There’s a pause as I deliberate over what to say. I settle on ‘It was good’.
‘I need more feedback than that!’ Dain sounds agitated. Does he care that much about what I think?
I sigh and turn to face him. ‘It was fantastic, OK? I read the whole thing.’
‘The whole thing in one night?’ Dain’s dark-brown eyes narrow as if he thinks I’m fibbing. ‘It’s nearly 400 pages.’
I nod, quelling a yawn in case he takes it as a sign I was bored with his book. ‘Trust me, I didn’t get much sleep. It’s definitely a page-turner.’
Dain’s worried expression relaxes. ‘Wow, OK. Thanks. Good to know.’ He takes an apple from the wooden bowl on the table and bites into it, chewing thoughtfully. ‘So on a scale of 1 to 10, how aroused were you?’ he asks coolly.
‘Er ... um,’ I mutter. I’m so flustered my hand knocks against my recently poured cup of tea. It goes flying, and milky brown liquid spills all over the table. To my embarrassment, I’m blushing fiery red to the roots of my unwashed hair. Hastily, I grab a sponge and start mopping up the tea spillage while Dain looks on with an amused expression.
‘Is that your toast I can smell burning?’ he asks.
I hurry to the grill in a flap.Forget my toast—it’s my body that’s on fire!
‘Hmm, I’ll take that as a 10 for the arousal. Note to self: keep with that level of detail for the spice,’ Dain murmurs, walking out of the room.
I tip out the dregs of my tea and boil the kettle again, deciding I need a strong cup of coffee instead. So much for him being shy about sex! Dain’s not the prim and proper gentleman he’s been making himself out to be.
Chapter 18
The young man had been washing himself,
as was visible by the glow on his cheeks and his wetted hair.
(Emily Brontë,Wuthering Heights)
With all the reading and note-taking I’m doing for my thesis, I’m keeping pretty busy. But in between all the Brontë books, biographies, and research essays, I’ve managed to fit in books 2 and 3 of Sophronia’s Secret Life, as well as book 1 of the second series about her lesbian cousin.
He doesn’t say anything, but every time I abashedly return a book to the shelf and take another, a satisfied expression comes over his face. If I didn’t know how modest he is, I would even go as far to say that it’s bordering on smug. I guess having your target audience living with you and devouring your books must be quite an ego boost. Either that, or it’s vindication that what he’s writing is hitting the mark. I’m glad he hasn’t wanted to engage in an in-depth discussion about them. It’s one thing to discussThe Tenant of Wildfell Hall, but quite another to be put on the spot about critiquing Sophronia Milton’s sexual escapades, and I get the feeling that Dain liked seeing me unnerved.
Our living arrangement is still going surprisingly well, better than I thought it would since I’ve been stripped of twenty-first-century luxuries and had to learn a whole new set of skills. My bread making is slowly improving, and I can now light a fire that catches on the first take. But despite my acquiescence to Dain’s lifestyle choice, every morning that my warm toes hit the cold wooden floorboards, I crave central heating and a hot shower like a lost child yearning for its mother. And the outhouse is a nightmare I don’t even want to get into.
As soon as my postgraduate research funding comes through, I mention that I’d feel better paying him rent and contributing to bills (whatever those are). After some protestation, he concedes that I can and tells me a low figure, which I bump up by another £100, causing more protestation. But I stand my ground, and he caves under much duress. Before he changes his mind, I set up a monthly payment to go into his bank account. Apparently, he does have one and doesn’t keep cash under his mattress or anything.
But this conversation obviously sparks something in him; and a few nights later, he announces during dinner that he’s arranged for plumbing and a boiler to be installed and that, once they are, there will be (and, reader, these words are music to my ears) ‘central heating, taps with running water, an indoor toilet, and a shower’.
I’m more than a little joyful at this news, as you can imagine. ‘But ... why?’ I ask, astonished at his unexpected change of heart. ‘Don’t you want the full-immersion experience anymore?’
‘I’m going to keep the lighting like it is as it helps me get into a historical mindset for writing. But I can appreciate it’s difficult to live with certain aspects of the house. Plus winter’s coming, so I thought a compromise was in order.’
‘Can you afford it?’
He nods. ‘My books are doing well, and if you’re helping out with bills ...’
‘Oh my god, thank you!’ Unable to contain my glee, I jump up, run around the table, and plant a swift chaste kiss on his cheek. Come to think of it, this is the first time I’ve shown him anything resembling affection since I broke up with Klint. I’ve been waiting for him to make a move, but maybe I’m the one who hasn’t been giving off come-hither vibes. As well as living like Victorians, we’ve been unwittingly acting like we are in a period novel—the unspicy kind.
Whatever Dain thinks of me kissing him, I can’t tell. But a rouge of colour appears on his cheekbones, and a small smile plays on his lips. ‘I knew it would make you happy,’ he says quietly.
‘You haveno ideahow happy you’ve made me.’ I go back to my seat, feeling a bit shocked I did that. The nerve ends in my lips are on fire. Bloody hell, that was only his cheek—imagine what it would be like to kiss him properly.
Dain flicks me a heated glance as if he’s wondering too. I pick up my knife and fork and swallow nervously.
‘Obviously, I didattemptto wash my hair by hanging my head over the side of the bath. But it was difficult to rinse out the shampoo. I needed four jugs of warm water, and I had to wait for the kettle to boil each time, with my sudsy hair wrapped in a towel. So I haven’t bothered washing it lately, and it’s a greasy mess ...’ I trail off, realising I’m rambling on about nothing and making it worse by drawing his attention to my lack of personal grooming.
‘Ah,’ Dain says politely but doesn’t comment on my hair. If that were Klint, he’d screw up his nose and say he’d noticed. ‘Well, I’ve booked the contractor in for Monday, and they said it will take about a week. It might be a little disruptive, though.’
