Page 117 of Beyond the Cottage

Outside the carriage, tidy homes gave way to older, crumblier buildings. When they stopped at an abandoned paper mill, Gretta paid the driver, and Ansel followed her to a brick alley lined with peeling wheat-paste advertisements and rusty metal bins.

“Left here,” she said.

Suddenly alert, he took her arm. “Why are we going this way?”

“It’s where I live. We’re almost there.”

“You live in analley?”

“My door does.”

He scanned the area. “Light from the street lamps wouldn’t reach this far. How do you get around at night?”

“I can fly, Anse. And I’ve lived here for years. Besides, I’d be more worried about getting jumped in the classy part of town.”

As they continued on, he eyed every trash bin like assassins lurked behind them, then she plugged her key in a door and led him into the dingy stairwell. The stairs groaned under his weight as she floated ahead of him.

They reached her landing, and Gretta hesitated, key poised. She’d never brought a man to her apartment before. The place may be a rattrap, but it was her sanctuary, and she was used to fiercely guarding her privacy.

“I’m letting you into my home,” she said. “I don’t want any commentary or judgment, got it?”

“I’m intrigued. Do you collect their heads as well as their hair?”

“I mean it.”

He held up his hands. “No judgment. Hell, you saw where I live.”

She swung the door open, and he looked over her cramped apartment. His humor morphed into horrified fascination.

“Dear god,” he said. “It’s immaculate.”

“Yeah. I’d like to keep it that way.” She dropped her bag and tossed her key in a porcelain bowl. “Boots off.”

They both removed their boots, and Gretta placed them neatly on a rack.

“The bathroom is that way,” she said, pointing. “I’d offer you a tour, but you can pretty much see it all from here.” Her living room and kitchen were the same room separated by a counter.

While he used the bathroom, she heated water and gathered clean rags. After taking her own turn in the bathroom, she grabbed a brown bottle and white tin box from the medicine cabinet.

She came out to find him sprawled on the couch, eyes closed, head on the backrest. His lips parted on a light snore. Seeing Ansel Wallenfang conked out in her living room had to be the most surreal moment of her life.

His head twitched, sending a lock of dark hair in one eye. A tiny snuffle escaped him. The poor guy was beat.

From their morning? Or from their night?

Graphic memories dropped in uninvited, dragging her attention from the tenderness in her belly to the one between her legs. The one she’d been doing her damnedest not to think about. The one that had just becomeallshe could think about.

She shut it down. They’d had their one-off, now they were friends. That was the agreement. It was for the best.

If those memories chose to pop up later, whil she was alone in bed, well…

Ansel startled awake. Gretta marched to him and sat. All business, she arranged her medical supplies on the coffee table, and with a no-nonsense clearing of her throat, she turned to him, back ramrod.

“Take off your shirt.” Her voice came out huskier than if she’d gargled whiskey.

He hesitated. Then he took his shirt off and dropped it on the floor.

Gretta busied herself with the antiseptic. Legs folded underneath her, she draped his scarred forearm across her lap and untied the makeshift bandage. She gently dabbed his wound.

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