I laughed and walked her through the space, showing her the stone walls and the thick wooden beams on the ceiling.
“This is ridiculous,” she said. “Do you know how much money productions spend trying to fake that kind of atmosphere?”
I pointed the phone toward the windows. It was dark outside, rain tapping against the glass. “Okay, the view is not cooperating, but trust me, it’s dramatic.”
“I believe you,” she said. “This is exactly where a person goes when their life is about to change. You can feel it. The setting alone is begging for a third act revelation.”
“That tracks,” I said.
Her eyes flicked back to the screen. “Okay,” she said. “But before we romanticize the narrative, I need to confirm something.”
I frowned. “What?”
“How is it going with Arthur?” she asked. “Is he treating you well? Is he respectful? And most importantly, has he given you any indication that he might be a serial killer?”
I snorted. “He’s not a serial killer.”
“You say that now,” she said. “They always seem very competent and charming at first.”
“He is… good. Steady. Protective without being weird about it. He listens.”
Eloise’s expression softened. “Good,” she said. “That’s the bare minimum, but given your history, I’m still relieved.” Her eyes narrowed. “You look different.”
I stiffened. “Different how?”
“Alive,” she said simply. “It’s a compliment.”
I smiled despite myself. “Everything is going how it should.”
Which was true. Mostly. I didn’t tell her about the danger and the near disasters. She didn’t need that information yet. It would only make her worry.
“I feel,” I said slowly, choosing my words, “invigorated. Like my brain finally clicked into place.”
Eloise grinned. “Oh. That’s the good part.”
“I have ideas,” I said. “So many. I know when I sit down to write, it’s going to come out exactly how it’s meant to.”
She leaned back, satisfied. “That is the feeling. That is when you know you are finally telling the right story.”
I nodded. For the first time, Idid not doubt it.
“Okay,” I said, shifting the phone. “Enough about my unexpected Scottish adventure. What haveyoubeen up to?”
She groaned. “I signed up to teach a writing class for the elderly,” she said. “It turns out retirees have been waiting decades for a captive audience. I’m surviving on caffeine and spite. And I miss you.”
My heart squeezed at that. “I miss you, too. I’ll be home soon.”
I stood there a moment, gazing out the window, my heart steady.
When I walked back into the bedroom, I stopped short.
Food was laid out on the bed. Actual food. Plates set carefully on a folded blanket. Steam rose in thin, steady threads, carrying the smell of roasted herbs and butter that made my stomach rumble. On the nightstand, a bottle of red wine sat between two glasses that had already been poured, the surface of the liquid catching the low light from the lamp.
It all smelled incredible. Chicken skin crisped just enough to promise salt and fat. Potatoes crushed flat and roasted until their edges were golden and brittle. Greens dressed lightly with lemon, sharp and clean against the heavier scents. Bread torn open at the seam, crust crackling faintly as it cooled, the inside soft and pale and begging to be pulled apart.
My mouth actually watered.
Arthur looked up from adjusting a napkin like this was the most normal thing in the world, as if people routinely transformed bedrooms into private dining rooms without comment. His sleeves were pushed up, his hair slightly disheveled, and he seemed focused on making sure everything stayed where it was supposed to.
