Page 22 of Saving Mr. Bell

“More than you, apparently. At least I don’t need a nap.”

“Shhh… I’m trying to sleep.” A sound had me opening my eyes after less than a minute to find Rudolf stripping off his borrowed T-shirt. He stood side on, meaning I could study him from beneath my eyelids without him being aware of it. The Mr. Physical comment had been a joke, but there was nothing wrong with Rudolf’s physique, his chiseled torso not conjuring up the image of someone who sat behind a piano for hours on end. Which, me and his millions of fans already knew, because part of his rock star who played classical music persona were his stage outfits being sleeveless or sheer enough to have you believe you could see straight through them.

Seeing something on TV and having it just a couple of meters away were very different things, though. Should I want to, I was close enough to touch. I’d just need to sit up, lean forward, andstretch out my arm. And then Rudolf could call me a lecherous old man instead of just an old man.

“You’re not really going to sleep, are you?” Rudolf turned my way as he asked the question. Worried I’d get caught checking him out, I closed my eyes before he completed the turn. And then in a performance not even worthy of an amateur dramatics society, I feigned rubbing my eyes before opening them and sitting up, keeping my gaze focused on his face and not letting it drift downwards. “Huh?”

He checked his watch. “It’s two in the afternoon. I asked if you were really going to sleep?”

“No. Is it really that time? We haven’t had lunch.”

Rudolf disappeared into the bedroom. When he came back, I couldn’t work out whether I was relieved or disappointed he’d donned another of my T-shirts. “How many of my T-shirts are you going to wear in one day?”

He gave an exaggerated eye roll. “You said to help myself to your clothes.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t realize it was going to be like stage outfits. You know, one for breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

“I was sweaty. I thought you’d appreciate me not making the cabin stink. Proper axe work makes a man work up a sweat.”

“Proper?”

Rudolf’s grin confirmed my suspicions that the word had been the provocation I’d taken it as. He wandered over to the kitchen area, opened up the cupboard, and peered at its contents. “Don’t worry. I’ll sort out lunch. I wouldn’t want you to strain something.”

Chapter Nine

Rudolf

I’d ended up sorting out lunch and dinner, spending time in the cabin’s kitchen surprisingly relaxing. Not as relaxing as taking an axe to a tree or a log, but it ran a close second. I might have playfully teased Arlo about it, but it had surprised me to find I had an aptitude for it despite never having held one before. Perhaps if I looked into my family tree, I’d discover my great-great-grandfather used to be a lumberjack.

Arlo’s initial reaction to me demanding to have a go was mild compared to what would have happened back home if I’d tried to do any manual labor.Your hands, Rudolf, think of your hands.Arlo had been correct about them being insured for a ridiculous amount of money. Notme. My hands. Like they were two independent entities capable of existing separately from the other.

I’d pooh-poohed Arlo’s idea of playing a game after dinner, choosing to stand at the window and watch the snow come down instead. We really weren’t getting out of here anytime soon. It only took ten minutes of staring at an endless sea of white before it lost its allure. And without a TV, there wasn’t much else to do in the cabin. “Fine,” I said, with as much exasperation as I could muster. “I’ll play a game. But I get to choose which one. I’m not playing bridge with you.”

Arlo raised his head from the book he’d been reading with a frown. “I don’t know how to play bridge.”

I went into the adjoining room, the piano mocking me as I walked past without offering it so much as a glance. Yeah, and it could keep mocking me because I wasn’t touching it. Even its existence made me want to grab the axe and chop something. Preferably, the piano itself.

Arlo appeared in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb in a pose of studied casualness with his arms crossed. “Go on, then. What are we playing?”

I bypassed the billiard table and went to the shelf of games at the back, running my finger along them as I discounted them. “Monopoly, no. Takes too long. Buckaroo, no. I’m not six. Trivial Pursuit, no. Too intellectual, and I’m shit at any category other than music.” I frowned at a game whose name I not only didn’t recognize but couldn’t pronounce. “Too Austrian.” I paused on the next one. “I found one for you.”

“What?”

I held it up with a grin. “Bingo. I bet that gets your heart racing.”

“Six year age difference,” Arlo said with wry amusement. “That’s all.”

I ran my finger over a few more boxes, none of them taking my fancy. With the games on the shelf all discounted, I moved on to the ones in the cupboard. “We need something a bit more physical.”

“Do we?”

“I do.”

“Like what?”

I had a feeling if I didn’t choose something soon, Arlo would return to his book and leave me to my own devices. I grabbed a pack of cards. “Poker.”

After an initial moment of surprise, Arlo dutifully followed me over to the table in the corner. “Not what I’d call physical.”

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