AllFreeNovel
Share Us
4
Emma
“I feel even worse, now,” I say, dropping into one of the comfiest sofas I’ve ever sat on. Sylvie drops beside me. She’s brought me into the Den to show me the room her father had spoken about at dinner.
“I wanted to offer my help. Not rope your brother into a job,” I continue.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Sylvie replies in her usual easy manner. “Finn doesn’t mind.”
I raise my eyebrows at her. “Clearly, you didn’t see him rolling his eyes,” I say. “I’m sure he wanted to throw something at me. I’ve only been here a day, and I’ve done nothing but cause him trouble.”
“Will you chill out?” Sylvie suddenly laughs. “You’ve done no such thing. Besides, Finn’s a big boy. If he didn’t want to help, he would have said something.”
Maybe Sylvie is right, but I know what I saw, and his eyes told me everything I needed to know.
“Anyway, he’s going through some stuff. Maybe keeping himself occupied will take his mind off things,” Sylvie says.
I don’t ask about the “stuff” Sylvie refers to because it’s none of my business. I can’t say I’m not curious, but I don’t know the man. I just know that having to spend time in this house with him feels daunting.
It doesn’t help that he’s rather strikingly gorgeous in a very understated sort of way. I’ve met some men who were good-looking and knew it. But even though I’ve only been here for just over twenty-four hours, Finn doesn’t seem like that kind of person at all.
I still haven’t gotten over my stupidity last night, and to punish myself even more, I’ve played it over and over in my head. From the moment I scared him half to death to the moment I realized what an idiot I had been. There had been so many signs in the small minutes in between, and I had missed them all.
The internal bully has called me all the names under the sun. What burglar, breaking into an unknown house, knows where the light switch is? What burglar, in his right mind, would then turn said lights on and show his face? My more rational side has argued that I was simply frightened. The terror of the ordeal had been so overwhelming that all common sense had clearly flown out of the window. It did not make me feel any better, though, and I still needed to tell him how sorry I was.
* * *
The following morning, Finn is in the kitchen when I walk in. He’s sitting at the breakfast bar, phone in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. In front of him, on the island, there are bagels in a basket, and fruit has been sliced and placed in a bowl.
“Morning,” he says as I enter. His tone is light and welcoming, which, at least, is a good sign.
“Hi,” I reply.
“You want breakfast?” he says, gesturing to the bowls.
“No, thanks. I can’t eat in the morning.”
He nods, then sips his coffee and looks back at his phone.
I discovered yesterday that the Brecken family does not own a kettle. It was a bizarre discovery. One would be hard-pressed to find an English kitchen that didn’t possess one. In fact, I know some families that own a spare, just in case. It’s an essential item, like toothpaste or soap. I was forced to go old school and boil the water in a pot. And thus, I begin the same process again this morning.
I’m not ignorant to Finn’s head turning, glancing at what I’m doing, every so often, but I do my best to pretend I haven’t noticed. He has already made his feelings known about the way I drink my tea.
When it’s finally made, I clean up after myself, putting everything back where I found it. I then stand, hovering by the counter. There are two seats at the island, but I don’t want to intrude on his space. Besides, the idea of being so close to him makes me nervous.
“I won’t bite, you know,” he says, without turning around.
I smile at his offhand invitation to sit and tentatively move toward the high stool beside him. Scraping it back, I hitch myself up onto it, and, keeping my arms tightly close to my body, continue sipping the hot tea.
He turns toward me then. His eyes catch my cup, and his lips curl a little. Then he lifts his eyes to mine. I haven’t really been close enough to him to see them this clearly, but now I notice they’re a pale sky blue, almost gray. There’s a softness to them, though.
“So, we’re decorating then,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I reply. “I didn’t mean for you to be dragged into helping. I know you’ve got a lot of stuff going on.”
His eyebrows rise questioningly. Clearly, he’s interested to know what I know. “Is that right?” he says.
“Well, you know,” I say quickly, now feeling a little flustered under his direct gaze, “I don’t know your business or anything. I just… I just… you know.”
