The morning comes on in the form of headache. My eyes inch open, the gray overcast hue of the window sweeping over the antique furniture. I'm wrapped in the heavy quilt that I somehow cocooned myself in overnight in my drunken state.
An unsettling feeling overcomes me at the sight of the room, and the sound of raging downpour outside. It's suddenly very easy to recall bits and pieces of the night before, and become frightened by just how much is hazy. Embarrassment blushes through me vigorously, sending me out of bed and onto my feet in mere moments.
"Oh God."
It's nearly ten and I'm still locked in my room. First day of knowing me, Aidan Hughes witnesses me nearly kill myself via cliff, and spends the night amused by the quick-tongued journalist who can't seem to hold her drink. Despite the throbbing in my brain, my feet move fast. Shedding the pajamas on the soft bath rug, I enter the oval-shaped tub and test out the water, not surprised to find that it's either scalding or frigid. I choose to endure the latter, figuring it will help with the hangover, and climb out. It dawns on me as I comb through my hair with my fingers that I have no makeup, no hair products, nothing to fix my face with. Thankfully, I don't go anywhere without a toothbrush or we'd be in real trouble. Letting my hair air-dry, I brush my teeth and then dive for my phone to see if it's already dead.
When I find it on 4%, I use the last of its juice to dial my mother's nurse, knowing I can't prolong this forever. She picks up on the last ring, her voice its usual calm whisper.
"Hi, Jo."
"Mary, hi," I sit on the mattress wrapped in a damp towel, "Um, how is everything? How is she?"
"It's not her best day, unfortunately. We did some exercises but she didn't respond much to them. She's watching tv now."
"I'm stuck in Leavenworth, Mary. I'm snowed in my client's home...I'm not going to be able to make it back for Christmas dinner."
"Oh no, that's a shame."
Guilt seeps through my bloodstream, thick and painful. This isn't the first year I've come up with an excuse, not rushing to spend an evening where I could do more damage to our relationship than I've already managed to do. This year, I wasn't planning to conjure up an excuse. Knowing it may be the last Christmas I have with her where she remembers who I am, and the memories we share, I wanted to put everything aside and be there, for both of our sakes.
Fate had other plans. And now, I'm painstakingly aware of how much my situation resembles all those other excuses I used to make. "I really wanted to be there."
"Don't beat yourself up about it, honey. There will be other holidays."
Will there?
Not wishing to waste her entire morning with my inner turmoil's, I say, "Sam knows that I'm stuck here and has offered to have her over for the night. If you could drop her off at noon, she can have dinner and spend the night there. She loves Sam."
"Sure thing. I'll pick her up from there in the morning."
My voice trembles as I read out Samantha's phone number and address, but I push past the emotions to wish her a Merry Christmas and inform her of my dying phone situation. It's only when I hang up that I discover my hands have begun shaking.
My eyes swerve to the door, thinking of the man somewhere behind it, and then to the dress hanging over the bedpost. His wife's garment. With no choice, I put it on, unsure as to if the pale pink color compliments my skin or drowns it out. Old fashioned and homey, it buttons in a straight line from neck-line to the hem around my calf. There are small floral designs scattered across the cotton and while the fabric fits, it's snugger than I'm used to. So my breasts aren't so constrained, I undo a button, then another, trying to trick the eye into believing I actually fit in this dress without revealing the lace of my bra too.
Slipping into the slippers, I leave my things behind and head for the door, praying Hughes has something stronger than tea: coffee. I drag myself down the steps, blinking in shock at the sight of the window, which is frosty enough to make it difficult to see outside. The surroundings of the manor I can see are completely snow-covered, the trees, the cars, the gardens have disappeared under the thick coverings.
We are officially snowed in.
The skirt of the dress sways against my leg as I walk the halls in search of the parlor, which is one of the many places he could be. But when I stop at the threshold and find only the fire going, I head in search for the kitchen.
The walls groan louder with each turn, each corner. But the sight of an open door is my salvation. And when I find Aidan inside at a desk, a large machine atop that is reading out weather forecasts, I'm oddly pleased to see him.
He's wearing a cream knitted sweater with black jeans. His shoes are slim boots that lace up in the front. His hair is still wet like mine, which is a relief. Maybe he's a late sleeper and didn't notice how long I'd been out.
He turns down the monotone drone of the man coming from the machine, and looks at me with a sigh. I grimace, expecting bad news.
"How bad is it?"
"Power is out almost everywhere. We're running on the generator now, but there won't be let up for a few days. They said the snow will continue to come."
"And it'll take more days to get us out of here, right?"
"At least a few days. The last storm we were snowed-in for a week before they could plow the mountain roads. It's never happened for Christmas though. This will damper the town's festivities considerably."
I tilt my head at him, smirking. "Not like you would participate anyway, correct?"
He chuckles, rubbing his neck. "Exactly...well, we have enough food and logs to get us through the storm. Our minds may not make it though."
"Mines already gone, as you could probably tell from my actions last night," I confess, my face warming. "I...um, I'm sorry for that. I hope I wasn't too embarrassing."
"You were the perfect drunk."
I gape. "I wasn't drunk."
"Whatever you say," he says, standing from the desk. He points at my head as he passes through the door. "You'll probably want something strong for that hang-over, huh?"
I glare at him, with no choice but to follow, my need for caffeine more important than my pride. Despite my offer, he insists on making the coffee, encouraging me to sit. Instead, I tell him I'll whip us up breakfast before I allow him to show me his work.
That comment earns me a side-ways glance, but he remains silent, letting me dominate the kitchen around him. Eventually, I'm standing and he's sitting, waiting on me. We seem to thrive on silence, which is odd for me, because the absence of speech leaves plenty of room for emotions to squirm their way into the atmosphere.
Because it's fastest, I whip up an omelet, in no need of impressing him. And yet, when I deposit the plate in front of him, he's abashedly shy. He even says thank you to the plate.
"What is it?" I ask, carefully lowering three seats away from him. His eyes flicker to me while he grabs his silver wear, and he shakes his head.
"Nothing."
He says nothing, but my gift for observance proves his lie when his gaze lingers on the dress before focusing on the plate I've made. I realize the dress has startled him, and instantly I'm wary, unsure of how to approach him.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know if it would be too weird..."
"Hey, I gave it to you. Honestly, it's fine. Just odd to see it on someone else."
My face burns. I've just made him breakfast in a dress his wife used to wear...what the hell is happening to me?
"I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I could take it off."
He's red in the face too, which eases my soul a bit. "And wear what?" he quips.
"Um, my clothes? Your clothes?"
His brows lift the moment I stick my foot my mouth as he's unraveled me again, bringing me back to unfamiliar territory. I reach for the mug in an effort to shield my beet red face and scald my tongue on the coffee in the process.
"Shit!" I gasp, dropping the mug onto the table with a thud. "Fuck."
I meet his gaze reluctantly under dense lashes as I bite down on my lip to forbid any further explicit from escaping. His mouth is curved considerably.
"Again, I feel I must reiterate I'm not usually like this," I mumble.
"That's a pity."
"Because you like laughing at me."
"No, because I like how you are."
As shocking as it is to hear, his confession stuns him more than me. It's clear as day that he wasn't expecting to say that aloud. His eyes round and his skin pales, his head snapping down to escape my look of awe. I blow on my coffee, listening to the rapid drum of my own heartbeat, completely affected by his desire for normalcy, and his inability to achieve it.
The rest of the meal carries out in silence, and I don't get his usual pleasantry when I gather the dishes, walking them to the sink. We're two strangers, and yet, it seems as if we're trying to act like we're not. I can't seem to stop insinuating more between us, and his eyes rarely leave where I am.
This gravitational pull has dragged a sharp line across my rule list, obliterating my common sense, my utmost professionalism. And somehow, I'm not ashamed.
Even now, as he stands up while I soap up the sponge, stiff as a board, I watch him watch me, clueless as to what is happening, what could happen. I want to ask, but am sure I'll seem ridiculous.
I just met this man. We're stranded and are latching onto each other for comfort, that's all.
Despite the warm water cascading from the faucet onto my soapy hands, my skin trickles with goosebumps as he walks across the ground behind me, his footsteps nearing. I can't seem to turn around to find where he is. All I know is the air is thick and suffocating, and I feel him.
Even though he hasn't touched me, I feel him.
"What is happening?" I whisper nervously into the air, unable to wash the dish. I'm holding it mid-air. My eyes close when his reply is beside my shoulder.
"I don't know."
I reach out and turn off the faucet abruptly, the sound too much to handle with everything else. The lack of it leaves us in absolute silence. Only his breath and my breath. He touches my waist first, hesitant in his action but doesn't stop. We both seem to exhale at the release, the initial contact, and hardly able to think clearly, I lean back, instantly pressing to the front of him.
He's firm, and warm, and reassuring in his presence, and it's daunting how quickly I'm able to relax, forgetting entirely who he is or where I am...or what I'm here for. The moment his other hand hovers by my throat, so he can gently drag his fingers along my jaw line, the dish clatters into the sink. My chest is heaving, my mind frantic, frightened. His face burrows into my hair, and I hear him inhale.
"Oh God," I breathe to myself, fearfully.
"You're so beautiful," he says, against my throat. I tilt to offer him better access but he doesn't take advantage of it, refusing to kiss me there, experienced enough to know his restraint is driving me crazy. In my first effort to touch him and to cull his delay, I turn my cheek, seeking his face.
I want his mouth. I want more. I can hardly breathe. I don't think I'll be able to until I have it.
"I saw you in the diner, and fuck, my heart dropped," he confesses, just as breathless as I am.
"Is that why you want this?" I ask. This isn't the first time I've heard someone divulge how quickly my looks made them want to take me to bed. In fact, it's normally the usual rapport in heated moments, and a quick diffuser to my libido. As badly as I want the compliment, I want the unusual more.
And as all of this is so usual, I want Aidan to see beneath the exterior more than any of them. He's dug himself deep under my skin, and witnessed parts of me in only a day that I've hardly shown to anyone. That must make him different or special...or something.
As much as I want whatever we're about to have, oddly enough, I want to be more than a fuck to him. It is the only reason I push away from his grasp abruptly, and distance myself from him, ending up near the door.
"Josephine?"
"I'm sorry. I can't."
He's silent, and that makes it the perfect opportunity to slip out the door and find a place to nurse my wounds of embarrassment. But instead of running, I dare a glance over at him. He's staring at me, intensely seeking to find my unanswered hidings.
He awakens my vulnerabilities, this stranger.
"You know who you are," he finally says, slowly, so I may soak it in.
"Do I?" I quip back, openly nervous.
He nods. "You're beyond reassurances, Josephine."
To hide how unsettled I am, I laugh, needing to be away from here, needing to be somewhere else. "W-Weren't you going to show me your work?"
He doesn't torture me long. He breaks eye contact, giving me back my ability to breathe, and nods to the ground. "Yes. Um, yes. Sure."
"Great," I reply, nearly running out of the room. The hallway cools my face and neck which are aflame, the caresses he left have burned and seeped into the skin. I wait for him, eying the fucking dress that probably got me into this mess. I want to take it off.
He exits with quickness to his step, and I match it, traveling the halls with him. My attempts at professionalism seem futile now, but I'm too uneasy to quit pretending. That doesn't stop my eyes from appraising him from behind, admiring his height, his shape, the way his shoulders extend far out, angling his arms down to his jeans, which form against him nicely.
Thankfully, I'm quick enough that he doesn't catch my ogling when he turns to speak.
"I'm taking you to my darkroom. It's under the manor."
I smile stupidly at the term, and nod, wishing I could behave like an adult. "Okay."
"I didn't want you to think I was taking you down to a dungeon or something. There's quite a bit of stairs."
There's no part of me that should trust him, especially considering all I've discovered since arriving here, but strangely enough, no alarms sound. I trust him more than I should.
"Noted."
We arrive at a large door, and he enters. The space is dark but only until he finds the switch, and light sweeps over the walls. I peek inside, seeing a winding staircase surrounded by stone. We both manage a chuckle at my reaction.
"This place just keeps getting better and better," I say begrudgingly as we start down the steps. Naturally, the further we descend, the colder it gets. By the time we reach the bottom, I'm nervous again. But the room is just what he says. A darkroom, surrounded by long desk tables, laid out with tools and dozens of photographs.
"Wow."
He inhales, and lets me walk around without him, remaining by the steps. I saunter around the tables with the intent to study his work, but don't want to without his permission.
"May I?" I ask him. He shrugs, hardly looking at me.
"Are you nervous to let me see them?"
"You are a reporter, Josephine. Wary is the better word."
I smile, rolling my eyes. "Well, it's nice to intimidate you for once."
"You think you aren't intimidating?"
"On a regular basis, I've been told I am. However, your dark and mysterious persona overpowers mine ten-fold."
"It isn't a persona," he says, immediately, and with an edge to his voice that stops me in my tracks. I stare at him, berating myself.
"I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry."
I receive no answer, which is worrisome. So, I devote myself to overlooking his work, not wishing to offend him further. He remains like a statue at the threshold to the basement, watching me pour over his work.
The photographs are noticeably different than his previous work, beautiful but lacking. The fame of his career came from his ability to pick up emotions with a single shot. These capture nature at its finest, and yet, there is hardly anything interesting about them at all.
"I tried to tell you," he finally says, his voice warmer. I shake my head with a smile, but say no more, wanting to see more. I stumble upon a set of photographs that unlike the others, which are laid out, are stacked upon each other, poking out under a filter sheet.
I reach for them, and he moves. It's only an inch, but he moves. And I notice.
I glance at him, sifting through the images of a river, oddly perplexed by them. He stares at me, still enough to give himself away. I've come upon something meaningful.
"These are beautiful."
"Thank you," he responds, clipped.
"Most of your other pictures here were captured in the sunlight. And yet, these seem like your old ones. They're dark, haunting. I don't know if it's the angle...or the lighting of the sky."
Rushing waves, water tumbling over boulders, a strong current pushing the waves over each other. The river is at the base of a mountain, due to the towering slabs of stone along one side of the river. There are two large rocks near the shoreline, which stand out.
"They're really something," I say, smiling softly. What I don't expect is the whiplash of shock the moment the photographs are snatched out of my hands, Aidan next to me within seconds. I stumble backward at the abruptness, and regard him with uncertainty as he turns his back to me and puts the pictures away.
For the second time, I experience the overwhelming urge to leave, like I did when I arrived. Despite my embarrassments and our unusual circumstance here, I've felt him warm to me considerably since that first hour yesterday. That warmness feels gone now, and I'm suddenly ice cold, and worried.
I don't know what I did.
He's rigid, having already hidden them away, both of his hands pressed to the table in a bracing way.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, hearing my own fear. It's clear to me again that this man is a stranger, and I'm not supposed to be his friend. I take another step back and another the longer my apology goes unanswered. "I-I really am—"
"My child...and wife died there, Josephine."