“That still doesn’t explain why you are here in my rental again,” Nora said, leaning against the island and crossing her arms.
He stood there, an awkward expression falling across his face. In that moment, for the first time, she saw something other than arrogance—there was a hint of vulnerability in his eyes, and he let down his guard slightly.
“Ha, funny story,” he said, taking off his flat cap and dusting clumps of snow off his shoulders. “I’m a writer, a journalist,actually. I was sent into the Highlands on assignment and when this double-booking thing happened, I just decided to head to my next location, but this blasted storm came, and all the outgoing buses stopped. I tried bribing a few cabbies to take me over to Aviemore, but no one would do it for fifty quid,” he said, running his fingers through his dark blond hair and stepping off the welcome mat and a bit closer to where Nora stood. “By the time I gave up and tried to get a room at one of the local hotels, they were all booked along with the four bed-and-breakfasts.”
There was a long drawn-out pause as if he were waiting for her to say something, but when she didn’t, he went on. “I know this is really awkward, and we got off on the wrong foot, but could I please just crash on the sofa tonight? I will be out of here before you even wake up tomorrow. I’m sorry for being such an ass. I swear I’m not as bad as you think I am.”
Nora stared at him; she wasn’t sure she believed him. Was this change in demeanor due to his desperation or because he had actually felt bad about his behavior when they first met?
“How do I know you’re not some crazy psychopath? For all I know this could be your game,” she replied in a tone snarkier than she intended, but something about him just set her on edge.
“Oh, you got me. I find desperate American women and follow them all the way into the Highlands during the bloody coldest time of the year. Then wait for a snowstorm to roll in so I can beg to sleep on their sofa and then what? Murder you in the middle of the night? Believe me, I don’t have the energy for all that. Plus, I wasn’t the one wielding a knife around,” he spat back.
The sharpness of his voice and the fact he called her desperate made her blood pressure rise, and she could feel her cheeks turning red. There was that cocky man she remembered, not far below the shiny new surface.
He stepped forward and pulled a wallet from his jacket pocket. Opening it, he handed her a card. Nora took it tentatively and looked down. It was an ID badge for the magazine,Tartan and Thistle.There was a picture of him with the wordsAlistair Grant, staff reporterin bold font above a barcode.
“See, I promise I’m not some psycho killer.”
She looked up at him and then back down at his name on the card: Alistair Grant. She wasn’t sure she trusted him, and she definitely didn’t like him, but she knew she couldn’t turn him away. Plus, where would he go? In this kind of weather, he could freeze or wander off into the lake, and she didn’t want that on her conscience. Stuart had said that people went missing around these parts all the time in weather like this. She let the slack out of her shoulders and looked back up at him.
“Okay, Alistair. You can stay the night on one condition: you feed the fire throughout the night so I can get some proper sleep,” she said with a smug smile and a raise of her eyebrow, handing his wallet back.
A look of annoyance shot across his face, and he cracked his lips as if he was about to retort. However, he must have thought better of it because he just shook his head in compliance and walked past her into the living room. She knew she held all the cards, and she decided she was going to milk it for all it was worth. Judging by the expression on his face, he knew it too.
She watched him wander over to the bookcase, and an awkward silence fell over the room. Nora wasn’t sure what to say or do next. She didn’t feel like engaging in conversation or remaining in the tense atmosphere any longer, so she decided to head upstairs and read in bed.
Nora walked over to the coffee table and retrieved her notebook and the little red book before heading toward the upstairs.Alistair was now looking through the books on the shelves to the right side of the fireplace.
“Did you look at these?” he asked as she began walking away.
“Yeah, I looked through them but didn’t really recognize many of them.”
“Not surprising. They are all quite old and rare. Don’t you think it a bit strange that they would keep them in a holiday cottage? They must be worth money,” he said, pulling one off the shelf and dusting its edges off.
“Maybe they don’t know or don’t care.”
“Or maybe they’re just sodding idiots,” he echoed back absentmindedly in his snarky tone as he returned the book and continued to scan the shelves.
“Well, good night.” It was only a little after seven, but she really didn’t feel like entertaining him anymore. This made him stop, and he shifted his gaze back toward her.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Nora.”
“Thank you for letting me stay here, Nora. I really appreciate it,” he said, giving her just a hint of a smile.
“You’re welcome,” she said, taken aback by his genuine sincerity.
Ascending the staircase, she stole a glance back at him. His usual arrogance had lifted momentarily, revealing a side of him she hadn’t noticed before. For the first time since their paths had crossed, she saw a glimmer of vulnerability beneath his callous exterior.He’s rather handsome when stripped of his defensive facade, she thought. She quickened her steps, trying to escape her own wandering thoughts. She knew better than to even think about walking down that road.
As she stepped into the bedroom, the floorboards creakedbeneath her feet, and she pulled the door shut. She checked the door for a lock, just in case he happened to be an actual psycho. She turned it and walked over to the dresser.
She slipped into her cozy PJs and grabbed her notebook and pen before sliding beneath the covers. The upstairs, with its chilly drafts, prompted her to tug the blankets up to her chin. She turned on the table lamp and the room lit with a soft glow, and she settled in to write, but her thoughts wandered incessantly back to Alistair.
She scolded herself for succumbing so easily to a charming smile and a simple thank you. No, he had been an outright ass, she had to remind herself. Just because she thought he was handsome and didn’t want him to freeze to death in the storm didn’t mean anything. His kindness, she reasoned, was merely a result of having no other choice. Tomorrow, when the storm broke, he would depart, and she could put this internal conflict to rest.
Staring down at the blank page, she realized she didn’t trust herself to write a poem about him, as the only lines that were coming to mind were lustful ones. Writing them down might solidify her feelings, and she couldn’t have that. Instead, she set aside her journal and retrieved the little red book, turning to the next chapter, titled “Death and Magic.”
