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It’s been a long timesince he woke up with such a rotten fucking headache. Decades in fact. He also feels like he’s going to throw up, which hasn’t happened for decades either.
Groaning with the effort, he opens his eyes and winces, closing his eyes again. Fuck, he feels terrible. He rolls onto his side, feeling rough wood under his fingers. This isn’t his bedroom floor. Not that he’s spent a lot of time up close and personal with it. Where the fuck is he?
He pushes up to his elbow and winces as a ball bounces around his skull. Nope, not ready for that. His head is fucking killing him.
‘Don't move.’
The female voice is unfamiliar, which immediately puts him on alert. He works with a lot of people, but he’s sure he’s never heard her voice before. He slowly turns his head towards the voice, blinking as he tries to get his vision to focus.
When it finally clears, he finds a woman sitting in an armchair next to him, her legs tucked up in front of her. She’s peering at him over the rim of a large mug with steam coming out of it.
It’s the wrong thing to think considering he hasn’t got a clue where he is or what’s wrong with him, but the woman looking strangely at him is one hell of a looker, whoever she is. Her pale skin is peppered with freckles and her green eyes have a hint of blue in the centre. She twirls the end of her long auburn hair as she peers down at him.
Who the fuck is she? She’s definitely not someone from the workshop. He’s sure he’d remember her.
She puts down the cup on the table beside her, and tucks her hands into the sleeves of the oversized Snoopy pyjamas she’s wearing.
He leaves her staring at him as he takes in the rest of the room he’s in. It’s a cottage of some sort, with heavy wooden beams in the ceiling and walls. The open fire beside him fills the room with the scent of peat turf.
It’s warm and homely, but doesn't help him figure out where he is.
‘Where...’ he groans, as his own voice echoes loudly in his head. ‘Damn, that hurts.’
‘I wouldn’t move around too much if I were you. I found you in the forest a few hours ago. You were unconscious. There’s a cut on your forehead but I don’t think you’ve had a bang to your head. Well I hope not.’
He reaches up, quickly finding the cut she’s talking about under a bandage. ‘Ouch. You did this?’
‘The cleaning and bandaging. Not the original cut. I promise that had nothing to do with me.’
She smiles and a little of the worry eases. So a pretty girl smiles at you and you trust her. Not the best move for someone in his position.
He convinces himself to stop staring and get his ass off the floor. He tries pushing upright again, but she joins him on the floor, gently guiding him onto his back. ‘You really should take it easy. You’ve been out of it for about six hours. Go slow.’
He ignores her and drags himself to his feet, wobbling as the room shifts. Bracing against the wall, he just stops himself from crashing to the ground again. ‘What date is it?’
‘What?’
‘The date? What is it?’
‘The twenty-first of December. Why?’
The room sways again, but he forces himself to stand tall, cursing when he whacks his head on one of the very old, very solid ceiling beams.
The woman stands up, grimacing as she watches him rub the other side of his head. ‘Ouch. That sounded like it hurt. You okay?’
‘No I’m not okay!’
‘At least you didn’t hit the same side twice,’ she replies, the small smile irritatingly attractive.
He glares at the beam, deciding he’s going to have to stay stooped over, or risk continuously knocking himself out. ‘Where am I?’
The woman examines his head, moving so close to him he can smell the coffee on her breath. ‘Roundwood.’
‘Where?’
‘Wicklow. Ireland,’ she adds, giving him a strange look. ‘Do you remember how you got here?’
He knows full well how he got here. It’s what happened after that, that’s giving him problems. He can’t remember anything. ‘You said you found me. Where?’
