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The Hawthorn Room, same as mine, other side.
How would Ian feel if I woke him up and said, “Hey, so sorry. I know we barely know each other, but I need to sleep in here because I’m having creepy-as-shit nightmares.”
I’d tell him the truth. The dreams were so vivid, so real, more of both than I’ve ever experienced (a lot more), that they were freaking me out, and I couldn’t sleep alone. Tell him that I needed his warmth in this cold, damn house. Just his warmth. His presence.
How would he feel if I asked if he minded if I slept with him?
Just sleep.
I just needed some sleep.
I mentally shook myself, and I did that hard.
I could go to a hotel and sleep.
I could go home and sleep.
My first thought being to wake up a guy I barely knew and ask him if I could sleep with him was just as freaky as all the rest of it.
Sure, he was gorgeous and charming and a fantastic flirt, but jeez.
Another important note, I’d spent another day in that house, for the most part alone, and I hadn’t asked anyone about my damned car.
A strange noise sounded, and I jumped a mile.
Then I realized it was my phone vibrating with a text in the drawer.
“Note to self,” I mumbled, “turn on do not disturb.”
I opened the drawer and pulled out the phone, but before I did, I saw the fading text notification was from Portia.
Quickly, I pulled it up.
We’re not going to be back until late tomorrow, but if it’s too late before we can head out, it might be Monday. So so sorry! Love you and hope to be back soon!
I glared at my phone.
Then I stared at my phone.
Because it was three oh three in the morning.
And I hadn’t noticed, but the text she sent that afternoon to tell me she was in London had been sent at the same time.
Exactly twelve hours earlier.
Nine
THE WHISKY ROOM
To say I was in a mood when I stormed down the white staircase later that morning was an understatement.
I hadn’t been able to get back to sleep, and I was a sleep person. Two nights interrupted, and not enough, I was not in good spirits.
I’d told Bonnie last night that breakfast in bed was awesome, but it wasn’t quite me.
She’d offered another seat at her chef’s table for breakfast, which was a worktable in her massive, modern kitchen (again, Richard had spared no expense on those updates, that kitchen was a dream), and I’d taken her up on it.
She told me she’d cook to order when I arrived.
