Away With the Fairies (The Swallow Barn Cottage Series, Book 2)

Sesame Opens

Not just any man.

Her publisher and benefactor, John Holyoake.

Fiona felt her heart beat three times - oddly slowly, distinctly, as if somewhere in her solar plexus.

Why aren't you screaming, Fiona?

He'd given her the key to the cottage. He'd given her the address. He was supposed to be in London - with his wife, the famous mystery writer, and his babies. Instead, he'd just shaken his head like a dog stepping out of a lake, with an irritated grumble, drops of water flying everywhere.

Is this the sexual harassment she's been warned of so many times? He surely could have just propositioned her in that café where they'd been discussing her contract, or simply in his office - instead of organising this complicated ruse!

Her first thought was that Nate had been right, and now she'd never hear the end of it.

Holyoake lifted his eyes at her and dug his bare heels into the floor.

"Who are you?" he barked.

"I'm–" You're like a well-trained dog, Fiona. You're asked a question, and you jump up to answer. "Mr. Holyoake, it must be some sort of a misunderstanding! I'm not– not interested in– this!" she exclaimed and gestured all over him.

He frowned - it's almost a scowl, to think of it - and Fiona took another small step back.

"If you aren't interested in all this, you shouldn't have barged in," he growled. "Get out!"

"What–" she exhaled.

"Get. Out!"

He took a strange, awkward step towards her, and she squealed, grabbed an umbrella from a stand near her, and swung it in the air.

"Don't get any closer!" she shouted and shook her weapon.

"Seriously?" His voice was raspy. "Are you mad?"

He was limping, she realised, that's why his movements seemed so odd. And then he leaped forward with some sort of surreal grace - like a panther! - and grabbed the umbrella. She thought she held it firmly, but he pulled it out effortlessly and threw it aside.

"C'mon, move!" His Northern accent - normally almost hidden under his RP - was thick. Fiona frantically looked behind her. Where's the exit?! "Out!" he shouted.

And that's when she finally saw him - and froze in her spot.

"You're not him," she breathed out. "You aren't John Holyoake!"

How did she not notice the differences?! The lines of the face were harsher, sharper. He was larger, broader, and heavier. And that leg! He was limping because his right leg was covered in scars and deformed! And his chest as well! Not that she'd seen John Holyoake's chest. Scars were everywhere!

And then her mobile rang in her pocket.

"You're a nutter, aren't you? Bringing a phone to a burglary," he jeered.

Moving like in a dream, Fiona pulled the phone out of her pocket and saw the words John Holyoake on the screen. She swiped and lifted it to her ear.

"Mrs. King, I am so very sorry," Holyoake spoke hurriedly. "I've just spoken to my wife, and it turned out there had been a miscommunication. She'd given the key to the cottage to my brother, and– Mrs. King?"

"Yes?" Fiona answered in a tiny voice.

"You've already met my brother, haven't you?" Holyoake asked.

"Uh-huh," Fiona answered.

"Blimey." Holyoake paused for three seconds. Fiona watched the water drip from the hair of the man in front of her, who was giving her an enraged look, clearly confused why she wasn't making herself scarce. "Could I speak to Fred, please?" the Holyoake in the phone said.

"It's for you," Fiona muttered and pushed her phone into the hand of the other Holyoake.

"What the hell?" he asked, but took it.

Fiona fled.

She dashed out through the entrance door and made a few anxious strides along the walkway. And then she realised her phone was still inside - in the hands of Holyoake's doppelganger. And so was her suitcase. She slowly sat down on a low bench under an elder tree.

He showed up ten minutes later. By then she felt like she'd frozen all the way through.

How could she have thought it was John Holyoake?! She'd seen the publisher just two days ago. This one had a shaggier mane; the beard was longer, unkempt and uneven on the bottom. And the face! It was a different face! Given it wasn't his face you'd been staring at when he stepped out the bathroom. Heh, Fiona?

He had a cane and leant in on it heavily. He'd put on a pair of worn out jeans and a black jumper, his military boots were unlaced. He stopped in front of her and looked her over.

"You're my brother's client," he boomed.

Fiona jumped to her feet.

"I'm Fiona King. I'm an illustrator, and your brother–"

"Yes, he let you stay here," he interrupted, frowning. He had the same thick dark eyebrows as his twin brother - duh, Fiona! - except the left one had a scar cutting it across. "Clem gave me the key. She said no one needs the cottage."

"I have nowhere else to go," Fiona blurted out and shied away from him. "Sorry. I meant to say, I've come to London for a few months, to work on a book, and I– I can't afford a hotel or a flat, so Mr. Holyoake–"

He made a low disgruntled noise in his throat, and Fiona shrunk. He studied her for a few seconds. He had the same bright blue eyes as his brother, framed with thick long lashes. Like a husky dog.

"You should go inside," he grumbled. "It's baltic."

She nodded. She couldn't feel her backside, actually. He gave her an expectant look, and she dashed by him towards the door.

"Your phone," he said behind her.

She twirled on one spot and took her Samsung out of his hand.

"Thank you."

He once again wasn't moving, and she turned and walked towards the house. There was some odd buzzing sensation between her shoulder blades, and she wondered if it was his heavy glare drilling into her back.

In the hallway he toed off his boots and walked through into the lounge. Fiona shifted her weight between her feet, chewed her bottom lip, and started taking off her Sorels as well. There was no avoiding a discussion with him, and she sighed. John Holyoake, with his polite civilised manners and laughing eyes, was intimidating enough. The raggedy version of him was making her shake in her boots. Well, her fluffy stripy socks at the moment.

He was sitting on the sofa, his right leg outstretched in front of him.

"So, what are we going to do with this aggro then?" he asked.

Somehow, it didn't feel like an actual question. More like a sarcastic growl. And the right answer, in his mind, was probably Fiona picking up her suitcase and heading out.

She sat down in the armchair across a low coffee table from him and crossed her arms.

"Indeed," she said and gave him a firm look. "What are we going to do with this aggro?"