When I get to the loft, I love how Cairstina looks around me and claps her hands in delight at the bedroom. I look around, as if seeing the place with new eyes. I have to admit, I fairly like it myself.
It’s like the rest of my home here: rustic, but well-appointed. A four-poster bed with sturdy posts, a thick, soft ivory carpet beneath our feet, a wooden table I made myself beside the bed, with a lamp and books.
“I need to get ready for bed myself,” I tell her. “Do you need anything?”
She shakes her head, yawns widely, and climbs into the large bed. I lift the blanket up over her shoulder as she reaches to get her book from the bedside table and smiles at me.
When she sees me looking at her, she looks away, turning to the book as if to shield herself from me. Does she regret what we just did?
I never had sex like that before. There’s a simple innocence about her that makes everything feel more wholesome. I hardly know the woman, but that felt more like making love that having sex. I know, then, with a certainty I feel in my core… I won’t let this one go. Not now. Not fucking ever.
Tomorrow when we go into town, I will find her brother.
And I will make him hurt.
He’s fucking earned it.
When I come to bed a few minutes later, she’s softly snoring, the book wide open beside her. I gently lift it, trying not to wake her, and place it on the bedside table.
I glance at the cover and shake my head. He’s a sturdy, good-looking lad, but who walks in the snowy woods with no fucking shirt on?
“fuckin’ eejit,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. If she wants to read a book about a wanker, she can have at it.
I lie beside her, feeling sudden weariness in my bones. She nestles up to my chest, and I place my arm over her. I tug her closer to me, enjoying how sweetly she fits right here in my arms.
I could get used to this. Damn, could I. A soft place to land after a hard day’s work. For the first time in my life, I see the appeal of a committed relationship.
I’ve met women who were intimidated by me and some that were enamored. I’ve met women that wanted to use me, and some who could never get over who I was and what I did, so I’ve never pursued a real romantic relationship. And I wonder if I’m kidding myself if I say that this is any different.
It isn’t just the two of us that’s different, though… but her. She’s somehow strong, yet vulnerable. Intelligent, but innocent. And I’m eager to know so much more about her.
I finally fall into a deep and dreamless sleep, content with her by my side.
When I wake the next day, she’s still deep in the throes of slumber. I typically wake early, when the sun rises, for there’s nothing more beautiful than watching the sun rise from my front porch.
It’s the quietest time of day, and I’ve always felt that hope came in the morning. After Tavish died, I lost that hope for a time. I’m fighting to get it back.
I toss on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, careful not to wake her, and go down to the kitchen to put on the kettle. Snow falls heavily from the sky in tiny flakes. We’ve an expression around here. Little flake, big snow. Big flake, little snow. Tiny flakes accumulate the most.
I frown at the white vision out my window. I hope this doesn’t impact our ability to travel to Inverness today. Instead of sitting on the porch, I sit at the rocker beside the window, sipping the bracing cup of strong black tea and watching the snow fall in little flakes outside my window.
I’m on my second cup when I hear a rustling sound in the loft. A few minutes later, Cairstina peeks down, all tousled-haired and cute. When she sees me, she waves, then immediately blushes, as if she’s realized she’s not acted the way she should.
“Good morning, lass. You had a wee bit of rest, eh?”
She nods, as if to wish me a good morning back. She’s wearing one of my t-shirts that’s so big on her it nearly hits her knees, as she turns around and comes down the ladder from the loft.
“Cup of tea? Kettle’s in the kitchen.” She nods, and goes to the kitchen to fetch it.
A moment later, I hear a crashing sound. I put my cup down and run to the kitchen to see if she’s alright. She’s standing over the sink, a dishtowel over her hand, a pained expression on her face. Red seeps through the towel.
“Bloody hell, what happened?”