by Jewel, Bella
I follow him, feeling the natural tug I am starting to associate with being in Josh’s vicinity.
“You hungry?” he asks, peering into the oven. “I made a tuna bake, and there’s plenty. I’m sure I can rustle up a salad to go with it.”
I raise two fingers to my lips and press gently on them. I am still reeling from the life-altering kiss minutes ago and now feel a little awkward being domestic with him. “If you have enough, that would be great. Thank you.”
“If I knew I was having company, I would’ve made something a little more impressive.”
“I’m not fussy. It sounds perfect to me.”
The timer pings, and Josh retrieves the white baking dish from the oven, removing the foil as he places it on the stovetop, then moves fluidly around the kitchen getting plates and ingredients for a salad.
I draw in a shaky breath as his arm brushes mine. “You like to cook?” I ask. My voice is raspy, and I clear my throat, adding to my awkward state.
Josh seems entirely unaffected and relaxed. I guess he would, given he isn’t suffering any kind of dilemma that’s threatening to swallow him whole. I, on the other hand, think I might implode at any moment.
“I love to cook.” He gives me one of his incredible smiles that make me turn to jelly. “Wine?” he asks, reaching for a bottle of red he must’ve opened earlier.
God yes! “That would be lovely,” I say, trying to hide my sudden desperation for alcohol’s calming qualities.
“Do you like cooking?” he asks, pouring the wine.
I shake my head. “I despise it.”
He laughs, handing me a glass. “To thunderstorms and flat tyres,” he says, smiling as if they are the two greatest events in the history of the world.
I scrunch up my nose but can’t help grinning as we chink glasses because it’s the sweetest toast ever.
“Mmmm,” I groan, sipping the wine. “This is fantastic. What is it?”
“It’s a local Pinot.”
I nod enthusiastically. “I’ll need to make an effort to come back this way for the vineyards. I don’t know that much about wine, but this tastes really good.”
“Well, I hope you’ll come back for more than just the vineyards.” This man is so goddamn cute. “There are some fantastic markets around here, too.”
We take our plates and wine back to the dining room, then Josh returns to the kitchen to grab the salad bowl. The table is situated next to a large picture window just beyond the French doors. “Look. The clouds have all but gone.”
I peer out the window. With the lights on inside, it’s hard to see a whole lot, but I can make out the moon and the soft light it casts across the lake. Millions upon millions of stars prick the black sky, and I’m spellbound. “It’s quite the turnaround from a few hours ago.”
“Happens quite regularly. It’s pretty much over soon after it begins.”
I gulp my wine, cringing at the irony of his words and whatever is happening between us. “You said there are markets around here?” I ask.
“Yes. There are lots of markets, but there’s one I’d really like to take you to that’s on tomorrow.”
“You love this area, don’t you?”
He takes a bite of his dinner and is obviously giving some serious thought to his response. “This is where I feel closest to my father.”
Without thinking about it, I reach over and place my hand in his. He laces our fingers together, lifting my hand up to his lips for a gentle kiss. My gaze follows our hands, fixating on his perfect mouth I know I’d really like to feel on mine again. Being here with Josh just feels so incredibly right, even though I know I’m messing everything up with my dishonesty. It is breaking my heart, and my heart has suffered enough. My poor, trusting, naive heart deserves to swell with joy, beat with excitement, and heal with the love it thought it had forever with Ki but might just be finding somewhere else.
Josh locks eyes with me, and I smile, a warm and genuine smile.
“This is delicious,” I say in a whisper.
“It’s one of my specialties.” He drops my hand, but we both know we just shared a moment.
“Tell me about your father,” I say, eager to learn more about him. “Are you like him?”
He raises his glass and takes a sip. “Mum says my eldest brother, Hunter, looks like him, but I’m most like him in personality and temperament.”
“I really like your mum,” I say. “Makes me sad she’s still grieving your dad, and it seems she always will.”
“They were lucky in a lot of ways. They were so in love, and Dad dying when he did is just . . . well, it’s just fucking annoying. Excuse my French.”
I shake my head. “Sounds like a perfect way to describe it actually.”
“I never saw them fight, and they always held hands.” He chuckles. “We used to groan about their kissing in front of us or how they would snuggle on the couch watching television, but now I’d do anything to have him back holding her hand.”
Tears prick my eyes hearing his heart breaking for his parents. “You’re a wonderful son looking out for her the way you do.”
“I can’t stand the thought of her alone in that big house. It kills me to think of her wandering around, seeing him in every room. I check in with her as much as possible to stop her wallowing in her grief. I can distract her by keeping her company.” He sighs. “But then she unloads on the cupcake girl, and I realise she is still so fragile.”
“Cupcake girl?” I remember him calling me that as I said goodbye at his mum’s house. For some reason, it warms me from the inside out.
He laughs. “You’re the cupcake girl.” His eyes widen with delight. “For someone who despises cooking, they were phenomenal.”
“Baking is different,” I say, placing my knife and fork together on my empty plate. “It’s creative. Cooking is practical and boring.”
“Maybe you’re doing it wrong. I don’t find cooking boring.”
I hold my hands up defensively. “You cook. I’ll bake. And all will be right in the world.”
“I’ll cook, you bake, and we’ll both do our art.” He raises his eyebrows. “Deal?”
At the mention of the love of art we share, my heart does a little flip-flop. “We’ll see.”
“Wait here,” he says, standing and picking up both our plates. “I’ll be back in a second.”
He returns from the kitchen with the wine bottle and fills both our glasses. He ushers me over, and we move towards the most comfortable corner lounge suite in front of an open fireplace. It’s incredibly cosy, and I feel strangely right at home—something I’ve been fighting for my whole life.
We sit next to each other and prop our knees up so we are face-to-face. It’s very intimate, and I know in that moment that there’s no place I’d rather be and no one I’d rather be with. It’s both terrifying and exhilarating as the weight I’ve been crushed with for years feels lighter and somehow manageable.
“So . . .”
Josh cuts me off. “It’s my turn to ask the questions, cupcake girl.”
I shake my head, chuckling at my new nickname. “What do you want to know?” I ask, praying he doesn’t ask the wrong, or maybe the right, questions.
“You know something about my parents. Can you tell me a bit about yours?”
Okay, so I can answer this one. “My own mother never really wanted me. We haven’t spoken in almost five years.” I don’t tell him that I left a message on her phone when I found a place to live in the city, but she never called me back. “And my father . . .” I blow out a long breath. “Let’s just say I was the result of a good time, not a long time.” I shrug. “I never met him, and I have no idea who he is.”
“Did you ever ask your mum about him?”
I nod. “I went through a phase of being desperate to find out about him, but my mother claimed she didn’t know, and it just made her angry if I asked too many questions.”
“I’m sorry, Emerson.” Josh places his hand on my kne
e and squeezes it gently. “I hope you don’t mind talking about it.”
Staring at his hand on my knee, I reply, “I do my best not to dwell on it.”
“There’s is a big part of you that’s completely shut off, and it makes more sense to me now.” I raise my eyes to his. “What you do show is sweet, compassionate, talented, and beautiful, but I want to know what’s hidden beneath all that.”
“You think I’m ugly and evil below the surface?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all. I think there’s something infinitely more beautiful.”
“You don’t know me well enough to make those kind of judgements.”
“I can’t really explain it, but I feel like I’ve known you for a lot longer than I have. What I really want to know is what happened to make you stop drawing and following your dreams.”
“There are so many things I’ll share with you, but I’ve already told you that isn’t one of them,” I say honestly and with conviction I hope he takes seriously.
“It’s not healthy to bottle things up, Emerson.”
“That’s what any good shrink would say, and I get it, but this is my way and my choice.”
“Thank you.” He takes a sip of his wine, never taking his eyes off me. “You’ve shared a lot with me tonight.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. “I didn’t tell you what you wanted to know.”
“I didn’t know for sure that something happened to you to make you quit your art, and now I do.”
My stomach drops. I’ve never spoken about this before with anyone and, without realising, I’ve opened that can of worms. “Can we drop this subject please?”
“Of course,” he says. “Would you like some more wine?”
I shake my head. “I think I’ve probably had enough for the evening. I’m really tired.” Glancing at my watch, I see it’s almost midnight. I’m shocked it’s so late, and a yawn follows. “Do you mind if I call it a night?” I’m emotionally and physically exhausted and desperately hope the sleeping arrangement isn’t awkward. I can’t take things any further with him.
“Absolutely. I’m ready to turn in, too.” He holds up his hands obviously as a response to my stricken look. “Don’t worry. Separate rooms.”
I smile, embarrassed by my rudeness, but relieved at the same time. “Thank you, Josh. For everything.”
He smiles and picks up my empty glass, and I follow him back to the kitchen. Once he’s placed the glasses in the sink, we make our way back to the bedrooms and stop outside the one I used earlier.
“This is you,” he says, then pulls me into him.
My initial reaction is to tense up, but something about being cocooned in his arms makes me relax in moments. It’s undeniable how safe and protected I feel with Josh’s hard body pressed against mine and his muscular arms firmly securing me to him. I want to be a strong, independent woman, but it’s nice to feel cared for and precious. It’s been a long time, and I miss it desperately. Clinging to the back of his shirt, I bury my face into the soft material and inhale. He still smells of soap, probably from a shower he had before I arrived. I remember when he first opened the door, I was struck by his fresh-out-of-the-shower appearance. Damp hair, effortlessly tousled to perfection. I am really freaking attracted to this man both on the superficial, physical level and the deeper, more important level of feeling connected in a unique way. That’s something some people search for their whole lives. Is it possible I’ve found it twice?
“Goodnight, cupcake girl,” he whispers, then kisses the top of my head. His lips stay there for what feels like a really long time, but when he pulls away, it’s nowhere near long enough. Looking me right in the eye, he says, “Thanks for coming back to me, and I promise I won’t push you for anything you’re not completely ready for.”
I smile. “You can thank my irresponsible car ownership skills.” I have relaxed considerably knowing this isn’t going to go any further than it has already. I need some space and some sleep to work out why I feel so desperately disappointed that he’s leaving me to go to his own room.
Ki . . . I’m so, so sorry. My heart is torn in two.
I’m in a world of trouble.
Chapter 22
The digital clock on the bedside table tells me it’s 6:19 in the morning, but something about the digital screen catches my eye. The one and the nine appear to be disappearing bit by bit. I shuffle closer and rub my eyes, still blurry with sleep. I am now inches away from the display and, to my astonishment, I can see a tiny person inside the clock painting over the numbers. When they’re gone, he, or maybe she, starts painting a two and a zero in red paint. What the hell? I’m sure I’m not imagining it, but I’m a little concerned I’m losing my mind. The voice in my head reminds me it isn’t completely ludicrous to be concerned by that. I watch for another ten minutes and sure enough, the little person I’ve discovered on closer inspection is an old lady using her paintbrush and a ladder if needed to ensure the correct time is kept. It is the strangest but coolest thing I’ve ever seen.
Dragging myself away from my little time-keeping friend, I get up and use the bathroom, then open my bedroom door to go and look for Josh. Outside my bedroom door are my clothes and underwear from yesterday, clean, dry, and folded. Grateful, impressed and a little embarrassed, I quickly take them and change. As promised, I found various toiletries in the bathroom cabinet, including women’s deodorant and a toothbrush, so I’m feeling completely human.
The house is quiet, and I would assume Josh is asleep except for my laundered clothes. In the kitchen, I find a note on the bench telling me to help myself to coffee and anything for breakfast if I’m hungry if he isn’t yet back from taking Leroy for a walk by the lake. From the kitchen window, I can see him by the water’s edge in the distance. Finding my shoes by the French doors leading onto the deck, I head outside into the fresh morning air.
Even though my need to be near Josh feels almost desperate, I stop at the railing of the deck and close my eyes, breathing in deeply. Opening them, I take in the panoramic vista. After the rain, everything looks and smells so fresh. I love the anonymity of the city, but I never consider myself a city-girl convert. I haven’t returned to my hometown since leaving five years ago, but that isn’t because I don’t still have great love for it. Thanks to Mereki, I had eight wonderful years there, filled with happy memories. In the space of no more than ten minutes, I was robbed of any desire to set foot in that town ever again. I was robbed of so much more than that, but it’s best I don’t think about that anymore. I’m happy here, and that seems to have a whole lot to do with the man I’m now walking towards.
He is getting farther away, but I can still see him and Leroy quite clearly. Like a moth to the flame attracted to the light despite its danger, I walk towards him.
Josh turns when I’m still a fair distance from him, as if he sensed my presence. His smile lights up his face, and I swoon.
“How did you sleep?” Josh asks, kissing me on the cheek when I reach him.
“Really well. You?”
“I always sleep well out here,” he replies, as he tosses something out across the still water.
My eyes widen as I stare in disbelief. Whatever he threw bounces across the surface one, two, three, four, five times before disappearing. “How did you do that?” I ask, spellbound.
“Depending on where you’re from, it’s known as skipping, skiffing, or skimming stones. The Brits call it ducks and drakes. I’ve heard it called frog jumps, too. There is something really rewarding and relaxing about it.” He crouches down and picks up another white pebble from a pile at his feet. “It’s all in the angle. Want me to teach you?”
With all the years I spent by a river playing with pebbles, I can’t believe I’ve never tried this. “Sure. That would be great.”
He picks up a selection of pebbles for me. “They are all carefully selected for their flat, smooth surface, but I think you should try with this one.” He hands me the one that is slightly bigger
than the others. “The light, small ones typically skip more times and go farther, but a medium weight, like this one, usually works best for beginners.”
“What now?” I ask, running my thumb over the smooth surface.
He holds his own stone to show me. “Place your index finger against the edge of the stone. Hold the flat sides with your thumb on one side and your middle finger on the other. You want to be able to send the stone spinning in a straight line with the flat end almost parallel to the water.” He waits for me to follow his instructions before continuing. “You should make sure to place the stone in the crook of your index finger while placing your thumb on top of the rock to maintain control of it.”
“Okay,” I say when I’m sure I have it right. “What next?”
“Face the water sideways, with your feet shoulder-width apart.” He comes around behind me and places his hands on my shoulders to correct my position. “You’re right-handed, so you need to stand with your left or non-dominant side closest to the water’s edge, with your shoulder turned toward the water.” I feel pressure on my shoulders. “Squat down so that when you throw, your rock will be close to parallel with the surface.”
“This is all very scientific,” I say, chuckling. “I thought we were just throwing stones.”
“Actually, scientists have found that the ideal angle between the stone and the water is twenty degrees.”
“Scientists have spent time on this?” I ask, incredulous.
“It’s serious business, Emerson.”
I look up into his eyes and see the sparkle. I don’t know if he’s pulling my leg or not about the scientists, but he isn’t taking it too seriously.
“Any less than that twenty degrees,” he says, “and the friction slows it down. Any more than that, and it cuts the water and sinks.”
“Okay, well my legs are starting to ache, so hit me with the throwing instructions now, please.”
He laughs. “Sorry. Bend your wrist all the way back and then snap it forward to flick the stone against the surface of the water. Don’t think of it as throwing an overhand Frisbee, but as throwing an underhand softball. You can also think of it like cracking a whip sideways. The important thing is that you carefully bend your wrist all the way back to generate some power, and that you then flick it forward quickly and at the right angle, allowing it to spin counter-clockwise. Throw it as fast as you can without losing form. Angle and spin are more important than speed.”