A fresh wind swirls through the trees, and I wrap my jacket tighter. I check my watch: only fifteen minutes before my phone call with Jeffery Eden. Last week I missed it.
At seven o’clock, a black car appeared with a severe-looking driver called Harold. He had been sent to check on me and emphasize that my call at six every Sunday is non-negotiable.
The Edens are obstinate as hell.
My phone pings again as I march toward home.
Brilliant day with my girl. We’ve been up the funicular railway to see the mountain before the snow falls. It’s just as beautiful in summer. Have you been up? xoxo
I cringe. I’ve been a hermit since I came here.
Not yet. It’s on my list of places to visit.
He replies instantly.
I’ll take you. xoxo
My inner vixen does a little happy dance.
Eek! He’s serious about seeing me again. He wants to spend actual time with me.
Not just sex. Time.
A man has never truly wanted me for that. It feels so damn good. Almost too good to believe it’s true. But something inside me believes him. Every word said or typed is framed with an invisible truth. I think I can trust him.
Walking through my front door, I kick off my wellies and toss my jacket on the couch in a heap. In front of the fire, I spreadmy fingers to absorb the heat. This is my favorite thing about my little cottage—the huge, roaring fire.
The old phone rings, and I pick it up.
The conversation is stilted. Jeffery always asks the same questions.
Is the house secure?Yes.
Have there been any strange people arriving?No. Unless you count Harold, the human gargoyle they sent last week.
Then he reminds me I’m not allowed in the main house. Hanging up with no farewell, just the click of the call cutting. What a strange man.
I grab my phone, biting back a smile at Lance’s last message, then type:
A date with you up a mountain sounds great. I’m glad there’s a train. I couldn’t climb up there. Lucky for you too. You won’t need to carry me. xoxo
I stare at my phone like a teenager, cheeks warm with excitement.
Five minutes pass, but no message appears.
My heart wills him to respond. Maybe the word date has scared him off. Panic burns in my throat. Great, my fun is ruined before it’s even begun, me and my big fingers.
I should know better than to get my hopes up. To accept what I have as the best I can get. It never gets better; it only gradually declines. If my failed marriage is anything to go by, I’ve been well trained not to deserve more than what’s on offer.
Then,ping.
I’ll have you in my arms any way I can. xoxo
Fucking hell, this guy is dangerous. The whiplash of my inner turmoil collides with his words, knocking the air from my lungs. Maybe this time will be different.
***
I’m curled up on the couch watching a good old romantic comedy. My dressing gown is snug, my tea hot, and life feels bloody good.