Page 9 of Tender Heart
He shoves past me and goes about tossing his belongings into the crate. I stand rooted to the spot as he clears out the room before disappearing into the bathroom. With his crate loaded, he walks out and trudges down the spiral stairs. I follow, desperate to ask about the food, to apologize for the inconvenience I’ve obviously imposed on him.
He stalks to the bookshelf, tossing a handful of tomes on top of his already overflowing cargo. Next, he tugs open a kitchen cupboard and takes a handful of things. The last item he grabs is a navy tin mug.
“I’m sorr?—”
He flicks me a glance that looks more like a warning than acknowledgement, and I close my mouth.
But I need groceries and to not feel like I’ve hunted him out of his home. I move a little closer, hands wringing my shirt, and decide to try again.
When I open my mouth to say something, nothing comes as he stalks for the front door.
It slams a second later, and I stand staring at it. No closer to figuring out this mess I have found myself in.
“Great, thanks a bunch, Livvy.”
Good lord, it’s going to be alongnine months.
With a belly full of cold stew and stale bread, I lay on the bed, not game to breach the covers and lay in the man smell that shrouds this room. With a heavy blanket I found downstairs, I huddle up against the East Coast winter. It’s been a long, long time since I was among anything masculine. It’s heady. A little nerve-racking.
Staring up at the ceiling and studying the design of the upcycled light fixture, I try to outline a plan for the next few weeks. So far, I have three chapters. A measly six thousand words into a ninety-thousand-word project.
Rolling over, I glance at the night sky through the window. The stars seem as if they are hanging just outside, so low you could touch them. Waves crash outside the open window, lulling me into a mesmerized state. A stark contrast to the noise, the sirens, the chaos of the city.
The lights in the little cottage were out before I even threw together my makeshift supper. I don’t recall them coming on at all, now that I think of it. Maybe he’s one of those “to bed with the birds” types. Most likely will be up before the sun. A polar opposite to the night owl I’ve become as a writer.
I roll over without thinking. His scent hits me.
Like a ton of bricks.
Memories of having a man in my bed rush back like the punishing waves on the rocks outside.
Joshua.
The pang that used to turn to unbearable agony stays just that, a pang.
Letting my eyes drift shut, I breathe in the salty air like it can heal my wounds from the inside out.
But my mind won’t slow, and my heart thumps heavily. I need to make this work. What other options do I have? Writing is all I’ve ever done, ever wanted to do. I have no useful real-life skills. Not one. Starting again from scratch would be painful, to say the least.
I toss the blanket off and grab my robe from the end of the bed. With the moon high over the lighthouse, shining its silver spears over the polished wood floor, I take out my laptop and place it on the small desk. My phone buzzes, the screen lighting up.
A text from Allie.
She’d be up still. Always my nocturnal companion.
I lift my phone, and the service disappears.
The screen says SOS. No service.
Great.
I decide to stick with the inspiration that hauled me out of the warm comfort of the bed and ignore her. Opening the laptop, I fire it up and wait for the telltale ping of a trillion emails and updates.
Nothing comes.
I check my phone.
Two bars . . .
