Between Heaven and Rock (The Swallow Barn Cottage Series, Book 3)

Stumblin' In

For the next few hours Ulla struggled with the tribulation that was his novel. And yes, she picked up the word from his text. He presumably was editing in the lounge - or maybe just hiding from her because he'd freaked out because they'd almost kissed.

And she did know that it sounded preposterous, but no matter how much she tried, she just couldn't come up with any other explanation. He had, hadn't he? Because he'd been leaning, and she'd given him that 'come here' kind of a look, and she had been absolutely sure he'd gotten it, because there had been that little smirk - and then boom! - he'd shut closed like a frightened oyster!

What in the name of sanity?!

More so, why had it affected her so much? She'd been shut down before, and had done lashing of shutting down herself. To think of it, she didn't even feel rejected per se, just sort of... confused. And disappointed. So very disappointed. The man was just so delish! It was confusing, right? Because it was just a kiss! It would've been just a kiss, to be precise. He wasn't a blushing virginal heroine in a bodice-ripper who'd have to marry the man after locking her lips with him once! Oh wait... Nah, no way. And yet...

Ulla decided that dealing with the Martin Sue character created by Oliver Holyoake was easier than dealing with the real Oliver Holyoake, started yet another pot of coffee, and read on.

***

"Should we have lunch?" she said entering the lounge - and then she dug her heels into Fiona and Will Holyoake's lovely parquet.

He was asleep. His long legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles, he was leaning back in the swivel chair, his hands on his chest, his large left hand folded on the cast. God, how can he be so... beautiful?

Ulla took a small silent step back - and then his eyes opened slowly. It's that mental ESP of his, or whatever he's using to always detect her presence.

"Hi," she said in a small voice.

"Hi," he answered, smiled, and stretched, arching his back.

And now his almost ethereal beauty was a tad overshadowed by the very much corporeal shag appeal. All Æsir and Vanir help her. His tee hiked up, baring his flat muscular stomach. And that strip of black hair, going down into his bottoms. Ulla swallowed a knot in her throat.

"Lunch," she rasped out, twirled on one spot, and marched back to the kitchen.

She pulled out a container with a neat label 'Prawn Rice' on it and stuck it in the microwave.

"How was your work?" he asked, coming in.

Clearly, more productive than yours, Ulla thought - but surprisingly, didn't say. Hm, maybe you're growing as a person, Ulla. Actually, it had nothing to do with her suddenly giving up her sarcastic ways. It just felt unnecessarily mean. Like kicking a Dalmatian puppy. He'd laugh and, possibly, say he hadn't gotten enough sleep the previous night - and then she might even feel guilty, because she'd usurped half of his bed.

"I've made some progress," she mumbled.

"I haven't," he said with a chuckle and came up to the fridge. "The cast is keeping me up at night. It's coming off in two days, and the arm's itchy. It's driving me bonkers," he said and took out a container for himself.

"Do you have a knitting needle?" she asked, and he threw her a surprised look. "I've broken my arm three times," she explained. "You just need a knitting needle, and you stick it in and wiggle."

"Fiona actually might," he said, beaming. "She knits."

He pointed at Ulla's feet.

"Ah, that makes sense," Ulla said, and then gawked at him. "Am I wearing Will Holyoake's socks?!"