The thermometer beeps. I take it out and study it. No fever to speak of, in fact I appear to be a little chilly, considering the blistering summer weather we’re having right now.
Oh God.
I think … I think this might actually be happening. I think I might be trapped in my own personalEnchantedand I’m Patrick Dempsey.
‘Hello again,’ I say to the massive cowboy with the wild eyes.
‘Am I in fuckingEngland?’ he grumbles, looking utterly dejected at the mere thought.
‘Yeah,’ I sigh and nod my head. ‘Yeah, I’m afraid you are. You’d better come in.’
CHAPTER NINE
‘I need a real drink,’ River barks as I hand him a mug of hot English Breakfast tea, which he immediately pours down the sink. ‘Where’s your whisky?’
Reasonable request, rudely requested. I open up the booze cupboard and take out a bottle of whisky I got in the Sainsbury’s sale last year. It’s called Bagpipe Distillery and the picture on the front is of the Loch Ness monster for some reason. I pour out two shots, one for each of us. River grabs one and tips it back as if it’s water. Then he snatches up my glass and tips that back too. His manners are appalling and he doesn’t even seem to care. I’ve come across my fair share of impolite people, but I’ve never seen anything like this. He drank my whisky without even asking!
‘You sure that’s whisky?’ River grimaces, wiping his mouth with his fist and examining the bottle with a wince. ‘Tastes like boiled piss.’ Despite the review, he swipes the bottle off the counter and carries it over to the kitchen table. ‘Gertie, right? That’s your name?’
‘Yes. Gertie Bickerstaff.’
‘Right. So, Gertie, you’re saying you have no idea how I got here? How I got all the way from Bedlam Creek, Texas, to your house in – is this London?’
‘Yes. Bloomsbury.’ I lift my chin. ‘The nice bit. Not as nice as Marylebone or Mayfair, but I happen to think—’
‘—How I got all the way from Bedlam Creek, Texas, to your house in Bloomsbury, London, England, without remembering a single damn thing about the trip?’
He pronounces Bloomsbury as two words. Blooms Berry. I grab my shot glass, and give it a quick rinse under the tap. Then I seat myself opposite River at the kitchen table and pour us both fresh shots. I knock mine back before he can steal it, flinching as the hot liquid burns my oesophagus. With all the Tucci cocktails plus the recent increase in the amount of pickles I’ve been scoffing, it really has been taking a bit of a hammering lately. I stifle a burp – yes, because I’m a polite, well-mannered grown-up, but also because this man is so astonishing to look at, it would somehow feel wrong to belch in his vicinity. Like farting in front of theMona Lisa. I swallow down the indigestion and pour myself another shot.
‘I have a theory …’ I halt, biting my lip. How to say what I’m about to say? It’s objectively bonkers.
‘Well?’ he snipes. ‘Is it a secret?’
‘N-no,’ I stutter. ‘You just … you might want another one of these first … What I’m about to say will … You might not like it.’
I slide the bottle across the table to him and watch as he pours out another shot, gulping it down with no sign of oesophageal burn at all. Must be nice.
He clears his throat. ‘I’m waiting.’
Hmm. Okay. How to say it? How to tell someone thatthey are … possibly not real? That they are perhaps the invention of a romance writer’s stressed-out mind.
How to say that to a man my protagonist Cassidy Oakley once called ‘A domineering brute with the temperament of a constipated mule and a rotten apple core in place of a heart.’
I take a deep breath.
‘So, you see, the thing is … Um, so actually … hmm. River. You are stilldefinitelysaying that your name is River Oakley? You are absolutely convinced of this?’
He shoots me daggers. ‘I already told you that. Now quit wobblin’ your jaw and tell me what you know.’ He taps one booted foot rapidly against the floor. ‘I need to get home. I have business to attend to. I have to get back for the big land auction. The whole town is counting on me. The integrity of Bedlam Creek is at stake, and I made promises that I would protect it.’
A land auction that the whole town knows about?I didn’t write that.
The thought doesn’t get a chance to take root because with an exasperated sigh, River lifts both arms, placing his hands on the rim of his Stetson. The motion fully bares the corded ripples of his torso and I find, much to my embarrassment, that I can’t look away. It’s like a magic eye poster that’s hypnotised me. It’s ridiculous. I’ve never been a torso girl. Good forearms and a caustic wit have always been my kryptonite. But this particular torso …
‘Just a second,’ I say, my breath pathetically short. Then I dash over to the wardrobe where I quickly rifle through foranything that Henry left behind. Right at the back of the closet I find the T-shirt I got him for Christmas last year. It’s avocado green and has a picture of William Shakespeare on the front. Beneath the picture it saysYou know I put the LIT in Literature.
‘Here.’ I hand it to him. ‘I can’t focus with your … you know …’
He holds the T-shirt out in front of him. ‘My what?’
