Page 42 of Don't Bite the Boy Next Door
I tie my hair up in a messy bun and screw up my nose as I look around the smallest room of the house, the second I’ve chosen to decorate since tackling the main living area at the start of last week.
“He calls this a study, Orson,” I groan to the piglet at my feet, now almost grown as tall as my knees, dressed in his little Christmas jumper. “Honestly, what a mess, I don’t even know where to start!”
Making my way through piles of newspapers, paintings stacked against the walls, boxes of unopened things, I see an old roll-top desk in one corner, oak, and smile.
“Ah-ha,nowI know where to start.”
Wading past piles of belongings, and reaching the desk, I consider its aged patina and the wear on its handles.
“Must be an heirloom,” I murmur, “perfect. It will be the focus of the room, and everything else will fit in with it.”
I decide to start grouping objects, some for him to keep in here, some for his huge, crammed attic and some for the recycling.
Starting with his desk, I open the roll-top and frown as a mountain of blue and white envelopes cascade to the floor at my feet from where they had obviously been just shoved higgledy-piggledy.
Sighing, I lean down to pick them up, realising they are all letters received – but none had been opened. Flipping one over, I see the address of the sender and shake my head. Every letter was addressed from his mother; it looked as though she had written every week for years, and he had opened none of them.
Frowning, I rise and walk out of the study towards the newly decorated lounge room. My heart flips as I see him standing beside the roaring log fire, his dark hair shining in the light from the flames and the soft glow of the lamps in the corner, as he warms his hands. Behind him Toto is stretched, tongue out, sound asleep on the rich, red Persian rug, and curled up nearby are Orson and my two cats.
‘Everything I love in one room. God, he’s beautiful.’
He looks up as I enter, and I see his eyes momentarily light up, before once more darkening to their accustomed distance.
“Ryan?”
He nods.
“It’s Christmas next week.”
“Yes.”
“This is the first year your mother will be alone for the holidays. Are you flying to Miami to be with her?”
“That,” he raises his hand to stop my words and turns from me to look, once more, at the flames, “isn’t something you need to worry about.”
“I will be safe for a few days. I don’t want you to miss out on valuable family time on my account; I’m sure it will be a difficult time for her.”
He shakes his head.
“I found all your letters,” I add quietly. “I wasn’t snooping, I was cleaning out the study. You haven’t opened a single one…”
“Tess,” he growls, “please, don’t go there.”
“Into the study?”
“You know what I mean. You have things you won’t discuss, so do I. Let’s leave it at that.”
I sigh and shake my head, walking to the window to look out at the thick blanket of white covering everything now.
“Are you coming to help choose a tree or not?” he says suddenly, startling me.
“A tree?”
“I know how you like to do Christmas big. If you like, we can put up a tree.”
“Yes,” I turn to him, puzzled at his change of subject and demeanour, “I’d love that. And yes, I’ll help you choose one, if I don’t, you might bring in one big enough to house a family of woodchucks.”
“Are you saying my tree choice last year was somewhat excessive?” he chuckles, heading to the door and reaching for his coat on the peg.
