Away With the Fairies (The Swallow Barn Cottage Series, Book 2)

Not Too Sharp

The kitchen was gorgeous with its washed wood cabinets and table, pastel colours, such as mint green tiles on the wall - and every possible appliance Fiona could imagine! She tentatively opened a couple of cabinets and bit into her bottom lip in unease. She knew the purpose of no more than a half of the gizmos and utensils. She then opened the door of the massive fridge and looked inside. It was fully stocked, from several kinds of fresh meat to fruit and even beer. She had assumed after her conversation with John Holyoake that she would be expected to buy her own groceries, or find a pub or a café in the village. And then she thought that perhaps she wasn't the one whom the food had been bought for. She carefully moved the boxes and containers in the fridge to make sure she didn't miss anything. There seemed to be no leftovers.

She quickly made the batter, which would need about half an hour before it could be cooked. She washed and dried her hands, and went to the lounge. He was sitting on the sofa, his right leg outstretched in front of him, his head dropped back, his eyes closed. There were large headphones on his head, a cable leading to a vintage record player. Fiona stopped indecisively, and then his eyes flew open, and he lifted his head. He watched her for a few seconds without moving, and then he pulled the headphones off. She could hear some heavy beat and shouting in them.

"Do you drink beer?" Fiona asked, and his left eyebrow rose. "I was making batter, and I have some left." She lifted a bottle she held in her hand. "It's still cold."

Something changed in his eyes, and he silently stretched his hand to her. She stepped forward and placed the lager in his fingers.

"None for yourself?" he asked and took a sip.

She watched his throat move. He had a strong neck, and he puckered his lips when he swallowed. Fiona shook her head.

"I can't," she said.

"Intolerant," he said - once again, not a question, just a statement - and she laughed quietly.

"No, but– I really shouldn't."

He studied her and took another sip.

"Is this the Clash?" she asked, pointing at the headphones.

"Not the foggiest. It's Clem's music."

"Oh," Fiona said and tilted her head, listening attentively. "It is the Clash."

"Why ask, if you know?" he asked.

She stared at him. He's right though. You knew it was the Clash. You just didn't want to seem a know-it-all.

"I'll go take my suitcase upstairs," she muttered.

He nodded and pulled the headphones back onto his ears. Fiona suddenly laughed. You expected him to offer to help you, didn't you, Fiona? Because Nate would've. She shook her head. Nate wasn't here.

Dragging the suitcase up the stairs was hard, and she huffed and puffed, and muttered under her breath. On the top landing she let go of the handle and leaned her back against the wall. She looked down the stairs - and suddenly felt a surge of pride for herself. She was on her own, in an unfamiliar place, working on an art commission! And she'd just dragged a suitcase that probably weighed half her weight up a very steep set of stairs. Go, Fiona, go!

And then immediately she remembered Nate's words. 'Oh, I'm sure you'll be alright... for a day and two. And then you'll see what real life's like. And I'll be here, waiting for you, when you run back to hide and lick your wounds.'

You are on your own, Fiona. In an unfamiliar place. Somehow expected to produce an art commission, which you've never done before.

Panic rose, and she swallowed bitter acidic taste in her mouth. Everything shook inside, and her breath was coming out in uneven pants. Next, her ears started to ring. Oh no, not again! She pressed her hand over her mouth.