December 10
"Another package for you today. Someone must love you." Surprised, I met Hunky UPS Guy's eyes. With his black mask in place, his eyes were about all I could see--well, aside from his dark chestnut brown hair which was cut short and was thick enough to make me, with my own wispy hair, envious.
This being December, I was unable to admire the tan forearms, impressive biceps, and muscular calves on Hunky UPS Guy. They'd been nice eye candy during the summer, making the brown UPS truck an even more welcome sight in the neighborhood than usual.
Naturally, in the summer, I'd hardly received any packages at all. Now that the delivery guy was covered up like a maiden aunt from California visiting relatives in Alaska, I was swimming in them.
In packages. Not maiden aunts.
"Uh... yeah. Someone's playing a joke on me, I think," I said, taking the package.
"Playing a joke?" His dark eyebrows raised curiously.
I was certain Hunky UPS Guy didn't really care about what was in my packages. Or my package, unfortunately. But I'd apparently started a conversation, as out of practice at it as I was.
"Yes. The packages I've been getting every day--someone's sending me anonymous gifts."
"Huh. No idea who they're from?"
"I haven't the foggiest." I chuckled awkwardly. "Whoever they are, they're persistent. I'll give them that."
I'd mentally run through the likely senders of my mysterious packages, to no avail. I thought my mom and dad might be feeling sorry for me, being home alone this year for the holidays. But when I'd called to ask, Mom swore it wasn't them. My sister Ally was in grad school and had neither the money nor the temperament for such games. My friends in Seattle? Most of them were still miffed that I'd moved across Puget Sound and left the old neighborhood, and they were busy with their own little dramas. My ex-boyfriend James? It was possible. Perhaps he wanted to get back together. But James had never had a romantic bone in his body. It was hard to imagine him sending anonymous gifts, or that he was eager to win me back given how cold he'd been when he dumped me.
"Maybe you have a secret admirer," Hunky UPS guy suggested. His tone was serious even though the suggestion was ridiculous.
"Well, I wish I had suitors beating down my door but, alas, no."
"I dunno. You're new in the neighborhood, Maybe you've caught someone's eye." Hunky UPS Guy's own chocolate brown eyes twinkled. "You have a good day now."
I was too perplexed to respond as he walked back to his truck. I was not, however, too perplexed to watch him go. His firm ass could still be admired in his brown uniform pants, even in the winter. My, he wore them tight. When he was seated in his truck, he glanced back at me. I stupidly waved, trying to cover up the fact that I'd been checking him out.
Nice going, Paul. You letch.
I took today's package inside, stripped off my mask, and hung it on a hook by the door, conveniently placed for deliveries. I decided to ignore my work for another five minutes to satisfy my curiosity. I cut the box open. Inside was a blu ray of Bird with the Crystal Plumage.
Interesting. I loved old giallo movies. Who would know that about me? It had to be family and friends. I didn't think I'd ever mentioned it in an interview.
Next, I looked over the packaging carefully. As with the previous gifts, the package was from Amazon with UPS delivery selected and the sender listed as "Anonymous." There was no message.
This was the fourth one I'd received, and it seemed just as random as all the rest. But was there a pattern? I fetched the other three gifts--or what was left of them--and placed them on the table.
The first one had been a box of fancy pears.
The second a case of Hershey Dove bars.
The third was a set of three blue and white potholders in a French design with chickens on them.
And today's-- the Bird with the Crystal Plumage blu ray.
Today's blu ray was the first that indicated any personal knowledge of my tastes. Everyone liked pears and chocolates. And the potholders would make a suitable hostess gift for a total stranger.
I felt like I was missing something.
I took a photo and put it on my Facebook page. Someone is anonymously sending me gifts. Kind of driving me bonkers. Anyone have any clue as to who's doing this? Or a way I can find out?
The hive mind did not disappoint. Within minutes, several people pointed out what I'd failed to see.
A partridge in a pear tree.
Two turtle doves.
Three French hens.
Four calling birds.
The gifts were referencing the Twelve Days of Christmas.
I grinned when I saw the connection, delighted. Very clever! The gifts weren't expensive in and of themselves, but someone was going to a fair amount of trouble to think these up and get them delivered. Going to all that trouble--for me. But who?
I glumly gazed around the exclusive upstairs lounge at the Utopia Grand as guests trickled in for my grandmother’s annual charity event. Fresh fir boughs lined the cream wainscoting along with wreaths each tastefully decorated with a single red bow. The lights of New York City glowed through floor-to-ceiling windows.
Beside me from our position in the corner practically hiding behind the enormous gold-decorated Christmas tree, Addison nodded to Richard Wolverhampton. Excuse me—Richard Wolverhampton the Third. He was scowling at his phone from one of the cream settees and combing his thin hair forward with his fingers as if that would hide his already-receding hairline.
I nearly spit out my Manhattan and sputtered, “Veto!”
Addison frowned and tucked a dark, glossy curl behind her ear. “Why not? He might agree for the right price. You know he’s probably checking the latest bad trade he’s made. Rumor has it his parents are cutting him off soon.”
“He’s a homophobic prick. We both went to Rencliffe, remember? In tenth grade, he made Edward Linney’s life hell. Eddie wasn’t even queer, I don’t think.”
Addison stirred her cranberry holiday mojito with a cinnamon stick. “Maybe Richard’s grown as a person.”
After a beat, we burst out laughing too loudly, garnering glares from a few of the old society ladies who’d arrived early and now sipped sauvignon blanc while gossiping in whispers. Nostalgia washed over me with memories of our teenage years when Addison and I were perpetually skulking in the corner of these events.
“Do you want me to call my matchmaker auntie in Mumbai? I’m sure she has some hot tips.”
“I’m not looking for a match. That’s what I’m trying to avoid.”
“Mm.” Addison fingered her silver necklace, the encrusted diamonds gleaming against her brown skin. “Okay, unless you want to rethink one of the Masterson cousins—” She paused for my response.
The fake-boyfriend selection pool was truly grim. “Veto, veto, and veto.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re really channeling Bitsy.”
“What? Oh, I guess I am.” My grandmother was famous—make that infamous—for her one-word dismissal of any ideas she didn’t care for. “Look, it has to be believable.”
“Fair, but pickings are slim, and everyone will be arriving soon. You need to consider a fake girlfriend instead.”
Sighing, I muttered, “I guess so.”
“What does it matter? You’re bi—as long as you have a significant other for the holidays, your grandmother should lay off her matchmaking scheme. Or, you could remind her you’re twenty-nine years old and are a big boy now.”
Addison took another sip of her cocktail before adding, “You know, it would be easier just to—hear me out—actually date someone. You’ve been hooking up with guys on the downlow since Rencliffe. If you’re set on finding a man to thwart Bitsy’s matchmaking dreams, there must be someone you know who’s boyfriend material.”
“Definitely no one from high school. Also, I never told you I hooked up with guys back then.”
Addison rolled her eyes. “As if I couldn’t always sniff out your chaotic bisexual energy.”
I had to laugh, affection swelling in my chest. “Did it smell anything like Tom Ford Soleil Brûlant?”
“You wish. Axe Body Spray was more like it.”
“Ouch. And I know it would be easier to have a partner for real. But after Gwen, I’m just not in the mood for anything serious.”
She sighed. “I hear you. Gwen was a heartbreaker.”
“She didn’t break my heart,” I insisted. “I’ll give you bruised.”
Addison didn’t argue, which was why she was my best friend. She simply said, “May I point you back in the direction of telling your grandmother once and for all to butt the eff out?”
“You know my grandmother. Nodding and smiling and agreeing with everything she declares is the only way to go. I’m the oldest. Asher can do whatever he wants. Meanwhile, it’s my responsibility to carry on the Cabot family legacy.”
Addison dramatically put a hand to her chest, covering the V-neck of her sleek, green cocktail dress. “If only the world could understand the suffering of this rich white man in his custom Armani suit.”
I chuckled. “Fair. Though I didn’t say I was suffering. I just don’t want to deal with my grandmother’s meddling. If I’d known Cecilia was back from France, I’d have skipped dinner tonight.”
“And miss Bitsy’s traditional Thanksgiving charity event? You wouldn’t dare.”
After a burning gulp of my drink, I muttered, “I wish she’d actually do the place up for Thanksgiving. I’m sick of Christmas already, and it’s still November.”
“Like what, pilgrim hats and paper-mache turkeys? I’m sure the tables will feature decorative gourds.”
“Grandmother does love a decorative gourd.”
“Who doesn’t? Also, why is she so stuck on marrying you off to Cecilia Weston?”
I snorted. “Money and status, why else? It’s her world—we just live in it. And to be clear, her world might as well be Jane Austen’s Victorian England.”
“Pretty sure Austen was the Regency period.”
“Whichever.” I desperately gave the lounge another scan. A string quartet played carols, and arriving guests made small talk in clusters. Before I could bite my tongue, I blurted, “I’d rather find a fake boyfriend because Grandmother doesn’t believe bisexuality exists.”
Addison’s plucked eyebrows disappeared under her fashionable bangs. “In you specifically, or in the world at large?”
“Both.”
Addison smiled sharply. “Does Bitsy believe in lesbians, or am I your imaginary friend?”
“I think she’d much rather everyone be cis and hetero, but being gay is a binary she can accept. You’re also extremely rich.”
Addison was part of the Rupani family, who’d made their fortune in India in telecoms. We’d met in an Upper East Side preschool and had an instant affinity for each other based on our shared love for all things SpongeBob.
Addison frowned. “You said your family was cool when you came out this summer.”
I shrugged, going for careless and likely missing the mark. “My mom and stepdad and Asher were cool. Aunts and uncles and various cousins. Grandmother’s in denial.”
She reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine!” I squeezed back before shoving my hand in my pocket.
“Okay, let’s find you a man.” Addison slurped the rest of the mojito. Her gaze narrowed. “There. Your brother’s hot friend. They just walked in.”
Confused, I searched the growing crowd. I found Asher, but it took a second to place his companion. “Connor? No. Veto. Veee-to. He’s a kid.”
Or he had been.
Addison’s eyebrows met. “Are we talking about the same guy? White and a bit pasty—doesn’t look like he gets a lot of sun. About six feet tall. Dirty blond hair definitely has some product involved in making him look so carelessly sexy. Hot black leather jacket and that tight ass in those Levis?”
Seeing through Addison’s eyes, I tilted my head and watched Connor and Asher laugh about something.
Bright, sweet smile that dimples his cheeks.
Huh. When had Connor Lisowski grown up? So well? He and Asher were twenty-three now, and I hadn’t seen Connor since they were undergrads.
“Ohhh, nice dimples,” Addison noted.
Regaining my sanity, I scoffed. “I’ve known him since he was an angry, pimply teenager.” Well, “known” was a strong word. Connor had been Asher’s sullen shadow.
“He sure isn’t now. I direct you again to exhibit D: dat ass. But even if you’re not into his wannabe James Dean vibe, it’s not like you have to hook up with him. The whole idea is a fake boyfriend.”
“I know, but…”
“He’s less of a risk since no one here knows him. Besides, you’re out of vetoes and time, my friend.”
On cue, my grandmother strolled into the lounge, chatting with—of course—Abigail Weston and Abigail’s only child, Cecilia. It wasn’t that I had anything against Cecilia, who was a golden-haired high society ingenue straight out of central casting.
The few times we’d been forced into small talk, she’d been perfectly pleasant. But I’d just come to terms with being bi, and I wasn’t looking for anything but a good time.
As Grandmother surveyed the room as the Terminator might, I practically lunged behind the Christmas tree, narrowly avoiding the fragrant pine needles.
I was well and truly out of options. “Fine.”
“You think he’ll go for it?”
“I think Asher said he’s gay, so maybe? Guess there’s only one way to find out. Can you wave them over?”
After a few aborted attempts, Addison grumbled and strode across the lounge, deftly grabbing a champagne flute and skirting a massive poinsettia. She returned with Asher and Connor, and we crowded in the space between the tree and the window.
“What’s up?” Asher asked suspiciously. He leaned to the left, peering around the tree. “Ah. Bitsy’s back on her bullshit. I’m sorry to inform you that you can’t hide here all night. No doubt Gamma’s got you sitting with Cecilia so you can bond over turkey and stuffing and get married and have perfect heirs.” He gulped from his flute. “You remember Connor, right?”
“We sure do,” Addison said, though they’d probably never met. “Actually, Reid’s in need of your services, Connor.”
His forehead creased. “My…huh?” He scanned up and down my body, which gave me a strange little tingle. “Are you sick or something? I’m only in med school. I’m not a doctor yet.”
“Oh, not those services,” I said. “Look, time is of the essence, so here goes: I need a boyfriend for the holidays to thwart my matchmaking grandmother. In the new year, she’ll go south to the Caymans, and I’ll be off the hook until spring.”
Connor stared at me. Up close, I could see he had stubble. “You… What?”
Addison said, “You wouldn’t have to really date. Just come to a few more of these stuffy parties in December. Maybe a few PDAs to sell it.”
Connor’s brown eyes widened, and I asked, “You’re queer too, right? I thought Asher said—” I spotted the flash of alarm in my brother’s eyes, but of course it was too late.
Connor jerked his gaze to Asher. “Why the hell would you say that?”
“I didn’t!” Asher lifted his palms. “My idiot brother’s confused.”
“Apologies. I must’ve gotten you mixed up with someone else.” I thought Asher had mentioned it back when he and Connor were in high school, but perhaps I’d misremembered. I tried not to feel defensive. “You don’t have to sound so outraged. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
Connor scoffed. “I know. I have two dads.” He drained his champagne.
That rang a faint bell. “Right, right.” Connor had been a scholarship kid at Rencliffe when he and Asher met. I vaguely recalled his mother had died, and he’d been classified as “troubled” before settling down. I thought there was something about his stepfather raising him?
It didn’t matter—we could only hide behind the Scotch pine for so long.
“Look,” I said. “You’d be doing me a huge favor.”
Eyes on his empty glass, Connor fiddled with the zipper of his leather jacket, which most certainly did not fit my grandmother’s dress code.
Asher added, “There’s always free food and booze at these events. It’ll be fun.” We both wore our dark brown hair short, though his bangs flopped over one eyebrow as he waggled them.
Connor glowered at him. “Why would it be fun pretending to be, um, Reid’s—” He motioned at me as if he couldn’t bring himself to say the word boyfriend.
Asher grinned. “I love my grandmother, but messing with Bitsy’s always a good time.”
“We’ve been spotted,” Addison hissed.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” I added.
Connor met my gaze, clearly still dubious. Not to mention handsome. Seriously, when had this happened? I didn’t remember his voice being this low.
He asked, “How?”
“However you want.”
He shifted in his Doc Martens. “You really need help?”
A server in black and white appeared and asked Connor, “Sir, may I take your coat? It will be uncomfortably warm for you at dinner.” The guy had likely been dispatched by Grandmother.
Asher said, “Dude, I promise they won’t lose it.” To the server, he added, “You won’t lose it, right?”
“Never,” the man replied seriously.
“Fine,” Connor muttered as he shrugged out of the jacket. The leather squeaked and seemed new.
Under it, he wore a white dress shirt and gray striped tie, which was at least semi-formal. His Levis—which really did hug his long, lean legs—and Doc Martens were less so, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if my grandmother would approve of him in any outfit.
Besides, she just had to believe we were a couple long enough to back off, and—
“Incoming,” Asher whispered, and as the server left with Connor’s jacket, we all turned to face Elizabeth “Bitsy” Cabot as she marched toward us, her glossy black pumps striking the marble floor in staccato annoyance.
Her skin was creamy white—never tanned nor too pale—and her hair was decidedly silver rather than gray, styled in a seek bob. She wore a long-sleeved cocktail dress in an orangey-red that was likely called “burnt sienna” or something else appropriately autumnal for Thanksgiving.
“Gamma!” Asher opened his arms wide, and she hugged him, allowing the childhood nickname that was a relic from the time when Asher couldn’t pronounce “Grandmother.” Also allowing the hug itself, which was rare, especially in public.
She turned to me, saying, “Reid,” and leaned slightly toward me so I could kiss her cheek while our hands briefly met. Her manicured fingers were cool and moisturized.
She gave Addison an air kiss on each cheek and said, “My dear, I’m so glad you’re not caught up in that terrible violence in Pakistan.”
“Me too,” Addison replied with a sweet smile. “I’ve lived here my whole life, and my family’s from Mumbai. India.”
“Of course,” Grandmother said, already moving on to Connor, who she regarded with the slightest tension at the corners of her red lips. She didn’t extend hand nor cheek. “How lovely to see you here with Asher.”
Connor’s gaze flicked to me. “Uh, actually…”
Was he in? We looked at each other, and after an endless moment of deliberation, he lifted his eyebrows, waiting.
He was in.
CHAPTER ONE
Slumping forward and resting his head on the steering wheel, William released a long and exhausted sigh.
“What a bloody awful journey.”
He’d arrived at the little cottage in the middle of nowhere, hours and hours after leaving London and battling heavy snowfall. But he’d arrived in one piece, and that was all that mattered.
Or maybe not one piece.
“Christ.” His brow scrunched in pain as he massaged his temples. Let this just be a tension headache. Not a migraine, please, not that. They could lay him out for three or four days at a time. Christmas, alone in a rented cottage with only a pummelled, mushed up brain for company. He might as well have stayed at home. William’s stomach lurched. No. Staying at home wasn’t an option. Not this Christmas.
Fumbling around in the car’s glove compartment, he found the blister of migraine relief tablets he always kept there and dry swallowed a couple. Just to be on the safe side. A hot cup of tea would do him the world of good, and maybe something to eat; not that he had much of an appetite these days. Or a whisky, perhaps, tucked up on the sofa in front of the open fire the cottage’s sales pitch had enthusiastically highlighted as a feature.
He peered out at the squat, stone cottage, marooned in a sea of snow.
A warm light glowed from the lamp attached to the small porch which jutted out over the door, but there was also a faint glow shining from a downstairs. His brow creased again, not from the headache but in confusion. Was somebody there? For god’s sake, don’t say there was a double booking… No way was he going to relinquish his right to the cottage. He’d turned down so many invites, because he wanted, needed, to be alone this Christmas. If there was already somebody there…
His shoulders sagged, releasing some of the tension holding them in an iron hard grip. Of course… The hallway light was on a timer, the owner had said in one of her emails, set to come on when it got dark. William’s lips twisted in a relieved, lopsided smile. So, no double booking after all.
Next to the cottage, set back and beyond the reach of the porch light, he could just about make out a low structure with a small, pointed roof. A car port, he remembered now. At least it’d stop his car from being buried under the snow — several feet of it, if it kept coming down at this rate.
A hard wind rocked the vehicle, a reminder to get moving. William shivered. The temperature was already dropping, and it was time to get parked and get inside.
William stacked his suitcase, along with three large boxes of provisions, under the porch. He swore under his breath as he entered the code for the key safe, while the porch light flickered and turned off when he pressed the final digit. Groping for the key, he slammed the key safe closed. Moments later, the front door opened with a satisfying click. With the snowbound world shut out, he took off his boots and moved the boxes to the kitchen whilst leaving his suitcase in the hallway.
Although the cottage may have been pure chocolate box and oozing traditional charm, the kitchen, although compact, was bright and modern.
In the centre was a small island. A good sized sleek, stainless steel oven and hob — not an old-fashioned range, thank god — along with a matching fridge-freezer and dishwasher, lined one wall. There was also a range of high-end gadgets, guaranteed to satisfy the pickiest of urbanites. A smile pulled at his lips, the first of the day, the first in an unbroken run of days. He was that urbanite, and the pickiest of the lot. A warm, light laugh filled his head, chuckling its agreement.
William squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the edge of the island. One breath in, one breath out, one breath in… His galloping heart slowed. Opening his eyes, he ran his shaky fingers through his hair, and forced himself to concentrate on the place that would be his home for the next few days.
The walls of the attached small dining area, like the kitchen, were whitewashed. Old photographs of the cottage, some black and white, others sepia, covered the walls. A heavy wooden table, old and scarred but polished to a sheen, filled much of the space. A bottle sat in the middle and he picked it up. William’s brows arched. The red wine was an excellent vintage, and pricey; he had several bottles in his well-stocked cellar at home. Accompanying the welcome gift was a note, wishing him a Happy Christmas. A happy Christmas? He wasn’t so sure he’d ever have one of those again. Bearable, as time passed, but happy? He put the bottle back on the table, which was large and meant for a family, but would seat only him.
He unloaded all the boxes and placed everything in the fridge and cupboards. An organic chicken — no turkey for one — was joined by a tray of pigs in blankets. Paté, cheeses, charcuterie, all from the deli on the corner of his street in Highgate. Mince pies, and more mince pies — how many boxes had he bought, for god’s sake — and a selection of breads and crackers from the local artisan bakery. Christmas pudding. A large tub of cream… another even larger tub of cream. Stuffing. Vegetables from the farmer’s market. Chocolates, two large boxes of biscuits… and Italian biscotti…
“This is madness. Why the hell did I bring so much?” he muttered. He’d be carting most of it home before inevitably throwing it out.
And there was still more. Champagne. Wine. Whisky. Ah, the single malt. Advocaat. Lemonade, along with other soft drinks and mixers. Enough to drown out the past year. He grimaced. Like that was ever going to happen.
About to open up the whisky, William shivered; the cottage, though nowhere near as cold as outside, wasn’t exactly warm. The details had stated limited central heating, with the living room drawing its warmth from the open fire. It had been what had attracted him. That, and the isolation.
Making his way through to the living room, he flicked a switch, flooding the room with soft honey coloured light from the wall lamps.
It was exactly as shown on the website. A squashy looking, large, dark blue velvet sofa, along with a matching chair to the side, sat beneath a low, beamed ceiling. The walls were nobbly and hung with a couple of moody looking photographs of nearby Dartmoor.
An enormous stone fireplace dominated one wall; next to it a large bronze coloured metal box was filled with logs. It was plain but stylish, and in a modern house it would be called minimalist. At least it hadn’t been decked out with tinsel and a gaudy, bauble strewn tree along with all the rest of the tacky paraphernalia of Christmas. When it had come to festive decorations, a pared down and low key nod to the season had been their—William’s stomach muscles tightened and he winced as a shiver tumbled down his spine. The fire, he needed to get it going. And open the bloody whisky.
Rolling up his sleeves, and about to drop to his knees in front of the hearth, a wooden cabinet in the far corner captured his attention.
“What the…”
A record player sat on top and, underneath, a small collection of vinyl. He flicked through the records. There were all sorts, including a compilation of popular carols, but also a few soft jazz albums, the type played in dark and smokey clubs. A fond smile turned to a quiet laugh as memories of his jazz fan dad resurfaced, playing along on his battered old saxophone.
A tall bookcase stood between two mullioned windows, crammed with books, but there was just enough space for a small ornamental clock. He ran his eyes over the titles and wrinkled his nose. Big name popular crime, and some lurid romance, judging from the titles, all of them well thumbed and their spines broken. Not his taste. Thank goodness he’d loaded his e-reader.
Oh, Wills darling, you’re such a snob…
William caught his breath, and he spun around, almost losing his balance. That voice… So clear and laced with good humour, so god damn known and loved, so close he would swear he felt soft breath kiss the back of his neck… He squeezed his eyes tight. Just an auditory hallucination. Just tiredness. Just… longing and craving for what had been ripped away.
It didn’t take long to set the fire, which licked at the logs, leaping as a hard wind pummelled the cottage. He peered out of the window into the night. Nothing but snow-flecked blackness. Not a light anywhere, no sign of life, none of the 24/7 rush of the city that was as much a part of him as he was a part of it.
He jerked the curtains closed.
“What the hell am I doing here?” The cottage, or what he’d seen of it so far, was pretty, but the whitewashed, lumpy stone walls, the beams, the quiet, the isolation, it was all so far from his comfort zone. But then, his comfort zone hadn’t exactly been comfortable over the past year.
The place was a change from home, at least, and it’d only be for a few days. He’d made his bed and now he had to lie in it, because the ever falling snow was going to keep him in the cottage, whether he wanted it or not.
Sinking into the sofa, he poured himself a generous whisky, the deep amber liquid reflecting in the firelight. Its aroma was smoky, almost woodsy, and the first sip, as ever, seared its way down his throat, setting a warmth in his belly that was a match for the warmth of the room. He welcomed the sensation. It was a reminder he was alive, that he could still feel something other than the bone-deep ache that had been consuming him over the past year.
Leaning back, his eyelids drifted closed as he let the heat from the fire and whisky seep into his bones. For a moment, just for a little while, he wanted to forget. His heart clenched as guilt tightened its grip. He didn’t want to forget. Ever. Why would he want that when everything had been so perfect? But… But, sometimes, he just wanted a reprieve, if only for a little while. Was that such a sin?
His only answer was another wintry blast hammering against the cottage’s stone walls.
His own hard snoring woke him up, along with the sour taste in his mouth. The flames in the fireplace had burnt themselves out, leaving only a red smoulder and the ashy remains of the logs. Rubbing his hands down his face, he yawned. Bed beckoned, and he pushed himself up, staggering as he did so. No wonder. Two, three, maybe four large whiskies on a near empty stomach, following a tortuous drive which had taken hours longer than it should have done. Staggered? He was lucky he hadn’t passed out.
Turning the lights off as he went, he grabbed his case, abandoned by the front door, and trudged upstairs, refusing to think about tomorrow and what it might bring.
