Page 42 of Beyond the Cottage (After the Fairytale #1)
Chapter 42
A nsel jerked awake. His mind warmed up slowly, absorbing his surroundings.
A dim room lit by a wrought iron lamp. Tidy but scarred furniture he vaguely recognized. All at once, he remembered where he was: on Gretta’s couch in her ludicrously clean apartment. His shirt was still gone, and a patchwork quilt covered him from the waist down.
She walked in carrying a paper shopping sack. “Sorry, the door got away from me. How does your arm feel?”
He flexed it. “Still tender. Better, though.”
She placed the sack on the coffee table and went to the kitchen.
Ansel checked the clock—he’d been out three goddamn hours. He sat up, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
Gretta returned with a jar of water and two pills, and as he drank, his stomach audibly groaned.
“You must be starving,” she said.
“I’ll get dinner at the hotel.” Where the hell was his shirt?
She handed him a prepackaged sandwich. Shirt forgotten, he tore into it, devouring half in four bites. He hadn’t eaten since Tadpole’s omelet.
“I met with Nat while you were sleeping,” she said, joining him on the couch.
He stopped chewing and choked down his bite. “And?”
“He wants to meet with you tomorrow morning.”
Tomorrow…
Ansel stared out the dark window. He hadn’t fully let himself believe this would happen. After being waylaid by nereids, he’d half expected some other distraction to derail his and Gretta’s plans. Maybe he’d even wished for that.
But he’d gotten his meeting. Tomorrow morning, mere hours away.
“Fair warning,” she said, “Nat thinks you’re a fraud.”
“I anticipated skepticism from potential investors.”
“Well, he’s a hardass, but he’s no fool. Once you show him what the repellent can do, he’ll come around.”
“What time is the meeting?”
“Ten-thirty.”
He finished eating and resumed staring out the window.
“Are you nervous?” Gretta asked.
Was he? The demonstration would be fairly straightforward. It would either make an impression or it wouldn’t. But his heart rate and clammy palms indicated a negative emotional reaction.
“I don’t think nervous is the right word,” he said. “Our adventure this morning convinced me the repellent works.”
“What, then?”
He crumpled the sandwich wrapper and tossed it on the table. Gretta dropped it in a waste basket.
“I don’t know,” he said. “There’s a lot riding on this. Something could always go wrong. But even if the senator invests, I’ll remain…uneasy.” He glanced at her. “I suppose I find it difficult to trust good fortune.”
He also couldn’t shake the feeling something would take Gretta from him again. After all, rekindling their friendship had been the greatest fortune of all.
“You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop?” she asked.
“Precisely.”
She sighed. “And the cottage strikes again. I know how you feel, though. I think when horrible things happen so young, you grow up with that as your baseline, no matter how much you think you got over it. Even good things get viewed through a lens of shit.”
An apt insight. Jonas had always been fond of reminding Ansel he was a paranoid killjoy.
Smiling, he said, “Like walking through a meadow of wildflowers and only noticing your hay fever.”
“Like skipping ice cream because it’ll freeze your brain. Or refusing to finish a great book because you just know the ending will ruin it.”
He winced. “Spending three months writing an essay on magic’s cellular footprint, only to burn it because surely no one would publish a no-name swamp hick.”
“Aw, Anse.” She shifted sideways, arms circling her knees. “Did you really do that?”
“I did.”
“I wish you hadn’t. Once the repellent is out, those academic pinheads will be lining up to publish you.”
“I kept the notes. I could always rewrite it.”
Her arms tightened around her legs, and she picked at a thread on her pants. “Have you given any thought to what happens after the meeting?”
“Not really. Cart before the horse and all that. I’d rather not jinx it by looking too far into the future.” He didn’t believe in jinxes, but still.
She rested her cheek on her knee and stared at his shoulder. It reminded him he was still naked from the waist up, which reminded him he’d passed far too much time in her home. If he stayed any longer, he’d lose the will to leave. If that happened, he’d surely do something stupid.
He sat straighter and scanned the room for his shirt. He found it neatly folded on the couch’s armrest.
As he shook it out, Gretta pulled something from the shopping sack and tossed it to him. “Try that on.”
He held it up. “A new shirt?” The soft flannel felt like butter in his hands, and she’d chosen the exact shade of blue he’d always favored.
“Yeah.” She flushed. “I owed you a new one.”
He was about to protest, to insist the witch’s attack hadn’t been her fault. Then her actual meaning sank in.
Oh, yes—she had indeed destroyed his shirt. While against the wall, riding his cock, she’d ripped it open in her haste to touch him.
Glancing away, Ansel adjusted the quilt over his lap.
“It’s getting late.” He pulled on the new shirt. “I should find that hotel.”
“Do you want me to check your stitches again?”
After what had happened last time? His dick was hard enough, thank you. “That’s not necessary, I’ll take the medical supplies with me.”
“Can I at least walk you there?”
“Is it difficult to find?”
She thought a moment then sighed. “No. Take a right in the alley and a left on Trade street.”
“I’ll use the facilities and be on my way.”
He hurried to the bathroom and slammed the door. He hunched over the porcelain sink, gripping its sides.
Was this how it would be now? The slightest provocation, the vaguest mention of their night together, and he shot harder than a teenager who’d seen his first tit? Soon, she’d start noticing. She had earlier, while tending to his arm.
How long before his rampant erections went from mildly awkward to utterly insufferable? How long could she tolerate friendship with a man who tented his trousers every eight minutes he spent in her presence?
When the fuck will I go back to normal?
Ansel roughly repositioned himself and splashed cold water on his face. On his way out, he collected his bag and case and returned to the living room. Gretta had drawn the curtains shut and turned on more lamps, but she was nowhere to be found. Her bedroom door was closed.
He knocked. “Gretta?”
A muffled, “Yeah?”
“I’m going now.”
“Be out in a second.”
Ice formed in his gut at the thought of leaving her. It further illustrated how important it was he go. He needed to dilute this attachment. For him, their friendship was inching dangerously close to obsession. He feared it had already crossed that line.
Was it better if he said goodbye through the door? Or slipped away without saying anything at all?
Inhaling deep, he settled against the wall. He was a man, not a callow adolescent. He could handle saying goodbye for one night.
Her bedroom door swung open, and he straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. When she stepped out, whatever inane bullshit he’d meant to say died in his throat.
Mouth caked with sand, he stared. He ran a hand over his nighttime stubble.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
“An outfit?” She looked down at herself. “What do you mean?”
That wasn’t an outfit. It was a goddamn ambush.
Gretta, his unrefined little tomboy, had come out to say goodbye wearing a skirt . It was long and full, and its tight, high waist shaped her like an hourglass, drawing his eye up to the undersides of her breasts.
Her blouse was even worse. Its high collar lay spread, the neckline plunging a millimeter shy of indecency. The white silk begged him to search for her nipples through the flimsy fabric.
It was unsporting. A hit below the belt, literally.
He coughed into his fist. “I didn’t know you favored such garments.”
“Did you think I go to dinner in my beat up field clothes?”
The ice in his gut spread to his chest. Who had she worn this outfit for?
“Dinner with who?”
“No one. Nat keeps a tab open for his people at a joint downtown. I go there when I don’t feel like cooking.” She crossed her arms, plumping her breasts further. “Do you want to come? It’s better than hotel food.”
“Yes.” The word fell out before good judgment could interfere.
He didn’t take it back. What was a couple more hours spent safely in public? Besides, the sandwich had barely dented his hunger, and he was in no position to turn down a free meal.
“Do you mind stashing this somewhere?” he asked, holding out the case. “I’ll get it on my way to the hotel.”
She took it and disappeared into the bedroom. She came out wearing a cropped jacket in the same green fabric as the skirt, and it made her brown eyes look flecked with jade.
Not sporting in the least.