Chapter 23
IZZY
Coffee is brewed. My bags are packed. I’ve retrieved my phone charger from my rental car, and it’s currently on charge. The roads outside are ... well, they aren’t exactly clear, but they are manageable. Greg seems to think that if I have any issues, it’ll be on the local roads. I’ve no idea myself. They all seemed like treacherous, narrow little things most of the way here.Which seems like an age ago, not days.Anyway, Greg has offered to follow me in his truck.Maybe just to actually make sure I go.His truck that was parked alongside the cottage. Due to the stormy conditions and the direction of the wind, it became covered in even more snow than my little thing.
We’ve puttered about all morning, preparing the house and ourselves to leave, and all the while I’ve argued, though good naturedly, until I’m all out of breath. He just doesn’t see it. He thinks he’s protecting me by closing the door on this thing—this possibility between us. But I’m not a child. I can see this for what it is. He doesn’t want to get hurt. But who does? Well, apart for masochists, and I think they’re only interested in the sexual kind of agony, not the heart-hurting kind.
But I don’t want to miss this opportunity that’s been laid in front of me. What happens if he’s the one? What happens if he’s my chance at happiness? I might be knocked down by a bus tomorrow or find the next man I get involved with can’t have children, either. Or maybe I’ll find out that this next mythical man is like all the other men I’ve been involved with and only good for one thing. No, not sex. At least, not until Greg. I mean for the purpose of being my car companion, for which I’ll need to murder him and have the man subsequent stuffed. A car companion, you know, like those inflatable men women use? No, notthatkind of inflatable. I mean the kind that could potentially stop a single woman driver from being a target. Or allow her to use the high-occupancy vehicle lane . . .
But I digress.
‘Your phone has charge.’
I turn from the window to where Greg stands, the hem of one side of his flannel shirt tucked haphazardly into his jeans. And yep, I was right; along with flannel shirts and button fly jeans, he’s also a fan of the rugged boot. Let’s face it, there’s nothing this man could wear that would make him look unattractive. Casual, suits, striped pyjama pants—he looks divine in them all. I can’t wait to see him in a kilt and I refuse to believe that won’t happen sometime soon. I didn’t get to be in the job I’m in today without learning a few things about myself. I’m like a dog with a bone, even if I’m hiding said bone beneath my figurative little dog bed right now. As they say, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and Greg isn’t about to be persuaded in a day, either. I’ll need to think about my next step because I don’t think I can afford to annoy him anymore today. Not if I want to see him again. And I do.
‘It’s like banging my head off a brick wall,’ he’d grumbled earlier when I’d tried to make him see sense again. Or as he pronounced it,bangin’ ma heid offa brick wall.
‘That’s me. I’m tenacious,’ I’d responded with a smile.
‘Trying to get you to listen makes me think I know what that Greek bloke felt like,’ he’d semi-ranted, ‘spending eternity pushing that boulder up a hill.’
‘Sisyphus,’ I offered.
‘Knackered,’ he countered, a line drawing between his brows.
‘You’re so... stubborn!’
‘I am not. I’m just right,’ he’d grumbled.
Urgh!
‘Did you no’ hear me? I said your phone has charge.’
‘I heard you. I was just thinking.’
‘And you can’t do two things at once?’
‘I’m not going to deign to answer that,’ I reply, turning back to the window.
‘Aye, well, how about youdeignto look at the thing before it blows up.’
‘What do you mean?’ As I ask, I’m already on my way to the kitchen where the thing is plugged into the electrical outlet after I’d grabbed my charger from my car.
‘Blows up from texts.’
Our arms brush as I pass him, neither of us reacting to the almost electrical pull. Though he does turn to follow me with his eyes, at least.
‘Mo,’ I mutter, swiping through the barrage of texts, some of them so nonsensical, I sort through the thread to find the first one sent.
What do you mean there’s a strange man in the cottage?
God, yes, I left him a voicemail message.
Is he buff? Should I fly my tight little bottom up there for a bit of fun?
Then a few hours later, the tone of the texts change.
Where are you?
