexpected Company
Garrett’s cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink, and he scratches a hand over his beard.
“Sorry, I was waffling. In short, yes, the writing is going well. This cottage is definitely my muse.”
I consider his words. He’s getting done what he set out to do here, which is far more productive than anything I’ll accomplish. Maybe I don’t need this little cottage as much as he does. I know I don’t want him to lose the inspiration this place has brought him.
“I can leave,” I blurt out. “You stay. When the storm is over, I’ll find somewhere else to go.”
Garrett looks over my head, out the window, and then back at me.
“You’d do that?” His bright eyes sparkle and he bites his bottom lip. The move is so fucking sexy and I want to lean forward and save his lip from his teeth. Or slide my thumb into his mouth or… No. I will not flirt with or hit on Garrett. I will behave.
I will try to behave.
I will aim to try to behave.
“It’s fine,” I say with a shrug, all cool, nonchalant, and playful. “You stay. Crank out that bestseller. Just be sure to thank me for my generosity, in the acknowledgments.”
“Thank you.” He touches my arm again. It’s brief, a quick connection of skin on skin, but the feeling lingers long after we’ve finished eating and he’s retreated to the shower and then to bed.
I hate nature. That is the conclusion I have come to as I lie awake for the second night, listening to the noises outside the cottage. I don’t mind them during the day, when it’s light out and I’m not alone. I’ve already decided that when I can go into the village to find some place else to stay, it won’t be this isolated.
It’s stopped raining, but that only means that I can hear the wind clearer now. And it is howling. Eerie whistling sneaks in through the gaps in the windowpanes, haunting me as I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m certain I hear the scratch of claws against the wooden front door.
I forgot to ask Garrett what lives in these woods and my mind is running away from me with possibilities. I’m pretty sure Bigfoot lives in America and not Yorkshire, but when there’s a loud thud against the window, I am suddenly doubting myself.
Panic creeps into my chest, my skin itching like it’s stretching around my bones and pulling until I tear at the seams. My stomach churns and I take in a deep, unsteady breath.
You’re okay. It’s just the wind. You’re safe in here.
I close my eyes and try to think of happy things. Waterparks with Liam, Christmas displays in department stores, eatingdinner earlier with Garrett. But all my mind wants to do is focus on my worst memory.
Waking up late one night when I was twelve. It had been raining that day. The wind was howling just as fiercely as it is now. I was scared then, too. Scared not only because I was alone but because my mom should have been home by that time. She should have woken me with a kiss when she came in from work at the bar. But the display on my clock radio said it was two am and still her room sat empty. I’d hoped she was staying safe somewhere out of the rain until she could cycle home, but the opening of the front door and the look on my aunt’s stricken face a few hours later told me all I needed to know.
A sheet of lightning blazes across the sky, sending a glow through the room and casting eery shadows on the walls of the cottage. It’s followed shortly by a loud boom that I feel deep in my chest. I clutch my weighted blanket tighter, holding it with fingers that ache from the pressure.
My teeth chatter, a result of the panic, and I sit up at the next blast of thunder. I hate it here. Liam was wrong. This was a terrible idea. And while I have never loved my house back in London, I wish I was there. With its thick walls and double-glazed windows and neighbours only a short distance away.
Tightening the blanket around me, I stand and tip-toe down the hallway, to the door of the bedroom. I shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t intrude on his space anymore, but I’m tired and I’m scared and, for once in my life, the loneliness is too much to bear.
Pushing the door open further, I whisper, “Garrett.”
No answer.
“Garrett?” I say a little louder. The room is dark, no light coming through the cracks in the curtains, but enough from behind me I can see the shape of him on the bed.
“Garrett!”
“Hmm,” he grumbles.
One hand grips my blanket, and I rub the back of my neck with the other.
“Can I, um…can I sleep in here with you?” The question has heat streaking across my cheeks. It’s utterly ridiculous having to ask him this.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Garrett asks, his voice sleep rough and the blankets shuffling as he sits up before switching on the bedside light.
He’s topless again – which I was not expecting – and I respectfully look away from his hairy chest and keep my eyes focused on his face and his bed-ruffled hair.
“The sofa is lumpy and hurts to sleep on,” I lie. He narrows his eyes, his stare intense as he looks me over. I’m not sure he’s buying my excuse, pretty sure I’m wearing my fear on my face. But he doesn’t call me on it. He simply rolls more to his side and pats the vacant spot.
