“…Broken sweethearts who sleep apart
Both still pine for the other’s side spine, spoon as sleep starts.
And pulse to pulse, now shush.
She makes the sound the sea makes to calm me down…”
– Alt-J
______________________
I peel off my dress and lay it carelessly over the back of the dressing table chair before sliding the corset down my legs and onto the floor, I want to kick the damn thing into the fire, but refrain thanks to its hefty price tag and my remembering that I will need to wear it again tomorrow, since I have no other clothes or other undergarments with which to rein in my handful of bosom, refusing to go without in daylight, but cursing silently as it dawns on me that I will have to ask for yet more assistance from the man who’s just rejected me to help get the damn thing back on.
I yank Owen’s t-shirt over my head, holding my breath as I do, so as not to take in any more of his scent than absolutely necessary, the overly close proximity of his clothing to my sensitized skin already disconcerting enough. I sit on the edge of the bed and aggressively pull down the short zippers of my shoes, kicking them off and letting them drop loudly onto the hardwood floors across the room before I crawl into the borrowed bed, frustrated and wanting to be touched again more than I care to admit.
I toss and turn, glancing repeatedly at the bedside clock. Each time I do, I breathe a low growl of frustration as it’s now well after three-thirty and I cannot find any comfort or sleep alone in this ornate room with the overly high ceilings. Were I in my room at the hostel, I’d just pull out a book and read the frustration out of me, but I do not have any of my creature comforts around and I refuse to admit how nice the bed in this room is or how incredibly soft the sheets are. Only that I’m absolutely certain that his bed is even more comfortable and has even softer sheets. And I grumble to myself about my stupidity in not just accepting whatever it was that he was planning to offer tonight and sure that I’ve blown it completely, between my utter silence at our introduction to my unbidden soul-bearing upon being deposited in his house.
I hear the wind pick up outside and the rain begin to fall, only adding to my spiraling mood. While the low howl of the breeze through the open flue of the fireplace makes me jump like a skittish cat and curl tighter into the couple hundred pillows that sit atop the mattress. I sigh and pull the covers up higher, trying to burrow as deep as possible into the bed but sleep fully eludes me.
By nearly five-thirty, I’ve finally had it and shove all the covers off my body, completely and totally frustrated with the entire situation. I briefly contemplate just going into Owen’s room unbidden and crawling in next to him to see if he throws me out. But I dismiss it just as quickly, certain that it would land me an instantaneous one-way ticket off the property.
I crawl out of the bed to pace across the room for several minutes before pulling a chenille blanket out of a chest that sits at the foot of the bed. Carrying it over to an oversized wingback chair that I drag across the hardwood floor to get it in closer proximity to the warmth of the fireplace and a better view out the large windows. I wrap myself up in the soft blanket, then curl up in the chair to stare out the dark window into nothingness until my eyes finally droop and I am pulled into the blackness like the trees outside.
“You didn’t like the bed?” I am startled awake by Owen’s voice and blink my eyes open to find him standing over me with a tray and a pot of, what I’m guessing is, tea, a proper teacup and all the extras. He sets the tray down on the small side table to the left of the chair and pours me a cup of the steaming liquid. I didn’t notice the second cup as he pours one for himself, adding milk then offering the milk jug to me, which I decline, before pulling the smaller dressing table chair around and next to the wingback. Once he’s satisfied with the chair’s location, he sets himself on the seat and begins watching me carefully until I finally reply.
“I couldn’t sleep.” I state quietly, unable to gauge his mood as I mentally shake the groggy remnants from my brain.
“Oh?” He asks. “How come?”
How come?! How about because I wanted you so badly last night that it was physically painful and all I wanted was for you to be a man and take me to your bed, damn it…but no!
And I’m quite certain that he’s once again read my mind but I don’t care. Though I am still too chicken to just say it out loud, so I opt for a blatant lie, instead;
“Probably just the new surroundings and the wind,” And why I am unable to fully express my feelings openly where he’s concerned, frustrates me even more but I can do nothing other than to take a tentative sip of the perfectly brewed tea unsure of the temperature. But it doesn’t burn my mouth and it manages to warm my belly too, in the process.
“I’m sorry.” He apologizes. For which part, I’m not sure as he sips at his own cup while I watch him in return. I nod and we sit together silently for several minutes as I watch the rain falling steadily against the bright green grass of his perfectly manicured lawn and the leafless trees sway in the steady breeze. And knowing what I do of this country so far, the combination of these two things is a warning that it will be positively freezing out today. I frown a little internally for the thought of having to go out in that weather today in my little dress and bare legs when he finally comes to his senses and sends me back to my side of town.
“Do you have to work today?” He asks, the most mundane thing in the world, breaking the silence that stretches to a nearly uncomfortable point between us. I shake my head.
“No,” I reply. “Not until Wednesday morning.”
“Good.” He smiles a little. “I can get your key situation sorted then and we can stay in where it’s warm.” I look at him, startled.
“You want me to stay?” I murmur. I figured he’d want me out as soon as possible after last night’s disaster.
“Of course,” he looks at me oddly. “Why would you think otherwise?”
Because. I mentally pout; I got all proper on you last night and you didn’t even try to kiss me.
He looks at me oddly and I know he definitely heard that one and I’m still not sure how to feel about the fact that my thoughts are so open and clear to him. Though it doesn’t seem to stop these unfiltered thoughts from manifesting in my brain. And this revelation that we seem to have some sort of direct connection of the brain to one another – will I never have another thought to myself?
We can remedy that right now, if you’d like.
I hear him respond in kind and my heart begins to race uncontrollably and I swear he can hear it pounding in my chest like a drum from three feet away and I close my eyes for a moment and tell myself to fuck all this stupid caution and stop clinging to these recently acquired morals that I’ve never put stock in before now – and why should I? This is the man I’ve been waiting to kiss for what feels like a hundred years and what the hell am I waiting for, anyway?
Finding the one fearless bone left in my body, I push the blanket off my legs and uncurl myself from the chair in order to take the longest three steps of my life. As I start to move, in what feels like slow motion, I thank the gods that there are no arms on this particular piece of furniture as I go for broke, straddling his legs and set myself down on his sturdy thighs. Owen watches me. I’m not certain if it’s in fear or fascination, as I search his eyes for some sort of signal that I’ve gone too far too soon. But he doesn’t make a single move, either to pull me into his wide chest or remove me from his lap. He just keeps watching me. Feeling bolder by the second, I reach up to cup his cheeks in my small hands before closing my eyes and pressing my lips to his.
And I’ve scared myself positively shitless in this one brave, uninvited act and quickly pray that he doesn’t reject me again outright. But in the instant I have the thought, I feel him wrap his arms around me in surrender, pulling me tight against his very warm, solid body as he begins to kiss me back. Any hesitation on my part quickly vanishes as Owen fully takes the lead and deepens the kiss until I thoroughly surrender and melt against him completely while his tongue teases mine and our breaths tangle to make something entirely new.
I sigh profoundly in relief as my fingers find his hair, tangling themselves in the soft curls before resting against his scalp while his hands press against my skin, covered with his shirt before one moves up to my neck to steady my mouth against his. He cradles my head gently as his lips leave mine to brush against my jawline and over my throat until he reaches the little dip at the base.
I moan his name quietly as he pulls away to look at me, the heat in his eyes almost too hot to handle as I contemplate just how big of a whore I’d be if I just let him impale me right here in this chair. His hands gently caress my back and my nipples harden and strain against his shirt as I rub against his hard chest and I drag my fingers through his mop of hair, marveling at its incredible softness. He growls a little too before pulling me back against him as his tongue teases my lips, making me giggle a little as he swoops in and intertwines his tongue with mine once more.
I have no idea how long we remain like this, testing and teasing one another, pushing against each others’ limits. My mouth seems to have fully yielded to his insistent, demanding lips and I am all too happy to let Owen kiss me completely into oblivion until we finally have to come up for air, our breathing ragged and broken. Unable to look away from each other, I don’t even blink for fear of breaking the moment.
Unfortunately, my stomach doesn’t agree as it rumbles, demanding to be fed. And I really try to keep my face from falling. Though Ben’s softening expression tells me that I was utterly unsuccessful in my pitiful attempt to appear infallible.
“I think we need some breakfast.” Owen announces in reaction to my grumbling tummy. “And, I have something for you.” He kisses my forehead gently and gingerly lifts me off his lap as I look at him like he’s lost the map.
“Wait.” I protest. “You don’t want to kiss me anymore?” I hold my breath, waiting for the answer.
Owen looks at me sweetly and smiles.
“I most definitely want to keep kissing you.”
I exhale in relief.
“But I also know, beautiful, that you did not eat properly yesterday. I mean to remedy that immediately.” My brain completely shuts down at the endearment and I barely hear the rest of his explanation. He shakes his head with a small smile and I think he’s happy at his ability to so easily render me speechless. And I just watch him make his way to the entrance to my borrowed room, where he picks up a bag, next to the open door, and delivers it to where I stand, frozen to the spot where he deposited me mere moments ago.
“I had Jane drop off some things for you. She said you’d liked this blue one. And I thought you’d like some clean underwear today.” He says quietly, handing me a bag from Jane’s Lingerie shop with several pairs of underwear with matching brassieres – including the midnight blue set I’d so admired only yesterday. And it’s enough lingerie to get me through the next week. There’s another chemisette to sleep in, a lovely lined silk robe and some plush slippers to keep my feet from completely freezing on his nearly ancient wooden floors.
“Everything should fit, since Jane had your sizes on record. If you want, we can go out later and get you some clothes or I can take you back to the hostel and we can see if they can at least get you into your room.”
But I don’t want to leave… I think to myself.
“Thank you.” I reply instead, in total awe of his consideration to my desire of clean underwear with a smile. And I refuse to let myself even begin to think of the expense of this gift, for if I do, I could never, ever accept it in spite of how pretty it all is.
“You should put on the slippers. I have radiant heated floors up here, but the ground floor hasn’t been done yet and the floors can get a bit cold.” He explains and tucks a stray hair behind my ear with a small smile.
“Thank you.” I say again and lean in to kiss his cheek gently. “It’s too much, but I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” He smiles and I’m finally treated to the full-on, panty-melting grin that makes my heart drop into my stomach. “You have an attached bathroom there,” He points to a closed door off to my left. “There’s a fresh toothbrush if you want to make use of it before breakfast.” I smile and can’t help it as my hand reflexively reaches up so I can run my thumb over his bottom lip. He closes his eyes for an extended blink and sighs quietly as I caress his skin lightly and the sexual tension rapidly builds to a fever pitch and it takes everything in my power not to push him on to the bed.
I retreat my hand and reach for the lingerie shop bag to bring it in the bathroom with me.
“I’ll be right back.” I smile a little and explain as I run into the bathroom, leaving him with a bemused expression on his face.
The rain has yet to let up but in spite of my not having anything other than my little dress, I make no requests to go out and brave the weather in search of additional clothing, preferring instead to curl up on the comfy sofa in Owen’s library-slash-TV room in my pretty new bra and panties, his t-shirt and my new heavy lined silk robe that is so ridiculously soft, I could wear it every day.
Owen sits and reads the newspaper as we share a post-breakfast pot of tea and the morning has drifted into early afternoon and while the television is on, I’ve no clue what on earth I’m supposedly watching while I’m really just gazing at my handsome host instead.
He finishes with the entertainment section of the Irish Independent, looking up, to catch me just openly staring at him and I’m so beyond caught that I don’t even bother to feign that I was really watching television instead. We don’t need to even say a thing to each other, as our thoughts communicate for us and upon invitation, I crawl to the other end of the sofa and into his arms, nuzzling into his warm body and as he smiles and kisses my forehead sweetly before he picks up the next section of the newspaper. Owen turns down the volume of the television and begins to read mundane articles about the Irish economy to me in his warm-as-honey voice and I close my eyes to the deep rumble it makes against my ear to his chest. Soon, my breathing deepens as his voice lulls me to sleep against him.
I dream of a private beach, with two tree-lined peninsulas jutting deep out into the water, secluding us from the rest of the world. The water stretches out in front of me, a deep cerulean blue that feels like bathwater on my skin and the sand under my feet like fine sugar, white and clean. Owen and I are lying on an extra wide cushioned chaise sun lounger, letting the sun lightly toast our skin as we kiss deeply and he deftly unfastens my bikini top. My hands rope in his hair as the top hits the sand and my bared skin molds into his while his hands caress my back from hip to hip and upwards to let his fingers tangle in my hair. The kisses drench my skin and as his lips move from place to place, I cannot help the deep moan that is freed from the pit of my belly.
I pull my hands around to caress his lovely face and notice two rings, seemingly intertwined on my left ring finger, as they sparkle in the bright sunlight, but my acknowledgement is only brief as I guide his lips back to mine and the rest of my bikini is discarded in the sand. I moan deeply again as my length is pressed tight against his and his lips move to my ear to whisper;
“Time to get up …I’ve made some dinner …”
What?! No. No. No. No. No.
I feel his fingers gently brushing through my hair as I’m fully dragged from my lovely dream of shagging Owen Mahr thoroughly on a warm private beach and I whimper slightly for being woken just before the really, really good part. Seems I’m thwarted even in my dreams. I blink open to find him once again hovering over me while I’ve been sleeping and I’m starting to worry that we’re developing a rather depressing pattern.
“It was a lovely dream.” He admits, still gently running his fingers through my hair and caressing my scalp in the process. “But it’s nearly seven.”
I look at him, startled. “I slept all afternoon?”
“Yes.” He smiles a little. “But you didn’t miss anything, really. It’s been raining all day – quite cold out, too.”
I groan. “I didn’t want to do that.” I admit.
“It’s alright,” Owen helps me sit up and I pull my bare feet off the sofa, pushing them into my new slippers. “Max’s housekeeper got into the guesthouse and brought your things over.” He informs me. Is that a touch of sadness I hear in his voice? I hope so, especially after this morning’s kisses.
“Oh.” I reply in kind, not sure what this latest development means for me. If it now means that I’ll be locating the closest bus to take me back to Avalon House, since I’ve no real excuse to remain here tonight. “That was very kind of them.” I don’t know what else to say in reaction. That I want him to tell me that it doesn’t matter, that he wants me to stay regardless?
That would be a good idea, for starters. Followed immediately by ‘I want you in my bed,’ that would work too.
You don’t want to go back to your hostel? I hear him ask.
Do you want me to go? I can’t breathe, still unsure of his response in spite of today.
“Breathe, Katherine.” He orders quietly, and his ability to switch from this unspoken, subconscious connection to verbal communication within the same conversation awes me. I do as I’m told and exhale, in spite of his still not answering my undeclared question and I look at him, uncertainty filling my eyes.
“Dinner’s getting cold.” He says instead and I look at him confused and nervous at his abrupt change in topic. He stands fully and holds out his hand, beckoning me to come with him into the kitchen.
The prep table is set with two place settings and there are low-watt Edison-bulb pendant lights hanging from the ceiling to augment the dim under-cabinet lighting that makes the room glow in warm light. Wine goblets filled with cool, fresh water as Owen sets me down at one of the place settings and goes back over to the stove.
“I hope pumpkin ravioli is alright?” He asks, looking over his shoulder as he dishes up two plates. “I need to go to the store soon…” I nod and take in the smells of the kitchen, warm bread crusting up in the oven and the dash of nutmeg in the crème sauce for the raviolis. I smell balsamic vinegar and fresh tomatoes on the already-dished salads that rest on the table in front of where I sit. And as he pulls the baguette from the oven and slices it before placing the sections into a small basket I realize that I am starving.
“You cooked all this?” I ask, marveled. Owen carries everything over and sets the plate of pasta in front of me with a smile as he pulls out the chair next to me and joins me at the table. “Jesus, Owen. It smells amazing.”
“Yes, well, I figured I’d better come up with something better than eggs-on-toast.” He teases. A self-deprecating dig at the delicious breakfast he presented to me this morning — which I elect to ignore. This man is far more capable and self-sufficient than even I knew. I smirk, taking a bite of salad, deciding to try teasing him a little. Which could either warm him up even more – or completely backfire on me – at this point, it’s a toss-up.
“You better be careful, Mahr, or I might never leave. You know exactly how to really spoil a girl. Food and lingerie…”
“Promise?” I hear him mutter under his breath as he takes a gulp of his water. I smile fully, my hopes returned, and dig fully into the meal.
Warm him up, it is.
We chat about mundane topics and I understand what he’s doing to me. He’s trying to put me at ease with him, in spite of the seventeen-year crush, this as yet unexplained mental connection, and my out-of-control ego that is so ridiculously up-and-down lately that I fear my inner monologue and I will start having full-on conversations soon.
But I have to admit that his little ploy seems to be working and I find, by the end of dinner, that my belly is tame and my nerves are subdued for the time being and that I’m actually able to parry and charge right back when he teases me a little over stories of my first few days in Dublin and how I got all turned about looking for the National Gallery but wound up at the GPO instead, completely on the other side of the river. And he seems to take it well when I tease him back about a photo I saw of him from the year previous sporting a ridiculously out-of-control goatee that made him look like a reject from a Tolstoy look-alike contest.
“You didn’t like that look?” He asks innocently as I help him clean up the mess he’s made in the kitchen. He’s rinsing as I load his dishwasher and I shake my head and roll my eyes dramatically.
“Owen!” I laugh. “You had the business-end of a squirrel on your chin. That is not a good look for anyone outside of eighteenth-century Russia!”
“Come on, It wasn’t that bad…” he pouts as he hands me the last pot to set in the lower rack. I snicker.
“I like this look much better,” I admit. “Even a few months ago when you just shaved it all off…you have a cute head.”
“Thanks,” he chuckles at my assessment and goes over to the refrigerator to pull out a bowl of raspberries, tossing a couple in his mouth before offering them to me. I accept and we stand in front of the open fridge giggling like naughty kids and devouring the fruit.
The rain has finally let up and as we go back to the room with the television, I wander to the windows. I look out to see the clouds beginning to break up and the stars shimmering behind them and the moon peeking through. It’s absolutely beautiful here in its serenity and I can see why this place would be a sanctuary to him.
Owen watches me for several minutes before tending the fire and beckoning me back to the comfy sofa. We watch some Irish sitcom, which is mildly funny as a cultural outsider, but the day growing ever later with every passing second is at the back of my brain and I worry that my time here is rapidly coming to an end. I curl into him tighter, selfishly not wanting to let him go and gently play with the buttons of his shirt as he giggles at the television.
The show finally ends and I make to get up, keeping control of the impending end before he can throw me out when he stops me.
“Where are you going?” He asks, his brow furrowing in confusion.
“It’s getting late. I probably shouldn’t get locked out again.” I reply quietly.
“But,” Owen asks, clearly perplexed now. “You don’t want to stay?” I look at him, stunned.
“It’s not really about what I want, Owen. It’s your house, and like I said last night, I don’t want to impose on you or your hospitality.”
He looks at me, unsure of what to say.
“Do you want me to stay?” I ask, hopeful.
“Please…” Owen murmurs and pulls me back toward him and onto his lap.
“Are you sure?” I ask, giving him yet another out. He looks at me like I’ve gone a bit bonkers. Preferring to kiss me quiet instead.
Needless to say, I voice no further objections. And I’m convinced this sweet torture is finally about to end.
Thank the heavens!
Owen finally releases me as the news begins and I breathe an audible sigh of relief that I won’t have to brave the Dublin bus after dark after all.
“Well,” I begin. “Since I’ve been invited to stay and if it’s alright with you, I think now I will really impose upon your hospitality and borrow your shower. Especially since I’m quite sure you’ve got hot water here.”
Owen looks at me as if I’ve gone off the cliff before the wheels in his brain fully click into place. “Of course,” He smiles. “The shower in your room is fully stocked.”
“Thank you,” I reply smiling, getting up off the sofa to head upstairs. “It’ll be nice to have a real shower for a change.” Owen opens his mouth, closes it abruptly then demands clarification. His look grows darker and it scares me a little as I explain the nature of the accommodations of my hostel. He puts a hand up to stop me from further revelations as I begin to ramble about some of the other guests who could best be described as “punks” at first glance though are actually some of the nicest guys I’ve ever met.
“Wait. You’re staying at a place which locks its guests out at some arbitrary time and has no hot water for showers? What kind of place is this, anyway?”
“A cheap one, Owen,” I reply calmly.
“I’ll say. Why the hell aren’t you staying at the Shelbourne or the Merrion?” He asks sourly. “Those are much nicer and treat their guests’ like humans – as opposed to something else…” I look at him and try desperately not to roll my eyes. Clearly, it’s been far too long since he’s had to worry about being on a tight travel budget.
“Because,” I say a little exasperated. “I don’t have that kind of money at my disposal and since I’m not sure how long it will take me to find an apartment here, I need something that’s cheap in case I need to stay there for awhile.”
“How much are you spending a night?” He asks, clearly trying to get a real handle on my current living situation.
“About twenty dollars, American,” I reply, ready to end this particular conversation.
“How long are you booked in there?”
“For another three weeks. I’ve been there about three weeks already.” I explain.
“I see,” Owen replies and I can see the gears start to turn fully again in his brain, plotting something. But he says nothing further about my current living arrangements. “Perhaps after you’re done, I can show you the rest of the house.” He says absently, changing the subject, as I nod and reach down to squeeze his hand, reassuringly. The hostel isn’t that bad, all things considered and while I secretly love that he’s so concerned for my comfort, his perspective of this situation is more than a little out-of-whack. Not wanting to argue about it though, I just smile and reply;
“I’d like that…”
He smiles a little, though I can tell that his brain is fully preoccupied with whatever hair-brained scheme he’s hatching in that incredibly gorgeous head of his.
“Have a nice shower,” He says instead as I release his hand after giving it another squeeze and I make my way back up to the guest room and the inviting shower within.
As I retreat up the back stairs to the guest room, Owen picks up the phone and dials information, getting the number to my hostel to check up and see exactly what my living conditions are there.
‘What was that all about?’ I ask myself as I undress and turn the faucet on, letting the room start to steam up fully before stepping in under the cascading heat. My body shivers for a moment as I get used to the hot water on my skin versus the still heating room. I wrap my arms around my body and let the warmth fully envelop me. And as I work the expensive, sweet-smelling shampoo through my hair, I cannot find the answer I’m looking for. So I close my eyes and breathe deeply and feel a bit of a whoosh rocket through my body then hear him loud and clear – as if he were standing right next to me;
‘That was all about the fact that I don’t like you staying in a place like that. You should be somewhere that’s more on your level.’
‘What?’ I shake my head as I begin to rinse the bubbles from my hair. ‘On my ‘level’? What makes you think that where I’m at right now isn’t on my ‘level’?’
‘You’re here. So my point is proven. You should be in places like this, beautiful and comfortable. Not some tiny little room with a hard bed, no phone, or hot water for your fucking shower. How am I supposed to check up on you, make sure you’re alright if I can’t even call your room?!’
‘You can leave me a message at the front desk like everyone else does.’ I say reasonably as I begin to run a fresh razor over my legs…a thought comes unbidden into my head;
‘And what the hell are you doing with all these girly toiletries in your guest bathroom, Owen? Just how many girls have you invited to this house, anyway?!’
‘You’re changing the subject’. I hear his exasperation as I run my hands over my now-smooth legs up over my body pausing for a moment at the pronounced pooch that is my abdomen. At least the exercising I’ve been doing has hardened the muscle, but it seems that no matter what I do, I’m destined to retain this hereditary trait. I sigh in exasperation and go about running some conditioner through my hair.
‘Damn straight, I am. Ladies’ bedchamber, my ass…’
‘I generally don’t invite women back here, other than my cousin or mother.’ He grumbles. ‘I usually take them to a hotel.’
That gets my attention.
‘Why not’? I ask, not sure if I really want to hear the answer.
‘Because, this place is my refuge and I don’t want just some random girl here rummaging through my things.’ He says quietly and I can feel his shyness at this confession.
‘So why not take me to a hotel then? I’m just some random girl too, you know.’
‘No, you’re not and you know it.’
My breath catches and I close my eyes again as I try to push the thought from my head, but it refuses to leave as I rinse myself and turn off the water, satisfied that I’m clean. I pull a towel for my head, wrapping my hair up to keep the excess water from trickling down my back as I grab a second towel and begin to dry my body. I close my eyes for a moment as I recall his hands on my skin and I know I definitely want more of that. And soon, thank you very much. I finish drying myself before running a toothbrush over my teeth for the second time today then reaching into the overnight bag I packed for Jasmine’s and pull out some moisturizer for my face as another unwanted thought comes into my head;
‘Don’t you think this is all moving a bit fast here? You’ve only known him for twenty-four hours, you know. And here you are, plotting on how to get him to take you to his bed.’
I look at myself carefully in the mirror as the flutters deep in my belly make a roaring comeback and I feel a little nauseous. The face that stares back at me seems alien to me and belonging to someone I don’t know. And my unwelcome subconscious chastising me for even contemplating acting on my desires has me worried that I’m losing touch with myself.
‘Since when has that been an issue for you?’ I snap in return to my newly-formed hyper judgmental side. ‘You’ve never tried to stop me before when I’ve gone off with men after far less conversation and far more alcohol. Where were you then, huh?’
My inner voice has no response to this. Of course not, since she knows I’m right.
I put on the chemisette, complete with a built-in bra, I picked up with Jasmine, preferring its deep jewel blue tonight, over the pretty lavender one that Jane sent over this morning with the bag of goodies. I run my brush through my hair then my fingers to break up the slicked-back look from its still being wet before I put the robe and slippers back on and head back down to the library to join my host. When I arrive he’s on the phone, going over a list of instructions of some sort. He’s lost in his conversation and doesn’t hear me arrive in the room, so I just sit quietly on the front of a ridiculously oversized red velvet chair that reminds me of something out of Alice in Wonderland’s tea party.
The chair’s proportions make it look like some sort of movie prop – with its very high back, an extra-wide seat and a depth of cushion that would make anyone who sits in it fully, feel like a little kid. But the velvet is extra soft and the cushion overfull and supremely comfortable. I run my hand over the side arm and render the change in color as my hand pushes the direction of the short pile of the velvet fabric from light to dark and back again.
Owen completes his call and turns to find me drawing childlike pictures on his furniture with the tip of my index finger. He smiles slightly and takes a deep breath before coming over to where I sit, crouching next to me in the chair.
“I hope you won’t be mad at me…” He begins. I look up at him quizzically, unsure of just what he’s on about. “I just solved your cold water hostel problem.”
“I’m sorry?” I ask, utterly confused. Owen smiles fully and lights a cigarette. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smoke, though I know that he has been, given the state of the ashtray on the coffee table.
“I’ve checked you out of that place. You can stay here. Until you find a place, that is.” He explains, clearly proud of his seeming Good Samaritan deed for the day.
“You did what?” I ask, incredulous. Since when does he get to dictate where I stay? He didn’t bother to ask me what I wanted and just railroaded his own desires into my life. And in spite of the fact that I absolutely desire this man, I cannot overlook what he’s done.
“I checked you out of the hostel. It’s no place for you.” He replies and takes a deep drag. And I’m lost for a moment, pulled in by the sheer sexiness of watching him inhale a cigarette. My traitorous insides clench deliciously and I have to shake myself mentally and remember that I’m actually pissed at him about this latest action of rockstar imperiousness before I finally reply;
“Owen. Why on earth would you do that?”
“Because,” he looks at me like I should be able to just be able to understand his logic with no further explanation or time for a learning curve. I look at him expectantly until he sighs; “Shall I list the reasons?”
“Please…” I look at him like he’s crazy. “We’ve known each other for like five minutes and you’ve just decided that I should move in with you?”
“No,” he clarifies. “Not move in with me, but you need a place to stay cheap and well, my place is cheaper than some poor excuse of a hotel with no hot water, no phones in the rooms and a curfew. You’re an adult, yes? You need a curfew?”
“Well, no,” I admit, giving him that point. “But still, you should have asked, before you just up and moved me out of there.” Why wouldn’t Owen understand that high-handedness aside, now I’m going to feel beholden to him?
Because he’s Owen Mahr, rockstar personified. That’s why. He lives in a freaking palace and spends his life in five-star hotels…
“Look.” He says and I can tell by the change in tone that this will be the final comment on the matter. “I have to go to London Wednesday to film this video thing, you’ll have the house to yourself for a few days and well, I’d like to be able to call you and I can’t do that if you’re staying at the hostel.”
Wait. What?
“You mean to tell me that you checked me out of my hotel and deposited me in your house, without asking me, mind, so you can call and check up on me while you’re in London?”
“Well, that’s not entirely correct…” he admits sheepishly.
“That is,” I begin, exasperated. “The most fucked up thing I’ve ever heard.”
“How so?” He asks innocently. That he has no clue that it is, in fact, fucked up, shows just how in his own world he really is.
“Well, for starters; how am I supposed to get to and from work from out in the middle of freaking nowhere?” I ask, the exasperation level rising rapidly.
“I’m not really in the ‘middle of freaking nowhere’, you know and I have a car you can use.” He says simply. I shake my head.
“No. Absolutely no fucking way. You do not want me driving over here.” I shut that down immediately.
“Why not?” Owen asks and looks at me oddly. “You do know how to drive, yes?”
“Owen.” I sigh. “I haven’t driven in ages. Not since I moved to New York. Having me off the streets in that capacity is what’s best for everyone, I assure you.”
“I see.” He furrows his brow again and racks his brain for an alternative solution. “Well, I’ve seen a bus stop across the street, if you’re really totally against driving.”
I start rubbing my temples, trying to push out the headache, which seems to have instantly consumed my head.
“And it’s only for a few weeks. IMMA is closed for the Christmas and New Years’ holidays. So you’ve only a couple of weeks to worry about as far as getting to work goes,” He points out. “My driver is the housekeeper’s husband. He’ll be able to get you wherever you need to be once they get back from their holidays.”
“Owen.” I look at him, frustrated. “You can’t just snap your fingers and assume that everyone is going to be available on your schedule and jump at your command.”
“Of course I can.” Owen states plainly. “It’s what I pay him for.”
Oh. My. God. Is this guy for real?
“I’ve borrowed Max’s housekeeper to go over and collect your things from the hostel and tomorrow I’ll get you keys and the security codes and you’ll be all settled.” Owen says like there’s no more cause for argument and I’d have no other logical objections to the matter.
“But what if I don’t want to stay with you indefinitely?” I reply reasonably.
Owen looks up at me, and I can tell I’ve just hurt his ego terribly.
“I thought you wanted to stay?” He asks quietly.
“Well, tonight, maybe…” I admit. “But this is quite a bit more permanent.”
‘Oh, admit it, you want to stay here more than indefinitely. Especially if you’re sleeping in his bed and you know it.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘What is the point, then’?
‘The point is that I wasn’t asked what I’d like to do. It was just decided for me with no consultation, whatsoever.’
‘But you’re getting what you want. You get to stay here, in this beautiful house with this beautiful man who likes to cook for you!’
I sigh, annoyed with both Owen and my subconscious who, of course, has a point. One I’d prefer not to admit, but a point nonetheless.
“It’s not really permanent…” Owen points out, trying to make his case. “And I was able to get you three weeks’ refund on your credit card and that helps, right?” He looks at me hopeful that he’s perhaps done something right.
“You got me a three-week refund?” I quickly do the math in my head. Four hundred twenty dollars – that’s my books fees for my first semester of classes and then some.
“Yes,” Owen pouts a little.
“Oh,” now I feel like a total harpy and have to concede. “Thank you, then.”
“I’ll help you figure out the transportation issue, okay?”
I nod, acquiescing. I’ve been totally run over by this freight train in the form of a refined Irishman and I know I’ve lost this particular battle.
‘Are you sure about that? Seems like you’ve actually won this round, you know.’
‘Who asked you, anyway?’
‘Now if only he’d get all imperious on the sleeping arrangements and tell you that you’re sleeping in his room!’
‘Oh, for the love of god, shut up already.’