Page 87 of Unwritten Rules

But Mila follows me into my dreams, where we spend hours laughing and loving—the epitome of what we would be if we could be friends and lovers.

But sadly, my dream woman can never be my reality.

* * *

One moment, I’m buried in my dreams of Mila. The next, my covers are being whipped unceremoniously away from my body.

My eyes fly open to find myself staring up at a grinning Zara Harrison.

Before I’ve gathered my wits, she flops down onto the bed beside me and rubs her hand upwards along my bare thigh.

“Morning, Nate. I see some things never change. How about I help you utilise that morning wood?”

Her laugh goes through me, reverberating around my room painfully, and something inside me just snaps.

I grab one of her arms, pulling her unceremoniously from my rumpled sheets.

“Get the fuck out of my house, or so help me, Zara, I will prosecute you for trespassing – and you’ll be grateful that’s all I fucking do.”

All blood drains from her already pale, typical English rose face at my no-nonsense words. She can plainly see that I mean them.

“I-I was just helping Tatiana bring Wetherby back to the main house. I was walking and – and saw them.”

“And you just thought, ‘Oh, while I’m on the property, I’ll assault the home owner’? That it?”

“Assault? Nate, don’t be so dramatic—”

“Get the fuck…” I grit the words out, with emphasis on the profanity, from my clenched jaw, angry twofold now that she not only has the audacity to swan about as though she owns the damn place, but also at myself for not even giving Wetherby a passing thought of late. “…out of my house and don’t come back.”

“It’s not fucking yours—”

She stops herself and narrows her eyes into slits. Her jaw clenches tightly as she tries to swallow whatever retort she so clearly has on the tip of her tongue. Then, without giving her another glance, I stride to the ensuite and slam the door behind me, locking it for good measure.

By the time I’ve finished my morning routine, I re-enter the bedroom in search of clothes to find it empty, new towels on a freshly dressed bed indicating that either Johanna or Lesley have been about.

Chucking on a plain white shirt and brown slacks, I set off for Wetherby’s rooms below the stairs, grabbing a warm croissant from a smiling Monique as I pass through the kitchen.

Wetherby’s little haven behind the kitchen is empty, so I furrow my brow, thinking of where else he could be.

A lightbulb goes on inside my head when I realise and rapidly make my way to the kitchen garden. My feet quickly fly down the little path that leads to the orchard at the back of the property.

At the midway point, where the apple trees end and the pear trees begin, I swing left and slip out the side gate into a grove where previous generations of Hawthornes are buried.

As I’d surmised, Wetherby is sitting at the foot of my mother’s grave, a small bouquet of apple blossoms in his gnarled hands.

He’s got a wistful smile on his familiar face, and my body immediately feels at ease in his familiar, comforting presence.

“It’s about time you showed up, young Nathaniel.”

He turns sparkling blue eyes to me, his smile broadening as my mouth lifts up to mirror his happiness.

“Well, every time I tried to see you, you were being a lazy sausage. I was beginning to think Tatiana was drugging you—”

Wetherby’s bark of laughter fills the grove, frightening some wildlife from their tree perch nearby as we hear a rustle of leaves and wings taking flight from not too far off.

“Not drugged, my boy. Just old.”

I chuckle alongside him and move further into the grove, sinking down onto my haunches when I reach him.