For about sixty seconds.
And then it hits me just how astoundingly, outrageously, horrifically I have overstepped.
CHAPTER 40
OWEN
It’s ridiculously early,but I’m awake, already drinking my espresso (the machine and I have come to an understanding… more or less). I’m curled into George’s reading chair with his manuscript. Even though I was out late, I couldn’t help it. As soon as my eyes opened, there was no going back to sleep. I had to see where this story was going.
It’s quiet at this hour. The city that never sleeps might actually take a bit of a nap in the early morning on the day after Christmas. Outside, there’s a light snow falling, which probably serves to further muffle any noise. I couldn’t feel more cozy, suspended somewhere between my body, wrapped in warm pjs and surrounded by George’s personal library here, and my mind, which is currently in a drawing room in London, watching a very awkward scene between the protagonist’s sister and her intended unspool.
It’s brilliant, the whole book is. I wouldn’t have thought I was one for historical drama, but George has managed to make the scenes immersive, like pages out of time, while simultaneously crafting action and characters that feel modern and accessible. I am on the edge of my seat, just about to find out how the sister will handle the gentleman’s apologies for having left theball early. Does she know he left to meet her brother in the back hallway for untoward activities? Does she care? Does she?—
My phone rings.
I’m disoriented at first. There are no phones in early nineteenth-century London. Then I look over at my phone on the little side table, and I’m even more disoriented. Because it’s George calling.
I scramble to pick it up.
“George?”
“Okay, the first thing you have to know is that I am really, and I mean really, not a morning person. So when someone pounds on the door and wakes me from a dead sleep, already it’s just asking for trouble.” He blurts all this out without pausing for breath.
“Okay…” I say. Because he seems to want me to say something. He sounds frantic, and I guess I’m wondering where this is going. But I’m notthatalarmed, partly because I’ve gotten to know him well enough over the last few days to know that at least part of this is just George.
But also, I’m a little in awe because… It’s George.
I mean, realistically, I knew he was an actual person. That there was a living human man on the other end of our emails and text threads. But hearing his voice, live, real, and okay, having a little bit of a meltdown. It somehow makes the whole thing so much more tangible.
“Owen? Are you listening? “
“Mmm, not a morning person. Got it.” I smile to myself. I can’t help it. I’m a little charmed by this. “Although, if that’s the case, I really don’t understand why you’re calling me at 7.30 am.”
He groans. “I fucked up.”
Hmm. Maybe I should be a little bit worried.
“Fucked up how? Fucked up like forgot to water the tree or like burned the cabin to the ground?”
“Neither of those things. But I may have told your ex where he could shove some things.”
“My ex?”
“Beau.” He says it like it’s a disease.
I almost burst out laughing. But hang on. “What? When? How?”
“About fifteen minutes ago, he came to the door to return your things.”
Oh. Beau came to the cabin?
Beau metGeorge?
Wait. And…
“You told him to shove… something?”
“Well, no. Not exactly. If you want specifics, I believe the words ‘moron’ and ‘go fuck yourself’ were thrown around.”
