Look Back at Me (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 1)

Ghibli and Chill

He drove them to his cottage silently, and she waited for him to come out and open the door for her. He gave her a surprised look, because she'd often gotten out before he'd gotten a chance to be his old-fashioned chivalrous self - although he'd try every time. That was just one of the things that the Holyoakes did - and tonight she enjoyed it.

When they entered the cottage, she froze with her hands on the buttons of her coat.

"Oh dear." She looked around in disbelief. "What happened here?"

He took off his jacket and hung it in the closet.

"Mrs. Little," he answered grudgingly.

"You hired a cleaning lady," she drew out. "When?"

"While we were at the Dance," he said. "I sort of thought–" He didn't continue.

"You thought we'd come here after the Dance," Viola guessed.

She handed him her coat, took off her boots, and walked in.

"I hoped we would," he said. "Would you like anything?"

"Some red wine if you have any," she said.

He gave her another surprised look but went to the kitchen. Viola visited his bathroom and returned to find him in the half-lit kitchen, pouring their wine. She climbed on a tall stool near the island and folded her hands on the counter of attractive dark grey soapstone. The surface was pleasantly uneven. Rhys put a glass in front of her and took a sip from his. She could feel his attentive gaze on her, and she sniffed the excellent Malbec.

"So, Vi–" It was hard to imagine that the word 'adorable' could be applied to Rhys Holyoake, but she couldn't find a better description for his uncertain, tentative tone. "How do you want to play it? I have an extra bedroom, but there's just a li-lo there. And there's sofa of course, and it's big enough, but–"

He stopped muttering, and sort of shrunk under the amused look she gave him over her glass. She drank some wine, licked her lips, and lowered her drink.

"So, you're giving up your bed for me then," she said as if pensively, and his eyebrows jumped up.

She knew he wanted to ask - but he didn't, and simply nodded.

"Of course," he said.

"Just like that?" she asked and chuckled. "Aren't you going to ask why I suddenly invaded your home?"

"I'm not questioning my luck," he said, and she laughed.

"But you don't understand," she pointed out. "You see, you've said it before. You don't understand my thought processes. And isn't it why we had this ridiculous row at the Dance?" She gently swirled the wine in her glass. "Because you didn't understand why I'd left without saying anything, and I didn't even try to explain because I got angry, because I too thought I knew what you thought and felt."

He frowned and nodded, taking a large gulp of wine.

"I think the problem is that we operate on our old assumptions about each other," she said. "And we don't talk things through."

He shrugged. "So, what do we do then?" he asked quietly.

"We ask questions," she said, and he threw her a quick sharp look.

"Why did you leave without saying anything?" he asked without as much as a two second pause. "And why did you–" He jerked his neck awkwardly.

"Yes?" she encouraged, lifting her glass slightly.

"Why didn't you let me do anything?" It was entertaining to watch him stumble through his questions about sex. Is that blush on his cheekbones? "You just– You were everywhere, I couldn't even move– I didn't have a second to think, to reciprocate - and then I just conked out."