‘I don’t believe that, Archie. You seem very friendly.’ He grinned as Archie licked me again.
‘I should have said I was giving you some help with the door. My fault entirely,’ he replied. ‘I’ll put that on my to-do list. Might need a squirt of…something.’
‘We all need a squirt once in a while.’ Where the bloody hell did that come from? I was fairly certain there was no redeeming it from the pit of ridiculous sexual innuendos. He laughed, low-pitched and amazing. A burst of, What the fuck did she just say? before I pulled us back from the land of highly inappropriate. ‘Did you sleep well?’ I asked, thinking back to last night’s game of no, you close the curtains, which ended in laughter, shy waves and another round before Drew turned out his light.
‘Kind of,’ he replied, not expanding on what he meant.
‘You must be freezing,’ I said, deflecting, but actually, December mornings on a coastal island were not the place to be waltzing around with an almost shirtless body even if it was fit for the Dreamboys Thrust stage show.
‘I’m fine once I get going. I stay in the outhouse where there’s a little heater. I hate having clothes bundled up when I’m chopping wood. This way is easier.’
‘Are you sure? You look cold to me.’ He now had layers of goosebumps on goosebumps, and if I dared myself to look at his nipples, I was pretty sure they would be harder than peanuts.
‘I’m cold now that I’ve stopped.’ He walked back to the little block of wood and picked up the axe. Just as he was about to swing it, I spotted a small basket sitting outside the cottage door.
‘Is that for me?’ I’d read about breakfast baskets in the brochure and did a happy dance. The axe missed the wood and sent Drew off balance, but all I could see was his smiling face and a head shake.
‘You’re putting me off,’ he said as he picked up a coat off the wall beside him. ‘I’m going to have to finish this bundled up now.’ I watched him extend his arms as he put it on, revelling in the flex of his muscles, staring at the definition of his shoulders. Forget vein porn. We’re talking Woodcutter’s shoulders.
Feel the burn in your lady bits. Ah.
‘Have you made me breakfast?’
‘I might have knocked something up for you. Used some leftovers.’ I peered into the basket to find a jar of jam, chocolate spread and a selection of croissants. The moan that escaped me caught his attention. ‘You approve?’ I hugged the jar of chocolate spread and nodded. ‘If only it were always that easy to please a woman.’ He finished buttoning up his shirt and zipped up his coat, fumbling and uneasy. ‘I meant guests. Pleasing guests.’
‘I know,’ I replied, pushing my hands in my pockets. ‘I don’t allow chocolate spread in my flat because I usually end up eating it off the spoon. It’s best to go full cold turkey.’
‘I can come over and confiscate it later if that would help.’ I giggled, failing to stop the girly noise he seemed to entice.
‘That would be great. It’ll do wonders for my thighs.’ He dropped his eyes to a thigh-high direction before picking up some pieces of wood and carrying them in his arms like a bundled baby.
‘Can I put these inside in case you run out later?’ I stepped away from the door and watched as he went inside, Archie in front of him. I followed them with the basket of temptation. ‘I’ll get it going for you,’ he said as he packed the logs away. Archie curled himself into a ball and settled down in front of the sofa.
‘It was cold when I woke up.’
‘Yeah. Hold on.’ He stood up and went through to the kitchen. I followed and found him behind a cupboard door. ‘This is the boiler. I’ll set it to come on at 6:00 am. During the day, use the wood burner. It will burn out overnight and you’ll be cold in the morning without this.’
‘My hero. Thanks.’ He blushed before shutting the door and watched me as I unpacked the breakfast basket. So sweet. I wondered if he was going to do this for me every morning, and as much as I loved that idea, I had to think of the muffin top that would surely grow. Maybe I should suggest a healthier breakfast basket. One filled with muesli and fruit smoothies. But as I pulled out a pain au chocolat, I forgot about the muffin top and bit into it.
‘What are your plans for today?’ he asked.
‘Hopefully, writing words,’ I replied raising an eyebrow.
‘You’re inspired already?’
‘Not exactly, no. But I have some ideas.’
‘Where does a writer start when the page is blank?’
‘I don’t know,’ I whined. ‘I might just give it up for today and do some reading.’
‘E-reader or paperback,’ he asked.
‘Both. You?’
‘The electronic reading device for me. The best invention of the 21st century,’ he said.
‘Are you a reader?’
‘Absolutely. Been obsessed with stories since I was a kid.’
The hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention. This guy was my type and then some.
‘Me too,’ I sighed wistfully. ‘Nothing compares to getting lost in a book.’
‘My mum loved reading. She’d explain the classics to me before I was old enough to understand them. I still have her collection. They’re falling apart, creased at the edges, notes in the margins, yellowing, but I think that makes them all the more beautiful.’
My body was telling me I’d met my husband. Shivers and goosebumps danced down my spine.
‘Some people would say they haven’t been cared for,’ I replied. ‘I think the opposite, crinkled pages and underlined words show just how much they’ve been loved.’
‘Totally agree,’ he replied, watching me in silence. ‘I find they help me feel close to Mum. A way back to her for a short while. Her thoughts are there. Her love. Does that make sense?’
‘It doesn’t matter if it doesn’t. It’s your sense.’
‘I’ve never thought of it that way,’ he replied, getting lost in his thoughts for a second.
I searched the cupboards for two plates and found them in the one Drew was standing next to. He scooted across. ‘I thought you preferred your electronic reading device. Sounds like you have a great collection of paperbacks.’
‘Why do I have to choose?’ he asked. ‘I like the smell of a book, the feel of it in my hands. But E-readers are good for nighttime reading…holidays, commutes. It’s practical, but paper is classic. I like a chunky book.’
‘Chunky is good,’ I replied smiling.
‘What about you?’ he asked.
‘At home, I have more shelf space than I do living space. If I love a book, I get a copy signed by the author.’
‘So you keep them pristine? No crinkles, no cracked spine?’
‘I have a shelf for pristine and a shelf for well-worn. Usually of the same books.’
‘You are a bookworm. That’s hardcore.’
‘I also have a shelf full of my own books, six or seven copies of each in case I want to send out a gift or run a giveaway on my social media accounts.’
‘I’m imagining your walls at home lined with books,’ he said. ‘You, curled up on a cushion with a mug of tea in your hands.’ He wasn’t far wrong. Although usually I had a laptop at the side of me in case inspiration struck. ‘When did you start writing?’
‘As soon as I could hold a pen,’ I replied. ‘I wrote stories about Dextor the bloodhound detective when I was at school. Embarrassing but true.’
‘When did you branch out into romance?’
‘When I was a teenager.’ I smiled as memories hit. ‘I used to read a magazine that featured romance stories on the more risqué side.’ He laughed. ‘My friends and I would count down the days until the new issue would be available to buy, and we’d read it on the field at the back of school.’
‘Starting young,’ he replied, his eyes crinkling. ‘What did your parents say?’
‘They didn’t know! I used to hide them under the mattress.’
‘Brilliant,’ he replied. ‘I was hiding Playboy and you
were hiding literature.’
‘Can I steal that line?’ I replied, laughing.
‘Thank me in the acknowledgements.’
‘Will do.’
He was leaning over the kitchen island, completely at ease. His eyes caught the spotlights above, the tiredness leaving him for a while as the lights made them sparkle. I couldn’t help but wonder about Drew, his back story, how he found himself on an island despite training to be a pilot and securing a prestigious job with American Airlines. Why was he here alone? What was his relationship history and why was I so intrigued? I caught him watching me, his lip gripped between his teeth, a nervous smile brushing his mouth as he looked away.
‘I’d better make a move. Roofs won’t fix themselves you know. As much as I’ve tried to convince them.’ He stood up and ran his hand through his hair causing it to flop down over his forehead like it had already given up for the day. I was starting to realise his style was sexy scruff and it suited him well. He zipped up his jacket, the tug confirming he was leaving, but I wanted him to stay, listen to him talk about his mother’s books and how much he enjoyed reading. A common interest that was fascinating and intriguing.
‘Can I tempt you?’ I asked, holding up a pastry.
‘I’m almost certain you can,’ he replied, his eyes dancing before glancing away. Remembering himself. I wondered if there was more packed within that sentence because I didn’t feel like we were talking about breakfast anymore. His gaze lazily ran across my face, down my body and back to the pastry in my hand. His large sigh filled the space and I didn’t have a clue where we were heading next.
‘Chocolate croissant or…naked croissant?’ I said in a breathy gasp. I watched him swallow, the bob of his Adam’s apple the sexiest movement I’d ever seen. I wanted to write it down. Preserve the feeling. Write it in my novel. Make swallowing sexy. I sniggered at the innuendo as he scrunched his forehead in confusion. ‘I don’t know why I said that,’ I rushed out holding the pastry up again. ‘I meant plain or chocolate.’
He scratched his chin and held his hand there in thought. What is he thinking?
‘Actually, Cal. I’ve got a lot I need to do today. Starting with packing away the wood.’ He pointed behind his head quickly. ‘It soon gets damp and we don’t want that, so…I’d better get back to it and everything else on my list.’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked, trying not to sound disappointed.
‘Yeah, sorry. Come on, Archie. You up for some roof fixing?’ Drew laughed nervously as Archie crossed through his legs, backing out of the kitchen with a look of regret I couldn’t place. His stubble was heavier then yesterday and it took everything in me not to ask if I could run my fingers over it. Instead, I followed behind him, saying polite things like, Of course. Another time maybe? Thanks for doing this. When all I wanted to say was, Please stay. Let’s talk; I’d like to get to know you better.
Chapter 6
Cal
After eating two more pastries and dipping my finger in the chocolate spread more times than I cared to admit, I finally settled at the little wooden table with a fabulous view and opened my laptop. Staring at the screen had started to become a pastime. Unfortunately, clicking off the word document and searching through Facebook had become a staple part of my writing process. Distraction. A complete diversion tactic. I didn’t fully understand what had changed. Usually, once I closed off social media and started writing, my ideas flowed out. My fingers would start tapping with more speed across the keys until that feeling of…euphoria…began to trickle through my conscious mind and allow the voices to tell me, You can do this! Keep going! Before I knew it, the whole day had passed without me glancing at the clock or making myself a cup of tea. I loved that feeling. I wished I could bottle it and sell it to other authors who were struggling to piece a manuscript together or had lost their way with a tricky plot.
I could have taken a sip myself, just to get the juices flowing.
By lunchtime, I had a what could only be described as a sketchy outline. Plenty of plot holes and an undefined male protagonist. At one stage he was a pilot with a strong work ethic, apart from when he was transfixed by the blonde author who took the red-eye to America every month to meet with her international publishing house. His work ethic was aborted when he was bending said author over the drinks trolley. Urgh. So cheesy. Stereotypical. Done a million times before. I deleted the whole thing and started again.
The next idea was a virile young farmer who was taken out of his comfort zone when he agreed to be the muse for a blonde author writing a book about, wait for it, a virile young farmer. I’d decided that she needed to do some research to make her book more believable. Virile young farmer is then flown to author’s penthouse in New York for a Q&A session. Cue hilarious scenes where the virile young farmer is completely out of his comfort zone in her palatial home full of luxuries. I dropped my forehead to the table. What is this crap? An author’s palatial penthouse in New York? One, that was totally unbelievable. Two, it was a crap idea.
Despite it being early December, there was a sheet of light coming through the window, cutting across the screen of my laptop and making the words I’d written difficult to see. I got up and pulled the curtain slightly, but rather than going back to typing, I found myself climbing onto the table, sitting up on my knees and taking in more of the view. Earlier, I’d noticed a bench in the distance and my wandering brain started thinking about it. How long had it been there? Who put it on top of a hill, desolate and alone? What conversations had taken place there, thoughts unravelled, plans for the future made? Kneeling on the desk, my knees creaking against the wood, I decided to take Gerry’s advice, Get out there, take in the views, be inspired by the place. Cornwall is magical; you can feel it becoming part of you.
Surely a good place to start for inspiration would be exploring the place? But what difference would there be from sitting at my desk in London to sitting at a desk here? I climbed down and collected everything I needed. An extra sweater, scarf, gloves, hat and coat. When I told Melissa that I’d be spending the next month on an island off the coast of Cornwall, she had joked that my preference for wearing heels would be compromised. I scoffed and told her fashion came before practicality but changed my mind at the last minute and bought some hiking boots. They were black with red laces, reminding me of the sole of a Louboutin and therefore ticking the practical yet fashionable box. I pulled them on, lacing them tight and wriggling my toes. The two pairs of thermal socks my mum insisted I bring with me were restricting the easy movement, but I decided I would forfeit easy movement to stop the likely possibility of frostbite. I slipped my phone (in case I fell and broke my leg and needed to ring for an air ambulance), a notepad, and a pencil into my pocket and headed out the door.
After a shove, I was out, and although it was cold, the sun still blanketed the sky, creating the illusion of a beautiful day. Drew’s car was parked outside his cottage, but there was no sign of him in the outhouse where he had been storing the wood he’d chopped from earlier. I peeked in and saw a quad bike, a golf cart with ‘Karensa’ printed in gold lettering across the front and wooden shelves packed with logs, all uniform and tidy like a firewood jigsaw or something you would find next to a blazing fire in a designer living room.
I followed the driveway from the cottages and found it sweeping up the hill towards the barns. I couldn’t deny that the place was impressive. Silver posts with balls of light lined both sides of the drive and I imagined the large wooden troughs that followed them would look beautiful full of bright flowers in the summer. Team that with the backdrop of sweeping hills and rocky coastline and it would be a fantastic welcome for any wedding party or holiday maker.
Holding my hand up over my eyes I squinted into the distance, trying to get my bearings and keeping the bench as my point of reference. I could make out what looked like a white chalk path and I headed for it, passing the barns and trying to ignore how out of breath I was as the track got steeper.
B
loody hell. I needed to up my fitness game. Yoga and Pilates were not cutting it. I had to stop and take a breath. I doubled over, panting like a bulldog on a morning walk. As I turned, I was able to see down into what was described in the Karensa brochure as the atrium. It connected the two main barns like a courtyard underneath a glass sky. I could see trails of greenery hanging down from crisscross beams that created a magical fairy garden effect. I closed my eyes and imagined a pixie of a woman, purple hair, flowers knotted together to form a crown and wearing a flowing gown, almost translucent. Her feet were bare and she was holding hands with a guy who looked like a Viking with a man bun and sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a navy waistcoat pulling the look together. They were smiling, watchful, so in love.
A knocking sound pulled me from my daydream, and my gaze was drawn towards Drew who was standing on the roof of what looked like a storage hold. The ladder against the wall was catching the light, like a lighthouse illuminating the dark. Drew was on his knees using a hammer to attach what looked like a tile to the roof. Around his waist was a tool belt, hanging low over his groin and clipped together at his bum, a black strap hanging between the globes of his glorious cheeks. I pulled my notepad and pen out of my pocket and wrote, Tool belts are sexy. Make sure you use that somewhere. He could be a grumpy builder who only cheers up when he sees the nymph next door.
The break had given me my breath back, so I continued along the path, following it in the hope it would eventually lead me to the bench. When I finally reached it, I threw my arms in the air, whooping loudly, Rocky style. Weirdly, I felt a huge sense of accomplishment, and I couldn’t explain why. I’d only followed a path and climbed a hill, but as I looked across the views, saw the sea to the side of me and took a long, deep breath, I felt a ping of something that had been missing for so long. Inspiration.
Sitting down, I found myself smiling. With my notebook in one hand, my pen in the other—I wanted to write. I finally wanted to write. Descriptions and narrative started to fill the pages, a depiction of the breathtaking landscape, a story starting to build around it.
A Novel Christmas Page 4