Just me.
And him.
The recent stalker letters have my nerve up, sending an anxious knot tightening in my stomach. Forcing my mind anywhere but fear, I take a second glance at my home for the next nine months. Past the sofa, a spiral staircase leads to the next level. Dropping my bag, I head for the twisty treads. Their black metal glints in the sunshine pouring in. Grabbing the curved rail, I make my way up the treads with my gaze stuck above me.
A moment later, I’m on a landing of sorts. A large spiral staircase curls up the inside of the lighthouse, heading to what I assume is the very top. On the other side is a door. I turn the knob and let it fall open to find the bedroom, wood-paneled and homey. A large, antique-looking cast iron bed sits in the center, made up with a light grey duvet and navy pillows. A porthole window is above the headboard, and two small wooden nightstands flank it. A low-hanging light that looks like something made from a recycled buoy is suspended over the enormous bed. Another fireplace, smaller and on stone tiles, sits in the curved corner space. A small desk stands under the only other window. A rustic wardrobe and an old wooden chair are the only other items in the room.
Crossing the room, I open the window. The round metal-framed glass swings open easily. A great span of sea with choppy waves crashing into the beachy shoreline fills the scene. You can see forever from here. A never-ending swash of blue. The ocean meets the steady blue of the horizon. It’s serene. Vast. Making me feel smaller than ever. I inhale and let the sea air flood my lungs.
It’s amazing.
Maybe this is the place where I’ll finally be able to write. Finally move on.
The desk is neat, mostly bare, only sporting a small wooden cup with three pens and a worn carpenter pencil. A wooden box sits on the other side, its brass clasp shut tight. I close the window, leaving it how I found it, and try the only other door in the room.
It opens to a small bathroom with a pedestal vanity and a clawfoot tub and brass showerhead. Black-and-white tiles that look well cared for cover the floor. A small wooden cabinet, no higher than the vanity, sits between the toilet and the shower. It’s quaint. Clean.
Lovely.
I pad back downstairs and stand in the center of the room.
For the first time in five years, the weight on my chest anchoring me down is gone. Like somehow, I escaped out from under it by changing location. Maybe it’s the thrill of my new surroundings.
Maybe this is what moving on feels like?
My stomach grumbles.
Damn, I’d been so focused on finding the cottage, I forgot to grab groceries. Wandering to the fridge, I pull it open. Beer, condiments, something in a casserole dish that looks like stew, and a chunk of cheese sit on the otherwise bare shelves.
“Shit,” I mutter.
I hunt around the rest of the kitchen, hoping for coffee at the bare minimum.
Nope, no coffee.
A small canister of sugar. Some pantry staples and half a loaf of very stale-looking bread.
Ugh. This means I have to make a trip back to the mainland, and soon. I can barely function without coffee and regular snacks, let alone write a ninety-thousand-word novel with high-concept world-building and an original magic system woven around a romance arc that will knock the readers’ socks off.
“Well, that’s just great.”
I turn back to look around. I’ll unpack first. Then go ask about the food situation.
Sounds like a plan.
I haul my bags upstairs, dropping one on the chair and the other by the desk. I start unpacking my clothes. With an armful, I manage to open the wardrobe.
It’s full of clothes.
Man clothes.
Double shit.
“Well, this is awkward.” I turn to dump my clothes back on the bed. Movement catches my eye.
Callum stands in the bedroom doorway, a crate in his hands and a scowl that would scare the feathers off a gull plastered all over his face.
“This is your stuff? I?—”
