Depositing my bits and pieces in the kitchen, I grab my laptop from my bedroom. I need to meet with my supervisor shortly to talk about the structure of my thesis, so I do need to write up some notes of different ideas I’ve had.
Dain and I work quietly, with only the sound of my tapping fingers and the scratch of his quill pen, along with an occasional shifting log causing sparks to fly in the grate. He’s writing rapidly, filling sheet after sheet with his Gothic cursive, and totally absorbed in what’s doing, which is making me extremely curious.
Eventually, he sighs, stretches his arms above his head, and cricks his neck. ‘I’m going to make some ginger tea. Do you want some?’
‘Yes please.’
After he’s gone, I pull the edge of one of the sheets of paper towards me, but I can’t read it upside down. With one ear on the door, I swivel the paper around and glance at a random paragraph. It seems to be the description of a bedroom in a historical home. There’s dialogue between a woman, Azalea, and a guy called Nathaniel. They’re engaging in some kind of banter about her dress. I finish that page and start on its neighbour; there’s more banter, and the dress seems to have been removed. Nathaniel is unlacing Azalea’s corset. He slips a hand down the front and pinches her nipple hard and runs soft kisses down her neck. By her enthusiastic gasps, she seems to be enjoying it a lot. I’m absorbed in Nathaniel trying to remove Azalea’s corset and her half-hearted protests when Dain’s amused voice sounds from the doorway.
‘Do you like it?’
I push the paper away and return to my laptop, my face flaming. What the hell is he writing? And what happens with Azalea and Nathaniel? Do they get it on?
Dain comes in with a tray laden with a teapot, a couple of cups, and a plate of oat and honey flapjacks.
I can’t look him in the eye. ‘Sorry,’ I mumble. ‘It was there in my line of sight ... I only read a tiny bit.’
‘Mmhmm.’ Dain pours the tea and hands one to me, but my hand shakes so much the cup rattles in its saucer and slops tea over the side. ‘Lizzy, it’s fine. I don’t mind.’
I take a deep breath and try to control myself.
Dain looks at me slyly. ‘Are you shocked?’
‘Uh, a little. I was expecting an essay on nineteenth-century razors, not a spicy short story.’
‘It’s a novel actually,’ says Dain, sipping his tea nonchalantly. ‘I’ve just started. I’m glad to see the first chapter kept your interest.’ He smirks.
My eyes widen. ‘You’re writing a spicy novel?’
Without answering my question, Dain saunters over to the bookshelf and extracts a paperback from the lowest shelf. ‘Have a read of this one.’
He hands me a book with a blood-red cover and a title in spiky black font:Desired by the Yorkshire Libertines. There’s a woman in a black corset and fishnet stockings with long flowing red hair sandwiched between two men in white ruffled shirts and tight black trousers. As they’re slightly taller than her, the illustration shows only their lips and chins. She’s gazing up at one man amorously, and her hand with red-painted nails is resting behind on the other’s thigh. A four-poster bed with black velvet curtains is in the background. The author is Tabitha Lavish. Huh, she sounds kinky. This must be who he’s using for inspiration, how funny.
I turn the book over, and there’s a small blurb and author bio, but no photo. It says Tabitha Lavish lives in a Yorkshire village with her cat. She likes reading historical fiction, cooking up a storm on her Aga, and hiking on the moors ...
My hand flies to my mouth as I click. ‘Oh my god, don’t tell meyou’reTabitha Lavish?’
Dain smiles and gives a little bow.
I can’t believe this! Quickly, I flip to the first chapter.
Sophronia Milton was decidedly fed up with her life. What was the point of it all? She was utterly sick of being paraded around like a cow in a livestock sale, simply to be handed off to the highest bidder. And the thought of marriage and babies made her feel ill. If she had her way, she’d choose a man who’d go walking with her in the woods, teach her to shoot and the various ways of intimate pleasure. She wanted a lover she could experiment with. She couldn’t do that with a husband. But all was not lost. Little did her parents know that Sophronia had written to her cousin Rayne, bemoaning her fate, and her bewitchingly beautiful naughty cousin hadn’t found her such a man. Oh no, she’d found her two ...
I stare at Dain in disbelief, who shifts awkwardly under the weight of my stare.
‘It’s a spicy MMF historical romance in case you’re wondering,’ he says.
‘What. The. Hell!’
He shrugs and moves to stand in front of the fire with his hands clasped behind his back. From this position, his face is in the shadow, so I can’t tell if he’s highly embarrassed or not.
‘It started out as a fun hobby, but now I’ve got a loyal fan base, and it’s starting to pay a decent amount of royalties each month,’ he says. ‘Plus spicy historical romances are popular, so there’s a ready market of ravenous readers.’
From the calm and even tone of his voice, he doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest. I’m the one who’s losing it.
Still holding the book, I gaze at the table spread with pages that sport his flowery handwriting.
‘Don’t tell me you write them by hand? That must take ages.’
