Page 128 of Beyond the Cottage

“Over there’s where the vice chancellor lives,” she said. “And that gothic monstrosity is the secretary of state.”

Ansel looked, but his enthusiasm for sightseeing waned. As they got closer to Gretta’s neighborhood, the knot in his stomach tightened.

She turned to him, mouth open as though she wanted to say something. The carriage clattered to a stop before anything came out.

Ansel paid the driver this time. He led Gretta through the dim alley with his hand grazing the small of her back, scanning every shadow. She gave him an indulgent smile. As soon as they entered her apartment, she took off her shoes and dashed to her bedroom.

Ansel left his boots on.

She came out with her jacket off and her previously pinned hair in a ponytail. She didn’t have his case. When she saw him standing near the door, she stopped short, hands still tying her hair ribbon. She veered to the kitchen and took a bottle of red wine and two glasses from the cabinet.

“Nightcap?” she asked, pouring. “I know you stay away from the stronger stuff.” She approached with a generously filled glass.

“It’s late, Gretta.” He slung his duffel over his shoulder.

She set the wine on the entryway bench and returned to the kitchen. Leaning against the counter, she sipped from her glass.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I should get my case and be—”

“Do you think I’m a drunk?”

Ansel’s head snapped back. What kind of bizarre waters had they wandered into? “Why would you ask me that?”

“The idea’s come up before. I thought you’d be the one to know.”

“Because of my father?”

Her eyes lowered. “Yeah. I guess.”

He thought back to the nights his father would come home annihilated from rotgut and on a rampage. Then the mornings when he’d wake in a vacant stupor, finishing whatever was left in the bottle to achieve the bare minimum of functionality.

“You’re not a drunk. You do, however, use alcohol to deal with stressful situations.” While he didn’t judge her, he wished she’d found a better way of coping.

She set her glass aside and approached. “Do you think this is a stressful situation?”

For him? Hell yes. He was trying to walk away from the woman he loved.

Ansel’s vision grayed, and he braced a hand on the wall. His sudden, godforsaken realization nearly knocked him out.

He loved Gretta.

Fuck.

Why it stunned him, he didn’t know. He’d been highly in touch with those feelings for years. But loving her as a friend wasn’t the same as this. It was more complicated now and a hell of a lot more dangerous. The former was a warm bath on a cold day, the latter a headfirst dive into a volcano.

A biological equation? Brain chemicals and stimuli? They now seemed the naive ramblings of a cynic.

Thisfeltlike more.

He closed his eyes, hiding his fluctuating pupils. While his ultimate destruction was all but assured, he knew one thing with absolute certainty—he couldn’t run from this anymore. He loved Gretta in every way possible, and there was nothing he could do about it. There was nothing hewantedto do about it.

He pushed off the wall and stood before her without responding. She’d posed the question casually, and he lacked a casual answer.

Skirt rustling, she came closer with a hand on her hip. “Anse, this is stupid. Why won’t you stay here while you’re in town? You’ll save money and be more comfortable. It’s what friends do.”

Potential consequences played out in his mind. They were irrelevant. If she was offering him time with her, he’d fucking take it.

He dropped his duffel with a thud. “Alright.”

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