CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fuck me fuck me fuck me…
Just a few hours after work, I’m on my knees, my face buried in the pillow and my hand working between my spread legs. I’ve given up all pretense of decency or inhibition.
My moans echo against the old walls, and I rock my hips frantically back and forth to increase the friction on my clit. As usual, I come blissfully hard, shuddering and quaking, a gasp catching in my throat.
But afterward, as I sink onto the bed and catch my breath, a strange hollowness opens inside me. Not because I spend every night masturbating alone in bed—although that might get wearisome soon—but because the man making me feel all these delicious sensations again is so forbidden.
I can’t start imagining what the reality of him would be like. Aside from the fact that he’s my boss and he has an irritating, dictatorial temperament, he’s far too reclusive. And with any luck, I won’t be in town for long. Even if I did plan to stay in Castille, I wouldn’t get involved with the secretive lighthouse keeper. A man’s secrets and lies destroyed me once. I won’t risk it again.
Not to mention, a volcano of rumors would likely erupt if scandalous Eve Perrin were to hook up with the town’s resident loner.
With a sigh, I roll onto my back, skimming a hand over my breasts. I hate knowing I’ll let other people’s opinions dictate what I do, but I have no choice. People’s opinions skewered me once. I won’t give them the opportunity to do it again.
Besides, no one seems to know much about Flynn. He could be anything. A criminal, a mobster, a killer.
While not impossible, I can’t make myself believe he has a black heart beneath his stoic exterior. My instincts failed me miserably with David, but they’re not wrong about Flynn.
He’s strange, yes, but not dangerous. He was once friends with Uncle Max. He bought Max’s collection and wants to look at books about the Firebird. He’d noticed how upset I was that day at the museum, and he’d come after me to offer me a job instead of just walking away.
I refuse to believe that the man who’d both rescued me and earned the trust of my beloved uncle is someone to be feared. It would be wise to keep a distance between us, but I’m not afraid of him.
Just the opposite, in fact. I’m developing an unfortunate and intense crush on the mysterious lighthouse keeper.
The next morning after my shower, I smooth apple-lavender cream over my calves and thighs. The daily ritual has a heightened significance now that I know Flynn likes my scent.
I tell myself this is all good for me—this return to feeling attractive, to liking my body again, even doing a little something because I know it’s appealing to a man.
I finish getting ready and walk out to my car, pausing at the strange sense of being watched. Skin prickling, I turn to see the dog looking at me from the side of the house.
Relieved, I ask, “You hover around here a lot, don’t you? You’re like a ghost.”
He barks.
“Ghost, huh?” I toss my satchel in the car and pick up his food dish. “Okay, then.”
I refill his food and water. He’s waiting on the porch when I come back out. He nudges his head against my hand before starting to eat.
Seems I have a pet now. Or an animal companion, at least.
I drive to the lighthouse, where Flynn greets me at the door looking so ridiculously edible that my fantasy of last night blooms in my mind with renewed force. I skim my gaze over his worn jeans and unzipped gray hoodie. A faded blue T-shirt clings to his muscles.
God. What would he think if he knew what went on in my imagination?
“Good morning.” I set my belongings on the desk and pick up my organizer. “No sign of the Firebird books yet, but I’ll keep looking.”
“Good. Any questions?”
“No. I’m going to work on the Hans Christian Andersen tales today.” I sit down. Several unopened packages of clickable gel pens are on the desk. “Are these for me?”
“Yes.” Flynn rests his hands on his hips, a slight frown appearing on his face. “Isn’t that the brand you use?”
“Yes, but… you bought me some pens?”
He shrugs. “Just office supplies. I noticed your pen ran out of ink yesterday. I figured you could use more.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
He turns and leaves. I open the package and take out a pen. They’re all blue ink, the color I always use.
It’s a little silly to be so pleased by a gift of new pens, but given Flynn’s self-imposed distance from… well, the world, I appreciate that he noticed such a small thing. Not to mention, it’s the first time someone has done something nice for me in a long time.
I organize my workspace. No lunch today, per my new orders to eat in the kitchen. I did bring my tea set and a selection of gourmet teas, all packaged tidily in a woven basket. My mid-afternoon break will be much nicer with a properly brewed cup of tea.
I start unpacking boxes, keeping an eye out for Firebird stories or a history and criticism of the tale, as well as any other illustrations by Maria Wood.
Her name simmers at the back of my mind. Why do I feel like I should know something about her? That I’ve seen her intense, dramatic style before?
Though my internet phone search about her yielded no results, I write a text to Graham:
I’m going to start writing about the Maria Wood Red Riding Hood drawing, so I can include the paper with my applications. An artist no one seems to have heard of—vengeful, feminist, breaking taboos—it will be quite provocative.
I send the text. Excitement flickers inside me. If I can bring to light the discovery of an unknown female artist who shattered social norms and artistic traditions… if that doesn’t pull attention away from my miserable affair and back to my scholarly work, nothing will.
Close to noon, my stomach rumbles in a plea for lunch. I pick up my tea set and crossword book before heading to the door. After Flynn’s dictates and his contract, I’m still a little apprehensive about crossing the threshold into the cottage.
Everything is quiet. I walk to the kitchen, peering around the corner to make sure my boss isn’t looming anywhere nearby. The room is empty, a few shards of sunlight gleaming on the hardwood floor, appliances all bright and clean, and the weathered table looking pleasantly inviting by the big window.
I leave the tea set on the counter and open the refrigerator. My jaw almost drops. The fridge is filled with food. Leafy greens, organic chicken, gourmet cheeses, farm-fresh eggs. The cupboards are likewise well-stocked with rice, pasta, canned goods, fruit, crusty loaves of bread.
Well, geez. No wonder he wants me to eat here, if he has this much food.
Unless he bought it all for me?
No. I dismiss the thought with a shake of my head. That would be silly.
Still, it’s lovely to have my choice of such delicious food, and none of it peanut butter. I select a shiny apple—ripe, deep red, as if he’d chosen only the best—and rummage in the fridge for thick slices of turkey and cheese. I make a sandwich and eat my lunch at the table while working on a crossword puzzle.
Beneath the distant sound of the ocean waves, faint music filters through the heating vents. I tilt my head to listen. It’s coming from a different part of the lighthouse. Elvis, “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”
He listens to Elvis. I tuck that bit of knowledge away. The graceful melody and lovely lyrics float in the air, eliciting a longing I’m unwilling to examine too closely. Instead I enjoy the odd companionship of listening to the same music as Flynn while I finish my lunch and he… does whatever he does.
After cleaning my dishes, I return to work. I unpack another box, which contains a collection called Russian Fairy Tales, compiled by Alexander Afanasyev, and two single-story picture books. The Tale of Tsarevich Ivan, the Firebird, and the Grey Wolf, and Russian Tales: The Firebird.
Success! I set the books on my desk to give to Flynn tomorrow morning when I see him again. Maybe he’s also a scholar of fairy tales, though why would he want to keep that a secret? But it would certainly explain how he and Uncle Max became friends.
At two, I return to the kitchen and put the shiny silver kettle on the stove before setting out my teapot and cup. As I wait for the water to boil, I gaze out the window, which overlooks the ocean and the secrets wall. The sky and ocean are charcoal-gray, and a cold drizzle has been falling all morning.
The kettle whistles. I swish boiling water around the teapot to warm it, then add the tea leaves and water. A pleasant, fragrant steam rises.
“What is that?” Flynn’s deep voice suddenly fills the room behind me.
“Jesus.” I startle, pressing a hand to my leaping heart. “For a big guy, you have the tread of a cat.”
I turn to face him. He’s standing in the doorway leading to what looks like a dining room, everything about him as tempting as ever.
It would be nice, for a change, to look at him and just see my boss, not my gorgeous, hunky, hot-as-hell boss who invades my fantasies every night and makes me come so hard I see stars.
“It’s tea.” I fight back a heated flush. “Darjeeling Sungma, to be precise. What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” he replies dryly.
“Yeah, but you’re always skulking off to do something mysterious. Oh, wait a second! I found something for you.”
I hurry back to the workroom and grab the Firebird books off my desk, then return to the kitchen.
“I was going to give these to you tomorrow. This collection has a version of the story, and the other two are illustrated. This one was illustrated by Ivan Bilibin, who earned quite a bit of renown in the late nineteenth century for his fairytale collections.”
I open the book and leaf through the pages. “There are a lot of different influences in his work. He studied ethnography, Japanese prints, and had a strong interest in Russian village architecture. All of that is reflected in these drawings. But you probably know that already.”
I close the book, consternation rising in me. I’m lecturing a man who probably knows more about fairy tale artists than I do.
“I didn’t know any of that.” Flynn takes the books with a nod. “Thanks for telling me. And for finding these.”
“No problem.”
I expect him to turn and leave, as per his usual exit strategy. He doesn’t. I check the teapot, giving the steeping leaves a quick stir. If he stays, maybe I can learn a little more about him.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” I ask. “This is a really nice black tea, smooth and flavorful.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “You’re a tea connoisseur.”
“Not really, but I like it a lot.” I indicate the teapot. “This was a gift from the wife of my PhD advisor. She believed strongly in the power of a good cup of tea, and I realized soon that she was right. Tea doesn’t make everything better, but sometimes it helps soften the rough edges.”
“You think I have rough edges that need softening?” Amusement laces his voice as he sets the books on the counter.
“Don’t we all?” I take a second teacup from the basket and remove the filter from the pot. After pouring the tea, I set the two cups on the table along with the sugar bowl and creamer. Flynn waits for me to sit down before he takes the chair opposite me, his presence making the table seem even smaller than it is.
I pick up the creamer. “Do you take milk and sugar?”
“I have no idea. Make mine the same as yours.”
I add cream and sugar to each cup and slide his closer to him, nodding toward a spoon. “You have to stir it yourself. It’s bad luck to stir someone else’s tea.”
“Why’s that?”
“Just a superstition. If you stir someone else’s tea, it means you’re stirring up trouble for them.”
“I didn’t know tea was associated with superstitions.” He stirs his own tea, then takes a swallow. “You have tea every day?”
“Right at two.” I sip my tea, appreciating the hints of spice and sweetness.
We both fall silent, the air between us perfumed with aromatic steam. Rain spills down the window. Despite our fraught history, it’s not awkward, only surprisingly pleasant.
I study him surreptitiously, the aesthetic side of me appreciating, as always, his strong features and thick-lashed eyes. But now I also notice the brackets of tension around his mouth and the frustration shadowing his eyes.
Who has loved you in life? Do you love anyone?
He shifts his gaze from the window to me. A current passes between us, something almost warm and tangible. As usual, a thousand questions pop into my mind, but for now, I don’t want to ask them, don’t want to pry into any part of him that he doesn’t want to give me freely.
Instead I ask, “Do you happen to know anything about an artist named Maria Wood?”
He shakes his head. “Why?”
“I found a drawing of hers in the collection. Red Riding Hood, but a pretty disturbing image, kind of monstrous and sexual at the same time. She’s holding a knife, implying that she’ll kill the wolf before he has a chance to hurt her. I know I’ve never seen it before, but I feel like I’ve seen something like it before, if that makes sense. You’ve never heard of her?”
“No.”
“I’m sure Uncle Max never mentioned her either.” I shrug and sip the tea. “I was just wondering. I’m going to write a paper about her. I need to get my art history career back, hopefully with another university professor position, but first I have to remind my colleagues I’m still a good scholar. Maria Wood will be a great start. I’ve never written about a fairy tale artist before.”
Flynn studies me, his expression as impenetrable as ever. “What’s your favorite fairy tale?”
“The Snow Queen by Hans Christian Andersen.” I smile. “Did you know about Max’s class assignment?”
“No.”
“On the first day of every class, he had his students write an essay about their favorite fairy tale and explain why. He said it gave a great deal of insight into their hopes, values, and dreams. Like it was their essence.”
Though I can’t be certain, curiosity appears to gleam in Flynn’s smoky eyes.
“So what does The Snow Queen say about you?” he asks.
I look out the window. A sweet, painful ache nudges my soul.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I love so much about it. Gerda and Kay’s fierce loyalty. The way she makes her way into the world with such bravery and determination. She doesn’t give up on Kay, even when he’s cruel to her. She knows he’s not truly malicious. She faces all her fears and goes to the end of the earth to save him. She helps him see the good in the world again. She melts the ice in his heart.”
“What does he do for her?”
“He loves her. He trusts her infinitely. If the situation were reversed, he’d risk everything to save her. They both know it. How many people are lucky enough to have that kind of devotion?”
Heavy silence falls. Self-consciousness seizes me. I risk a glance at him. My heartbeat increases.
For the first time, his defenses are down. The bleak look in his eyes, the lines of tension creasing his brow, give me a brief glimpse into… him. A man who has feelings and emotions like the rest of us, much as he tries to conceal them.
He meets my gaze. Just like that, his implacable shield slams back into place. Blocking any hint of vulnerability.
My heart is still thumping hard. I lower my head to sip my tea.
“I also like stories that have a magic object,” I continue in an effort to diffuse the sudden tension. “A spindle, a glass slipper, a feather, a golden apple, a spinning wheel, a mirror. The idea that we’re surrounded at all times by magic is a powerful concept. Even if it doesn’t always work in your favor.”
“Indeed.”
A combination of amusement and exasperation rises in me. He gives new meaning to the term strong, silent type.
“What’s your favorite fairy tale?” I ask.
“Don’t have one.” He drains his cup before shoving to his feet. “Thanks for the tea.”
He starts toward the cottage door. After my little soul-baring about The Snow Queen, I’m not about to let him off the hook quite that easily.
“Everyone has a favorite fairytale,” I call after him. “Is it the Firebird?”
“No.” He opens the door.
“Snow White?”
“No.”
“Cinderella.”
He glances over his shoulder. “Guess again.”
“Ah ha! You do have a favorite one.” I narrow my gaze at him. “I’m going to figure out what it is.”
“You are, huh?”
“Your favorite fairy tale must be Beauty and the Beast.” I roll my eyes and indicate the lighthouse. “Mysterious creature locked in a tower? Surely you can relate.”
He frowns. “Your favorite fairy tale should be Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”
“Why’s that?”
“A nosy girl who can’t mind her own business?” He pulls open the door. “Surely you can relate.”
He leaves, shutting the door behind him.
A laugh bursts out of me.
What’s that feeling bubbling underneath my heart? It’s light and fluffy, like a marshmallow, a cotton puff, a baby chick.
I’m charmed.