“Well, we can’t forget that.” I pick up my coffee once more and sip it while listening to the sounds of the wind and rain on the windows. The fire roars in front of me, and for a moment, I forget that it’s August and that it was warm and sunny out when I first arrived. I shiver, wishing I weren’t in shorts and a short-sleeved blouse. Even with the fire, there’s still a bit of a chill in the air. Must be from the concrete walls.
While I’m staring into the fire, a rather large and rough hand comes into my peripheral view, holding a black hoodie. He offers it to me, and I take it, noting the little Nike swoop stitched in the top corner. When I place it over my head, his scent takes over me.
Irish Spring bar soap—the pine needle and citrus smell is oddly comforting.
“Thanks,” I murmur. Leaning back on the couch, I close my eyes for a moment. I was up early this morning, and this space is so calm, and the couch is so comfy. I drift off, the rain and crackling fire acting as a soundtrack to my sleep.
Chapter Eight
Iwake up to the smell of browned butter taking over the lighthouse. Opening my eyes, I’m sprawled out on the couch with a fleece blanket on top of me and a wet drool stain on the throw pillow my head was resting on.
I’m still wearing the black sweater.
It still smells like him.
Using my arms to prop myself up, I stretch and look over to the kitchen, where Dylan’s standing over a cast-iron pan on the stove, flipping what looks like fish over with a metal spatula.
“Hi,” I mumble, still a bit groggy from my nap. “How long did I sleep?”
He looks at his old analog wristwatch before answering. “About two and a half hours.”What?“It’s six now. I’m making dinner if you’d like some. Fried mackerel I caught early this morning. With pickled vegetables and boiled potatoes.”
My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since the yogurt parfait I made for breakfastearlythis morning. “Only if you have enough,” I say casually, hoping he does, in fact, have enough.
“I do.” He pulls the pan off the stove, placing it on an old dishtowel. “It’ll be ready in five.”
I stand up and stretch, looking around me. “Where’s your bathroom?”
“Not on this level. Go up one, and you’ll see it.”
I head upstairs and discover this is the level with his bedroom. At the far wall is a double bed with a white cast-iron frame and a navy blue comforter. Very simple. On the same side is another wood stove; it must connect to the one on the level below because they look to be in the same place.
A dark wooden end table sits to the right of the bed. I pick out another book,The Giverby Lois Lowry, on the nightstand along with a notebook, pencil, and a half-full glass of water. There’s a dresser on this side of the lighthouse as well, the same dark wood as the other tables. At the opposite end of the room, to my left, is a door with a wall breaking up the space. This must be the bathroom. I take another look around his bedroom, noticing he has no art or pictures of himself or family anywhere, then turn and open the door.
It’s a small bathroom, which makes sense, given that I’m literally inside a lighthouse right now. But it’s got everything you’d need. A toilet, a small white ceramic standing sink, a claw-foot tub with a shower attachment, and some hooks on the wall for towels. The Irish Spring soap sits on a small table beside the bathtub, causing a smile to form on my lips. I use the bathroom, wash my hands, and go back downstairs. Dylan has the coffee table set for us, and the food looks and smells delicious.
“I can’t believe you caughtandcooked this,” I say as I take a seat beside him, the couch so small that we’re in closeproximity to each other. I can smell the soap on him and feel the warmth of his body next to mine.
I don’t mind him in my personal space.
Not at all.
“Hmm,” he responds, lips twitching.
“I can barely boil water,” I say, half-joking, half-serious, as I take a bite of the deliciously seasoned fish.
“Takes practice,” he responds after taking his own bite. “I could teach you. Next time.” He looks at me, piercing green eyes crinkling, locked on mine.
“To cook fish?” I ask.
“No, to boil water.” A smile teases at the corners of his lips, and we both erupt in laughter.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“Just promise not to burn down my lighthouse.”
I use my left pointer finger to draw an X over my heart, giving him a wink back.
The smirk grows, and then he picks up his glass of beer and takes a drink.
