Farraway Mist ?A Wattpad featured story?

Chapter 3: Fireside Chat

Scout kicked her loafers off and tucked her feet up under her, reminding herself not to put her feet down on Jess or Bandit, who were jockeying for position directly under her chair. It was a beautiful room with French doors that opened directly onto a flagstone terrace that faced the sea. Narrow stairs had been cut into the cliffs and led directly from the terrace down to the rocky beach below.

The room was large without feeling cavernous, filled with bulky, dark furniture. A gorgeous, mahogany grand piano anchored everything in place, filling the corner, shiny and permanent. And, even though it was June, Scout could tell that the sunlight was illusory, and she'd be glad for the fire that crackled in the fireplace before the afternoon was over.

George sat, eyes hooded, staring broodingly into the fire. He didn't look like he wanted to talk. In fact, if Scout hadn't seen the lighter, more human side of him when she'd been in the kitchen with him and the dogs, she'd be seriously rethinking even remaining here. Even for the amount of money the job paid, the discomfort of being in his surly presence wouldn't have been worth it.

However, he had smiled and been kind of human, it was a pretty place, far from the eastern seaboard and a certain Dr. Frye, and his dogs were lovely. She could do this. She took a sip of the coffee, which was delicious.

"So," George said suddenly, startling her, "what do you think of the place?"

"Oh, um, it's really beautiful," Scout replied, nodding. "I'm from New England, so I'm used to this kind of architecture, but this is the real thing, you know? Authentic?"

"Yeah," he said musingly. "When I bought it I wanted something exactly as you're describing, beautiful and authentic. My friends were all buying places in London and New York and Paris? But I wanted an English estate on the coast. Nothing too ostentatious, but something with history and character, you know? And a little charm?" He stared into the fire. "The library and the piano really did it for me, though. Man, the smell of the old books, I'll never forget it. And all the wood in this house is original, brought over by boat from Indonesia by the man who built it."

Scout found the enthusiasm in his voice and on his face charming. She smiled at him, and he returned her smile for a very brief moment before carefully tucking the escaping ends of his personality back in.

George regarded the woman who sat in front of him, a woman unlike any he'd ever encountered before. He was pretty sure he'd never be forgiven for mistaking her for a man, ever. Even lesbians didn't like people getting their gender wrong, did they? He got the feeling she was one of those very capable women who didn't need a man for anything, especially sex. She probably had a really successful girlfriend back in America named Annabelle or Gertrude or whatever, who was a high-powered human rights lawyer or something. Which was really too bad, because she looked like she had a really cute, athletic figure under her shapeless, ill-fitting clothes.

He looked away before she noticed he was staring at her, looking outside, where the mist was starting to rise.

"Now you'll see where the house gets its name," he said.

"Oh?" Scout said curiously.

"Most days, even in high summer, even if it's started sunny, by late afternoon, the clouds and mist will start to roll in and things will get quite wet," he commented. "Visibility can get pretty bad, so you'll want to be very careful, especially if you're walking along the cliffs, all right?" He gave her a sober look. "The man who built this place was named Farraway, and the word 'Mist' got added on after because of how the fog and mist always rose at this particular point on the coast, where the cliffs jut out into the sea. A couple of people have fallen to their deaths, just out there, on the rocks, in the late afternoon and evening. It can be quite treacherous. Please, please, be careful. I can't stress this enough."