“Damn,” I mutter, equal parts annoyed and mortified.
5
Stormy
Iwasn’t expecting anyone to roll out a welcome mat, but the way he watched me wrestle those suitcases and stood there like it was a spectator sport? It got me more than it should’ve. I’d said I could manage, and I’d meant it. But part of me had hoped … for maybe just a flicker of old-fashioned courtesy. Isn’t that what country men are supposed to be made of?
Not that I should be surprised after the type of men I’d left back in London. Maybe I was naive to think this place would be any different, or that here, kindness might come without strings.
But I’ve learned not to expect better. Disappointment doesn’t cut as deep when you stop hoping for more.
So now, we sit here in silence. Nothing but the low hum of the truck’s engine and the crunch of the rocky ground beneath the tyres.
The journey to the cottage has barely scraped three minutes, yet it drags like an eternity. Is there something I do subconsciously, something aboutme, that invites this treatment? That makes men hold back their kindness and their effort, as if they see something in me that says I don’t deserve it.
I sneak a glance at him; he sits rigid in the driver’s seat. His hands, big and strong, tighten around the steering wheel and the way he stares ahead, with his focus locked on the empty road before us, makes me think he’d rather be anywhere else. I feel like I should apologise. But for what? I don’t know.
No. I won’t let this affect me.
My focus has to be on myself, and on moving forward to build the life I want. Surely, I won’t have to deal with this man too often. And even if I do, I’ll just be myself. I know that I’m a good person.
At least I got the satisfaction of pointing out the flour on his face. A small, petty victory. Oh, how I wish I had lingered just a moment longer—just enough to catch the precise expression that flashed across his features when he realised. But I had been too annoyed and too determined to maintain some semblance of cool after my own spectacle, struggling like an idiot with my cases while he stood watching.
I clear my throat just to break the quietness, and his shoulders twitch ever so slightly, betraying that I’ve pulled him from whatever brooding abyss he’d been sinking into. But he doesn’t turn his head. Doesn’t acknowledge me beyond that brief, barely-there reaction.
"Is it far?" I ask.
His gaze snaps to mine then. It’s mostly unreadable, but there’s something tight in it. He looks at me like I’ve asked him to speak a language he’s forgotten how to use.
"The cottage," I prompt, lifting a brow. "Is it far?"
His eyes return to the road, and he shuffles in his seat. A beat passes, long enough to make me wonder if he’ll ignore me entirely.
Then, finally, a quiet response, "Just a few more minutes."
His voice is even and controlled, but there’s something rigid beneath it, like he’s an elastic band pulled taut. The tension sits heavy in the cab, thicker than the silence that had settled before. His fingers flex against the steering wheel, only a subtle movement. I should let it go, let the tension settle back into the silence, but something about his reluctance, about the way his restraint presses against the edges of his discomfort, makes me want to push just a little further. Just to see if he’ll crack.
"You always this talkative, or am I just lucky today?"
The old me wouldn’t have dared speak to a man this way. But I’m fed up of being treated like nothing. Like I don’t matter. Fear flickers as the words leave me, but I won’t be made to feel small again. The words hang between us for a beat before he reacts. His eyes flick toward me, questioning.
"What?"
His voice is guarded, but I don’t flinch. I’ve spent too long swallowing words to back down now. Let him bristle. I meant what I said.
I raise an eyebrow, keeping my expression neutral, easy, unbothered.
"I said …"
“I heard you,” he replies, voice low and measured. He exhales through his nose; eyes fixed on the road ahead. His foot presses a little firmer on the accelerator—not aggressive, just enough to suggest he’s eager to get this over with.
I let the quiet settle again, but only for a moment before I push just a fraction further, not enough to be unfriendly, but enough to test his restraint.
"I just meant … you don’t have to be so tense. I was only making conversation”
He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, his grip shifts, his thumb tapping absently. Finally, after a beat that lingers too long, he exhales.
"It’s not far," he mutters, his tone still guarded but lacking the tightness from before.
