Farraway Mist ?A Wattpad featured story?

Chapter 2: Call Me George

In the bright light of the kitchen, George was even better looking than before. His dark blond hair had streaks of lighter blond in it, and Scout wondered if he paid someone to put them in or if they were natural. He was already tan, which made his dark blue eyes pop even more. And, even though there was a bit of a chill in the air, he was barefoot, in shorts and a T-shirt which showed off his very toned body.

George Wilder was the whole package, and he definitely didn't abuse his body. No late nights or over indulging for him, at least not on a regular basis. This didn't exactly jibe with what little Scout had read about him after she found out she'd gotten the job.

According to her information, especially after he'd married Tessa Richardson, they'd become one of the most sought after couples in the world; a globe-trotting, jet-setting duo who could make or break an event simply by having their names associated with it. In fact, Scout seemed to recall reading something about one of them getting arrested over some drug use or something; however, she'd been sleep deprived and somewhere over the Atlantic when she read that, so perhaps she'd been mistaken. George certainly looked clear-eyed now, nothing impaired about him at all.

"You get used to the temperature," George said with a slight tilt to one corner of his mouth.

Shit.

He knew she'd been checking him out.

Scout pulled her sweater around herself, feeling ridiculous as she did so. George had been married to one of the most beautiful women in the world, and was in love with her still, nearly a year after her death. He certainly wasn't checking out a twenty-four year old librarian who looked like a ten-year-old boy with a bad hair cut.

"Would you like to see the library?" he asked.

She nodded, so they rose, and she followed him out. Jess and Bandit, of course, went with them.

Again, Scout tried to commit the layout of the house to memory, but she got hopelessly lost by the time they arrived at the library.

"These books came with the house, as did most of the furniture," George explained as he opened the massive doors. "We only redid the bathrooms and kitchen, really. Always meant to get the books organized, and I'm just now getting around to it," he said apologetically.

He walked over to the windows and pulled the heavy draperies. "I've had people in to clean and that, but I tried not to touch anything in here," he said. "I heard that it's best not to disturb anything? I don't think there's anything in here really valuable, you know? Just some old stuff, fun, if you get my meaning." And here he turned to look at Scout.

Scout was looking at the shelves. There were many first editions, original printings, European editions, hand printings. "Oh wow," she murmured, pulling random books out, touching them reverently.

She finally looked over at George after a few minutes of this. "Yes, exactly right," she said, smiling, eyes shining. "Nothing really historically significant, nothing that should be archived or preserved or anything, nothing we should feel guilty about keeping from a museum, just lots of really fun things, like you said." She nodded again. "I agree with you completely, completely. This is going to be so much fun."

She walked over next to the window so she could examine the binding of the book she held in the light. He leaned over curiously, trying to see what she was looking at.

As they bent over the book together, the curtain rod gave one warning rattle and crashed down, catching Scout across the forehead, opening up a flap of skin as she smashed her head on the sill.

"Jesus!"

George yanked the curtain and the offending rod off of Scout as the dogs scurried for cover.

"Scout! Scout! Are you okay?"

She blinked up at him from the floor, nodding, trying to focus. She raised a hand to her temple, but George grasped it and held it away, shaking his head.

"No, don't touch, there's blood," he murmured.

Blood?

Jess and Bandit came back, sniffing at her worriedly, making her smile in spite of the circumstances.

"Make sure none of the blood gets on the books," she said, carefully placing the book up on the windowsill.

George smiled at her words as he helped her up.

"Well, I intend to have some very strong words with my staff about how they replaced the curtains after they cleaned them," he said as he led her from the room.

"You have a staff?" Scout said asked in an amused voice.

"Well, okay, I guess 'staff' is rather a grandiose word for Alfred and Sunil from the village," George admitted. Scout was surprised at how relaxed and friendly George sounded. It was a different side to the silent and kind of sarcastic, frightening person she'd met earlier.

They entered what looked like a guest bathroom, and George sat her down on the counter next to the sink so he could delicately dab at a fairly bloody but not deep gash on her temple with a bit of tissue, much to her embarrassment. The dogs hovered and watched.

"I can do this myself," Scout said, laughing.

"Don't be silly," George said, holding the tissue out of reach when she reached for it. "What if you were to become faint at the sight of your own blood and pass out cold, falling off the counter in the process?" He stopped talking so he could look in her eyes, staring from about an inch away. He could feel her warm breaths on his face, and backed up a little.

"When I was ten I rode into a mailbox on my bike while I was turned around yelling something to my friend Kenny, and I had to push my bike home for nearly a mile with my lip torn away from my cheek. It was over an inch long," Scout said conversationally. "I had to hold the skin closed the whole way. I needed seven stitches. You can still kind of make out the scar, see? I was fine, honest."

But George insisted, and Scout finally gave up and let him minister to her, drawing in little hissing breaths as the antiseptic touched the raw wound. He finally stepped back, blowing on it. "Okay, all finished. I think you'll survive. And you might even have another romantic scar."

He looked critically into her pale blue eyes. "Do you have double vision or anything? I'm a bit concerned about concussion, if I'm honest. I wonder if I should have a doctor out here to examine you?"

"No, I'm sure I'm fine," Scout protested.

"Not feeling sleepy?" George persisted.

"Well, a little, but that's probably just jet lag, don't you think?" Scout said. "I promise I won't fall asleep."

George looked at her.

Scout hopped down off the counter and stood before him, a slight figure, standing straight.

George finally nodded.

"How about this, then?" George proposed. "We'll make some coffee, go sit down, and talk until dinner. If you seem fine, that is to say if you're not drowsy or slurring your words or anything, then no doctor, okay?"

Scout nodded too. "Okay," she agreed. "I guess you wouldn't want anyone dropping dead in your beautiful house," she joked.

Oh fuck.

He just looked at her for a moment before leaving the bathroom.

She took quick steps and put a hand on his arm.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Wilder, I really am. I'm always shooting off my mouth and waiting for my brain to catch up," she said contritely.

He looked at her hand, then her eyes before giving her a small, crooked grin.

"It's all right." He took a few steps before turning back.

"And Scout?"

She looked at him.

"Please call me George."