Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 146289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 731(@200wpm)___ 585(@250wpm)___ 488(@300wpm)
I just don’t remember being moved.
I sit up, my body aching. The wood stove’s been tended to, the warmth of it flowing softly underneath the bedroom door. I eye the window and the salt that is still there, undisturbed, in a thick line. Which, of course, means nothing. Those are Effie’s superstitious habits, not literal protections. A line of salt isn’t going to stop a grown man from walking through a door.
Because he did walk through the door. He’s here. Alasdair is inside the cottage, I can tell. The air has weight to it now. The wood stove smells the same, the radiator ticks the same, and the fridge hums the same, yet the whole house has tilted a degree on some axis I can feel under my skin. The walls and the floorboards all seem to scream, he’s here.
I get out of bed, and cautiously pad to the bedroom door in his shirt and bare feet. I push it open and look down the hall.
He’s in the kitchen.
He’s standing at the window with his hands curled around a steaming mug, his gaze on the bay. The early light coming through the glass showcases his profile—the way his dark wet hair shapes his jaw, the glint of blue in his eyes, the firm, sculpted planes of his bare back, shoulders, arms—because of course he’s only wearing pants.
He’s heard me; he knows I’m there from the way he’s gone still, like a predator does when it thinks it’s been spotted. But he doesn’t turn to face me. He keeps his focus on the water, as if he’s looking for something.
“Uh, hi?” I say, throwing an arm out to get his attention.
“Good morning,” he replies. Gradually, he turns his head and looks me over and something like a smile ticks at the corner of his mouth. “My shirt looks good on you.”
I just stare at him. “That’s all you’ve got to say? Your shirt looks good on me? Your shirt that I don’t fucking remember putting on?”
Now he’s fully facing me, leaning against the wall beside the window, one ankle crossed over the other, looking utterly at ease and at home in a way that shouldn’t infuriate me but does. “You didn’t put it on. I did. The clothes you wore to my place seemed too uncomfortable to be dressed in again.”
I shake my head, and when no sense appears, I press my fingers into my temples as if that might make everything come together. It doesn’t. “How did I even get here?”
“I drove you home.”
I blink rapidly. “In my car?”
“Aye,” he confirms with a nod before having another sip of his drink. He’s drinking out of my second favorite mug too, the one with the sailboats painted on the side.
“You drove my car,” I repeat, my voice rising.
“You were dead on your feet, foxglove. I would have taken my own car, but I knew you’d want yours anyway.”
“And if you got into an accident, the car rental insurance wouldn’t count. I’m the only approved driver!”
He frowns at me like he has no idea what I’m talking about, and I realize that car insurance formalities are the least of my worries right now.
I continue, getting back on track with my million questions. “Why did you bring me back here? Why not let me, you know, stay in bed and wake up in the castle like I did the other day?”
Another twitch of his lips. “I didn’t have coffee.”
My brows raise. “Pardon?”
“You wanted coffee the other morning.”
I cross my arms over the borrowed shirt. The cotton smells like him, and I hate that I’m breathing it in and noticing it despite everything.
“Yeah, and?”
“Well, I noticed,” he murmurs, clearing his throat. “You came down for breakfast and I’d put out tea and the food and you ate and drank. And you smiled and said thank you but…you’d wanted coffee. I could see it on your face. You were disappointed and, well, I suppose I didn’t want to disappoint you again.”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out of it.
“I don’t usually drink it,” he goes on. “So, there’s none in the castle, and I’ve not had a chance to go into town for any. And I knew you’d want it.” He eyes the wood stove, where the kettle’s quietly going, then the counter behind him where I notice my French press and the bag of coffee I bought in Fort Williams open beside it and the mug I drink out of every morning—chipped and overlaid with thistles—is set out with a spoon laid across the rim. “And, well, you have it here.”
I stare at him for a moment, having a hard time comprehending it.
“You brought me home because of coffee?”
“You looked so disappointed when you drank the tea, foxglove. You were polite about it. It bothered me that I haven’t had the time to get you some, so I thought this was a simpler solution—albeit an intrusive one. Sorry if you had a fright this morning.”