Page 57 of Unexpected Company
I find a pair of his socks, one of his books and when I clear up around the hot tub, the coat I ripped off him on Christmas day. All the items go into my suitcase.
That done, I sit back at the desk and will my brain to focus on this novel. Mary will ask me about it once I’m home, and while I’m sure she will be thrilled with the story so far, I need to finish it. Like I told Roman, real life exists outside this place, and that includes the deadline on this story.
My fingers tap away at the keys, Jack and Blaine in a dangerous position, finally coming face to face with the stalker – an unexpected visitor from Blaine’s past. Jack throws himself into harm’s way to save the man he loves, earning a bullet to the arm. It’s dark out by the time I push away from the desk, stretching out my fingers and blinking my eyes, sleep calling me from the empty bed down at the other side of the cottage.
I move my hand, reaching for the plate that held my pie, my wrist bumping into the glass of half-drunk soda next to it and toppling it to its side. The dark liquid spreads across the wood, seeping into the small napkin sitting next to an unopened pack of rich tea biscuits.
The liquid drips over the edge of the desk and onto my trousers. Jumping up from my seat, I snatch up the napkin. Thescrawl on it – the most important numbers of my life – is now an inky mess across the paper.
“Fuck!” I exclaim, using my sweater to dab at the ink. It’s a pointless attempt. There’s no way I can read all the digits now. My stomach sinks when I picture the hopefulness on Roman’s face.Will you call me?Knowing now that I have no way to do that. Despite not having a mobile connection this deep in the woods, I turn on my phone and type out what I think the numbers were, saving them into a note. When I’m out of here, I’ll try every variation until I reach him.
Resigning myself to a restless night, I leave everything as it is – mess be damned – and head to the bedroom, where I strip out of my clothing and sink into the cold, Roman-scented sheets. And if I hold his pillow close to my chest, can I really be blamed?
“He’s…”
“Young. I know,” I say, interrupting my agent. She looks up from her laptop.
“I was going to say gorgeous. And his content is great. I may need to buy one of theseDo You Dare, Supernova?hoodies.” She leans back in the plush desk chair in her home office. Given it’s New Year’s Eve, we agreed to meet at her place in Surrey rather than her London office. The house is warm, alive with life as her husband and kids shuffle about downstairs. A small, grey kitten is curled up on my lap.
I chuckle, not admitting that I’ve already ordered a hoodie and matching mug after watching hours of Roman’s content. As expected, being back at my place – which has never felt like ahome, not the way the cottage did – has had me dwelling on thoughts of the young, chaotic man who stole my heart.
“Ooh, the one hanging all over him is exceptionally good looking, too. If you like them a little stuck up. He has pretty, interesting eyes.” She rotates the screen to show me the picture she’s looking at. It’s one of Roman, taken at the party he attended a few days ago. Spencer Park, son of some wealthy department store owner, leans into him, his arm slung over Roman’s shoulder. Roman flashing a toothy grin at the guy. There’s been no new content – apart from a few taken that night – and no new dares on his channel. But he looks happy. His smile is big and his face alight with joy. There’s a video of him doing karaoke, Liam ducking away from him as he serenades his best friend, bursting into laughter after.
It’s left me feeling like maybe I’m the only one with this empty space inside and perhaps he’s okay leaving what we had back at the cottage.
“I did not expect you to go to Yorkshire and fall in love,” Mary muses, moving the laptop to her side.
“Yet here we are,” I reply, opening both hands palms up, not surprised at how easy it is to admit that to my friend. I fell in love, hard and fast, with Roman Otley. Dropping my hands, I stroke the cat, eliciting a vibration of purrs from the small creature.
“What are you going to do?” Mary asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing. I think it was fate we met, and then fate that I lost his number.” I point to her laptop. “Look at him. He’s happy. He really doesn’t need some old guy in his life.”
Mary laughs. “Jesus, you sad sap. You don’t even believe in fate, for one. Second, you are thirty-three, not eighty. And of course he looks happy. It’s his job to smile for the cameras. If I set up an author meet and greet down at Waterstones, wouldn’t you smile, even though you miss the shit out of him?”
I nod, not saying that she’s right. Mary knows she is.
“What do I do? I tried many variations of what I thought was his number, which was both embarrassing and frustrating. His private messages are blocked and I don’t have any other contact details for him.”
She hums, clicking away at her keypad.
“Smart guy, turning off private messages. He must get inundated with feedback from his fans. Or –”
She waves a hand, excitement burning in her eyes when she looks at me.
“You could show up tonight and tell him how you feel, to his face.”
Frowning, I say, “How? I don’t know where he lives.”
“It seems his friend Spencer is throwing a New Year’s Eve ball tonight at the London Penalty Box – you know, that swanky club on the river?”
“I’ve heard of it. Nico mentioned it a few times because the magazine he works for throws functions there.”
Mary doesn’t look up as she types, biting her bottom lip, her brow furrowed. After a moment of silence, she looks away, clapping her hands.
“There, I got you an invitation.”
“How?” Moving the kitten off my lap, I lean forward, my elbows resting on Mary’s desk.
