CHAPTER ONE
Alice
With the warmth of the fire keeping her last shreds of hope from falling away, she clutches her legs close to her chest. The fire’s been going for hours now, but they’ll run out of dry wood from the few trees here eventually. Right now, it’s night. The likelihood of someone seeing the smoke drops the darker it gets.
Soft footsteps on the sand behind her catch Ari’s attention, but she doesn’t turn. “Don’t let yourself lose hope,” he says, voice low.
Ari can still feel the crash in her bones: the shaking of the craft, the way her seatbelt dug into her flesh, the jarring, screaming mess when everything exploded. Then water. Cool salt water, stinging in her new injuries. It’s been days since then, with very little water left from the water bottles Damien had with him. Her injuries are bandaged up with ripped clothing fabric.
“How can I hope now?” She murmurs, shaking a little. “What if we don’t get home?”
Damien kneels down and wraps his arms around her from behind, making her jolt. It’s weirdly intimate, but Ari finds that it doesn’t feel out of line. Not after everything that’s happened. She leans into him. Damien presses a tender kiss to the nape of her neck. “We will.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve got a feeling about it.” His voice is gruff, rough in all the best ways. His torso is broad enough so Ari can just melt into him, into his heat, into his everything.
Turning around, she stares into his eyes. Damien brings his hand to her face, gripping her jaw in one hand like he owns it. With him touching her, Ari finds that she can’t manage to get a full breath. Air evades her in the best way. Damien just squeezes harder, pulling her close. “Do you believe me?”
“Yes,” Ari breathes, his mouth so close she can feel his breath. “I believe you.”
“You had better, sweetheart,” he growls into her lips before tugging her into a kiss.
Their mouths crash together, each hungrily grasping for the other. Damien reaches to Ari’s shirt, popping the buttons open and taking one of her breasts in his hand. She lets him push her down to the sand, straddling her body. Ari has never felt so small in comparison to something—or someone. She can smell his sweat. His lips are fire on her own, dragging her into bliss.
When he pulls away, she moans into his lips as he grinds his hand in between her legs. “I want you,” she chokes out. All of her body is screaming for him, aching with desperation, begging for—
Oh, my God, this will never work.
Alice pushes away from the keyboard, saving the file before thumping her head facedown on the desk. She makes a soft groaning sound into the wood, breathing in and out for a few minutes before raising her head. One look at the document makes her discomfort return, however.
This just isn’t what she wants. Why? Why doesn’t she like it? It’s probably sufficiently hot, though her editor’s been concerned her language is no longer up to date with what people want in their romance fiction. In any case, she’s not that out of date. Alice is young; she’s a new writer, she’s popular, she’s widely-read. This is the exact type of story people should be eating up, so why does she hate it?
Writer’s block again, probably. If Craig were here, he’d tell her to take a walk in town for inspiration. That doesn’t work for two reasons: Craig isn’t here, and there’s no chance Alice will risk going to town, at least not alone. Not today—today is a high-anxiety day. Her neighbor, Harrison, has rekindled his romance with his ex-wife, so he’s not available as much. Alice already bothers her other neighbor, Clara, enough.
Bedraggled and with eyes still tinged by the pull of sleep, she stands up. Carefully, she puts her computer into sleep mode and grabs her empty coffee cup.
Outside of her office, the house feels empty. It's huge, much too large for someone like her. When she moved out here, she wanted solitude, and it was the only house far enough away from everywhere else to only necessitate social interaction if she decided she wanted it. She’s not always too anxious to be around other people. A lot of the time she just can’t be bothered. What can she say? She’s an introvert.
Resting her hand on the wooden frame, Alice sighs softly. It smells like dust in here. The floors need to be swept, too. They feel grimy underfoot. Biting her lip, she wanders to the railing and slowly descends down the long, modern stairs to the bottom floor. The wide glass windows on the side of the sea cast half-orange light inside.
Wandering to the kitchen, she immediately cringes and bites her lip. There are tons of dishes in the sink that need to be washed. They're all mostly rinsed off, but the pile is bigger than she remembered. Ugh. She's been so distracted by work that she let cleaning fall to the wayside.
Slogging up the steps to her bathroom, Alice goes about her routine to wake herself up. Brushing teeth helps people wake up, right? Her mom used to always tell her that if you ever feel tired in the middle of the day, you should brush your teeth. She does that. It doesn't help all that much.
Staring in the mirror, Alice pulls at her eye bags. They could be worse, but her skin is so pale that the tiny dark circles seem dramatic to her. Her hair is a whole other matter. The messy, curly, blond hair won't stay in place no matter what she tries. Ineffectively, she runs her fingers through it. It's long now, past her bust.
The beeping of the coffee maker brings her back to reality, and she trips downstairs again before returning to her study with coffee. With some work and time, she manages to pound out another five pages. It's not great, and she knows she'll have to go back and edit it, but it's better to write something than to stare at an open document for hours ineffectively.
Clara comes over sometimes, but Alice tries to avoid that—mostly because Clara keeps her place immaculately clean and Alice most certainly does not do the same. She doesn't have an excuse. Clara is in a wheelchair all the time, whereas Alice is completely able-bodied. If her place is a mess, it's her own fault.
By now, the light is purple and Alice is feeling depressed just because of her wonky sleep schedule. She puts her nose to the grindstone, pounding out as much word count as she possibly can of the western before her wrists start to hurt. It starts to slowly get dark, and by the time Alice finally takes a break, it's night.
There's a light on in Clara's house. If the angle were right, she might be able to see her friend reading in her living room or something. Maybe it's creepy to look.
Alice shivers, rubbing her neck with her hand. She's lonely. It doesn't take a lot to admit that the lack of company doesn't always feel like a blessing.
Alice doesn’t find it hard to admit that social settings have scared her for as long as she can remember. Anxiety has left her somewhat housebound for most of her life. Here, at least, she can go for walks on the beach alone and get air without much of a threat of running into anyone. Port Murmure is a small town, the type inhabited mostly by fishing families that have lived here for generations and those who want to get away from society to some peace and quiet. Alice visited here when she was young and she used to have relatives here, distant ones, but not anymore. By the time she decided to move here with Craig, all of them had long since passed away.
She flips on a light and trudges upstairs, dropping off the laptop in her office before meandering to the bathroom. Opening the cabinet, she downs some of her anti-anxiety medication and an Advil with water. While fumbling with the bottles, though, she runs her fingers over the ring. Don't, begs part of her brain, but she ignores that part and pulls the metal out of the cabinet.
Alice turns the silver over and over in her fingers, running her thumb across the filigree and the diamond inlaid into the center. An ugly, painful sadness washes over her, making her lip wobble a little.
"Aw, shit," she murmurs, sinking into the familiar loneliness.
In an ill-advised moment, she slips it onto her ring finger and holds her hand up to the light. It needs to be cleaned. It's not shining like it used to. Alice considers cleaning it up, making it glitter like she remembers, but puts the idea away.
It's no use to ask herself if she misses him. Of course she misses him. It's been eight months, and the wound still feels fresh. At this point, she’d probably jump on any romantic opportunity presented to her—that is, if romance didn’t involve going out in public, around groups of people, to talk to men.
Being sad about it won't change it. The more she dwells on this, the more likely she'll be to send Craig a pathetic email. That'd be more embarrassing than she's equipped to handle. Gritting her teeth, she slips the ring back off and shoves it to the back of the cupboard before leaving the bathroom and returning to her office.
It's filthy in here, as well. Two or three cup ramen containers are on her desk, as well as at least four mugs and two bottles of water. That, and her recycling bin is overflowing.
An idea crosses Alice's mind. Sitting down at her desk, she turns to her search engine for help and looks up house cleaning services. There are agencies, right? People who travel? At least one of the housemaids in an agency has to live in Port Murmure or close by. She drafts an email.
Hello there,
My name is Alice Lenore, and I live on the coast of Nova Scotia in Port Murmure. I'm an author, and I live alone. I am looking for someone to help me with house upkeep and cooking, as my work often gets in the way and the house is too big for me to clean in the time that I have.
I have two guest rooms, and you're welcome to choose whichever one you like best to stay in. My budget is large, so I'm willing to pay whatever the rate for whoever the agency thinks is the best choice. I will pay for any groceries or cleaning supplies needed.
Finally, I do like my space. I need someone who is quiet and who won't disturb my work or be bothered if I am distant or dodgy. I am a bit of an anxious person, and social contact is hard for me. That's just what I'm like, and I need a house cleaner who accepts that.