I can’t help laughing at this. I wish I could hear the story in person.
Me:LOLOLOL
Dain:I’m surprised I made it through the night!
OK, this is pertinent. I’m going to tell him about my dream.
Me:Weirdly, I dreamt about you in Mr Brontë’s bedroom. The night after I met you at the house. It was quite vivid.
I cringe, blushing, wondering if he’ll think it was a sexy dream.
Dain:What was I doing?
Me:Standing by the window, looking out. But when you turned around, you were wearing a black dress and had a Victorian woman’s hairstyle. Kind of odd since you told me about dressing up as Mr Rochester’s wife. Though I think in the dream you were Emily.
Dain:What made you think that?
Me:Emily’s dog Keeper was there, and you told him to stay. I reached out to pet him, and he flew at me and bit me on the arm. Then I woke up.
Dain:Wow, intense!Dogs usually mean friendship, but dreaming specifically of Emily and Keeper is interesting. The house does have a strong energy. I have strange dreams sometimes too.
Me:Let me know if you have any of me dressed as Heathcliff.
Dain:Hahaha, I will!
Me:Speaking of sleeping, I should go.
Dain:Me too. Tabby needs her nightly saucer of milk, or she gets cranky.
Me:Goodnight, and goodnight, Tabby.
Dain:Sweet (non dog biting) dreams.
I flip over my phone on the bed and flick on the TV to a random news channel in case Klint comes in unexpectedly. My hand is shaking. Fuck fuck fuck! Dain knows I have a boyfriend. Why did he message me? Even more concerning was my eagerness to engage. I should’ve just left it alone.
I bury my face in the pillow. My arm is throbbing madly, and the fire in my brain is back. Dain is too good-looking, funny, and interesting—he’s too dangerous all round. And I’m too weak.
In the bathroom, I splash water on my hot face over and over in an attempt to cool the furnace. Patting it dry with a hand towel, eventually, I feel better. I’m completely overreacting. It was a casual chat—not that flirty, more friendly than anything. I have to dial it back in future so I don’t get sucked in. Mute my WhatsApp notifications so I’m not as accessible if he messages. Yes, I’ll do that. Phew, problem solved.
Having sorted out my WhatsApp, I’m lying on the bed serenely and flicking through the channels on the TV when Klint comes into the room with a face as black as thunder. My stomach drops.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘There’s a delay in the funding payment, some kind of admin screw-up at the university’s end.’
He deposits his laptop on the bed and paces around, pouting petulantly.
‘We’ll be OK,’ I say reassuringly. ‘Haven’t you still got some money in your account?’
‘No, I spent 200 on a conference ticket, and it hasn’t been reimbursed yet.’
I raise an eyebrow at this but can’t say anything; it’s his funding—he can do with it what he likes.
He continues striding in the space next to the bed. ‘Do they expect me to exist on vegetable soup and toast?’
‘Add a few kidney beans and a sprinkle of cheese, and you’ve got a balanced meal,’ I say, trying to be helpful, but it comes out sounding flippant.
Klint scowls at me. ‘Very funny. I need to pay for another week’s stay here tomorrow. Gareth’s a nice guy, but he’s not going to accept my TAG Heuer to hold the room. And my credit card is maxed out.’
