He snaps his fingers. “Tea.”
He races from the room, and I stare after him. He seems strange this morning, although I don’t know how I can tell that. Ionly met him yesterday. Nevertheless, the confident, charming, flirty man has gone and in his place is someone less sure. Someone I can’t work out. I filch a slice of bacon and chew on it consideringly. It’s crispy and cooked to perfection.
I look around the bedroom. It’s bathed in winter light, and through the window I can see grey sky and the sea pounding onto the rocks. The wind roars and raindrops patter against the window. But in here it is warm. I know I should be getting up, showering and dressing. I can see my clothes folded neatly on the armchair, so he’s obviously anticipating me leaving soon. I feel a strange reluctance. Typically, on a morning after, I try to be polite, nice, and charming. But I’m sure I rarely manage to conceal the fact that I’d gnaw my arm off to get out of what always feels like a cage.
I don’t feel that this morning. Instead, I feel peaceful and snug under the warm covers that bear traces of his warm cologne. I want to stay and talk to him, to have his golden eyes fixed on me.
“Tea.”
My thoughts fade away as he arrives with another tray in his hands. He sets it neatly on the bed and looks at me expectantly.
I lick my lips, fighting the urge to laugh. “Erm, that’s alotof tea.”
“Ah, now, there is green tea and lemon, chamomile, blackcurrant and liquorice, ginger, and plain English breakfast tea,” he says enthusiastically, gesturing at each cup as if I’ll miss it. He pauses, and we both look down at the tray crammed with mugs and cups. “I brought a little of everything. But if I have not provided what you need, I will go out and seek it.”
I look up at him, and his eyes twinkle. He shakes his head, and I can’t help but break into laughter. He immediately joins me. “Forgive me,” he finally says. “I am a little nervous.”
I take the plate he hands me and help myself to a croissant. It’s still warm, and I spoon jam onto it. I take a bite and groan. “Yummy,” I mutter through my mouthful, and his smile is wide. “Is this damson jam?”
He nods. “It is the last of the jars I made last year. The damsons grow in a sheltered area not far from here.”
“Well, it’s delicious.” I recall his earlier puzzling statement. “You said that you’re nervous?” I prompt, reaching for a cup and enjoying the warm china beneath my fingers. “About me being here?” He doesn’t reply, and I smile at him. “I sort of got the impression you might be experienced with having men here.”
He sighs, and it’s comically long-suffering. “You have no idea,” he mutters.
I start to laugh again, and he watches me with those merry, bright eyes of his until I sober.
“I bet it’s like King’s Cross in rush hour.”
“Ah, Cary. And sometimes those trains runrightoff the track.”
I chuckle. “Why are you nervous, then? It’s only me.”
He stares at me, and the silence lengthens, but it’s not uncomfortable like it’s been with other men. Instead, it’s warm and cosy.
“Mayhap that is the reason,” he finally says. “I do not know how to quantify you.”
“I’m not an algebra equation.”
He hesitates. “No, you are something much more complicated.” His hand lifts slowly, almost as if asking my permission to touch me. It’s so far removed from his confidence of the night before, but I find myself leaning forward and sighing as he cups my cheek in his big hand. His skin is warm, and I nestle in like a kitten. I’m just surprised that I’m not purring. We stare at each other. His eyes are filled with a fierce light which looks oddly like elation.
“Så bra at du endelig er her,”he says.
“What does that mean?” I whisper. His thumb moves, sliding over my mouth, his gaze intent as if he’s memorising the shape of my lips. “Sigurd?” I prompt.
His hand falls away. “Something silly,” he says and gestures to my plate. “Eat some more breakfast.”
I feel an immediate sense of loss now that he’s not touching me. He gets off the bed and moves around the room, picking things up and putting them down like a hummingbird moving from one thing to another. I watch him fold my jumper again as carefully as if it were a coronation robe.
“I need to get someone to see to the hire car,” I finally say. My words are weighted down with unmistakable reluctance.
He stills for a moment, but when he turns, his face is a polite mask.
I consider him. Being here with him feels so indescribably and puzzlingly right. Like turning a key in a lock, feeling the smooth slide, the click, and then opening a door to find I’m home. It’s such a lovely image and sufficiently alarming to get me moving.
I don’t think the night after a glorious shag with a beautiful man I picked up on the beach is the time to start developing rose-tinted specs. Particularly as I have the feeling that I didnotdo the picking up; it was the beautiful Norwegian man, and he probably does it on the regular.
Maybe that’s the meaning behind his odd behaviour, I realise with a shock of sadness. He’s waiting for me to go and is being very polite about it.
