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I wake again just after ten-thirty the next morning. Well, I suppose it is the same morning, but you know what I mean. I am nearly terrified to go back downstairs, but I know the house will be empty now. Sylvie told me last night that I would have the house to myself today.
“You’re going to work after I woke you up at this hour?” I had blurted.
She shrugged. “I have to. I have appointments to fulfill. And Mom and Dad have to be at the diner. Apart from a couple of employees, they run the place.”
It made me feel even more guilty.
The kitchen looks a lot different in the daytime. Lots of natural light spills into it from large windows, and without struggling with low lighting, I can see everything far more clearly. Having watched Sylvie make me a cup of tea last night, I now also know where everything is.
With my tea made, I settle myself at the breakfast bar and send a text to Mum. I did text her once I landed, but since then, I haven’t been in touch. There were several messages from her, asking if I was all right. If by all right, she means, did I completely freak out and wake an entire family just because their son arrived home at three in the morning? I could affirm a very positive yes. But I decide to omit that very embarrassing piece of information from my reply. She is stressed enough that I have traveled so far on my own.
There is no reply straight away, which is no surprise. It’s still only six in the morning back home. I sit there, sipping my tea, mindlessly gazing out of the window into the large garden at the back, when I hear footfalls on the stairs.
Oh, God.
If Sylvie and her parents are at work, there’s only one other person it can be, and frankly, I’d prefer the Earth to open and swallow me up rather than face him. But what choice do I have? I can hardly run from the kitchen. I’d pass him in the hallway, anyway. Instead, I grip the handle of my cup and wait for the inevitable. My heartbeat has elevated in anticipation, but there’s not much I can do about that.
The kitchen door opens behind me, but I don’t move an inch. I just continue looking straight ahead, my eyes now stinging as I glare out of the kitchen window with such intensity that I don’t even blink.
Finn walks into the kitchen. He passes in front of the island, right in front of my eye line. I have no choice but to acknowledge him. Not that there was ever an option. What am I supposed to do? Avoid the man for the entirety of my stay here?
Coyly, I smile. “Good morning,” I say.
He’s running his hand through his thick, wavy blond hair and yawning widely. He looks exhausted.
That’s your fault.
He throws me a glance. He doesn’t look angry, but nor is his expression overly welcoming, either. He stops suddenly in front of me and glares down at my cup. “What is that?” he blurts.
I’m wondering what on Earth he’s talking about, and I look down at my cup. “It’s tea,” I say plainly, my tone conveying my bewilderment at his question.
His eyes widen and he shakes his head. “That’s not any tea I’ve ever seen,” he says, pulling a face.
For another second, I look at him, and all I can feel is confusion. Apart from the bizarre conversation, I have no idea what he’s talking about. And suddenly, it strikes me.
“This is how we drink it in England,” I say, now realizing that tea in America is not ordinarily taken either hot or with milk.
Finn shakes his head at my answer and then turns away. I don’t know what I thought our first words would be to each other, but in no universe did I imagine my beverage would be the subject of our initial discussion. I ought to say something about last night, but it’s taking me a minute to build up the courage. I am well aware that the least he deserves from me is an apology, but just thinking about my mad hysteria at his arrival is sending a hot flush of humiliation right through my body.
As I try to pump myself up to broach the subject, I’m distracted by following him with my eyes as he moves over to the huge refrigerator. Last night, he was dressed all in black, looking totally like a burglar.
You need to get past that.
Yes. I know.
This morning, however, he’s wearing a camo-green vest top and gray trousers. He’s clearly the athletic type because the overly large armhole of the vest shows off the toned muscles of his upper back and shoulders, leading down to firm-looking biceps and forearms. But he’s not muscular in a body-builder kind of way. In fact, he’s quite slender.
I snatch glances as he continues to take juice from the fridge. Moving around the kitchen, he grabs a glass from the cupboard and pours the juice. Now he’s standing at the counter, and I can see him in profile. His long neck leads to a strong jawline and high cheekbones. He definitely has some kind of Slavic look going on. Clearly, good looks run in the family, because Sylvie is also beautiful.
Finn downs the juice, washes his glass, and puts it back in the cupboard. I still haven’t plucked up anywhere near the amount of courage I would have preferred, but I have to say something. I’m just about to open my mouth when, without another word, Finn strolls back out of the kitchen.
Bizarrely, I feel hard done by, as though his actions are completely rude. But then I catch myself as relief floods through me. Maybe his leaving the room without another word was a little bit rude, but I have no right to feel such a way after what I did last night. Besides, it means I don’t have to face an awkward conversation.
All that being said, I’m now left with thoughts of discomfort. I had been looking forward to coming and staying with Sylvie, but after the disaster I caused last night and Finn’s coolness with me this morning, I can’t help but wonder if this will not be the fun stay I had imagined, after all.
