Page 44 of One Bed

The sound of the coffee gurgling and dripping into the cup and the bacon sizzling was the only sound in the room. Not wanting to see the confusion in Bea’s lovely eyes, he walked onto the deck and shook his head at what he saw.

Bea normally worked at the little table that stood directly in front of the view. Usually it was a mess of Post-it Notes, highlighters, at least three coffee cups and two notebooks full of her chicken-scratch scribbling. But this morning her stuff had been cleared away and she’d covered the table with a bright pink-and-yellow cloth, side plates and cutlery, and condiments. Another vase of flowers sat dead centre in the middle of the table.

What thefuckwas this? Was she trying to make her own Hallmark moment? It screamed romance and he wasn’t into romance. Wouldn’t know what it was even if it bit him on the ass.

He sensed her behind him and whirled around to look at her. He took the mug she held out and gestured to the table. ‘And this?’

Shock skittered across her face. ‘Uh…’ She looked back at the kitchen as if she were looking for answers there. ‘I thought it would be nice for us to have breakfast out here.’

He lifted his coffee mug and took a big sip, his eyes widening as the hot liquid scorched his tongue. Maybe it was life’s payback for him being a bastard. But her making him breakfast, tidying up and doing his goddamn laundry was weird as shit.

What the hell did she think she was doing? She wasn’t his maid or cook.

He shook his head and banged the mug so hard on the table that the coffee splashed over the rim and stained the pretty pink tablecloth. ‘I don’t want breakfast.’ He really did but there was no way he was going to stay here for one more minute. ‘I’m going for a run.’

Bea frowned, her hand resting at the bottom of her neck, her index finger tapping her collarbone. She looked thoroughly confused and he didn’t blame her. He was acting like a prize dick but didn’t seem to be able to stop.

‘You don’t want breakfast?’

‘No.’

What he wanted was for her to act like she didn’t want to be here, like she had on the day they’d arrived. He needed her to have her claws out, throwing barbs at him, to look at him with scorn in her eyes. Not to look hurt, confused, sexy and so very fuckable.

And, crucially, not acting like they were in a relationship. They only met a few days ago … whodidthat? And it was 2024, why the hell was she picking up after his slobby self? That mindset belonged to the fifties and sixties! Hadn’t she heard about women’s lib?

‘I’ll grab something to eat in Oia if I get hungry.’

To her credit, she didn’t try and talk him out of going. She simply lifted her shoulder and quietly told him that she was going to have a bacon butty. Because he was a contradictory bastard, he immediately wanted that English favourite –white bread, fatty bacon and ketchup, or, as the English called it tow-mah-tow sauce.

Bea, her back ramrod straight, stacked the side plates, picked up the cutlery from the table, walked back into the kitchen and put the items back where they belonged. She returned, picked up the condiments, pushed his cup into his hand and whipped the cloth off the table, shoving it against his chest. ‘Put that into the laundry basket when you go back to the bedroom,’ she told him, ice coating her words.

Gib rubbed the back of his neck and silently cursed. Yes, he was being a dick and, yes, he was astute enough to realise he’d hurt her, but who went to all this effort the morning after a night when they did little more than heavy petting? Didn’t she know how flings worked? Even if this was the start of a relationship –and it most certainly was not! –everyone knew you handed out little pieces at a time, gave the minimum amount of information and effort and built your way up, over time, to something.

And her tidying up, making breakfast, and doing his laundry freaked him the fuck out. Next, she’d be asking his thoughts on religion and politics, or to tell her about his childhood. She’d want him to talk about the accident that took his parents, and how he coped after they were gone. How guilty he still felt for that initial, so selfish, spurt of relief.

He had to say something but he didn’t have the first clue what. He twisted the tablecloth into a tight ball. ‘Bea, I?—’

Bea half turned and her look nailed his feet to the floor. ‘You said you were going for a run, Gib. I suggest you do that. Before we both say, or do, something we can’t come back from.’

With that, Bea headed back inside, picked up a slice of bacon from the pan on the stove and walked out the front door.

* * *

Bea felt like she’d been punched in the gut.

Pride kept her shoulders back and her back straight as she quickly walked away from the cottage, but as soon as she was out of sight, hot tears rolled down her face. She looked at the piece of bacon between her fingers and lobbed it away. In an instant, she was ten again, listening to her father express his disappointment that his scrambled eggs were burned. Twelve, and his horror at her not receiving an A for a descriptive writing essay. Fourteen, and his resignation when she told him, as she did every summer, that she was leaving to spend the summer holidays with Golly.

‘If your mother doesn’t want you, then you can stay here with me.’

Back then she thought she didn’t know what was worse, missing out on six weeks of being a kid, or disappointing her father. As an adult, she understood that six weeks being a child, with no responsibilities, saved her sanity.

Bea swiped the tears off her cheeks, and reminded herself that she was a grown woman, and Gib’s criticism was unwarranted. She shouldn’t be reacting like this. But the sobs in her throat, her knotted stomach and her inability to regain her composure –all because some Neanderthal man took potshots at her –made her wonder if she’d made any progress in twenty years.

Maybe she’d always and forever be that lost and lonely, terrified to make a mistake, child.

She felt panic scour her throat and knew she needed to do some deep-breathing exercises before she lost it completely. She stomped past the pergola to sit on the wall, and placed her hand on her stomach, sucking in air, trying to get it to her toes. As her panic receded, she decided Gib’s shitty attitude was his problem, not hers.

Was he pissed off because she’d tidied up, made him breakfast and set the table? Could he be that petty? It wasn’t like she’d asked to move in with him or demanded a wedding ring. Maybe he was frustrated at them not being able to make love last night, but that wasn’t her fault. He’d had no right, thebastard, to act like a dick.

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