Page 19 of Our Little Cliche

Chapter Nineteen

HOLLY

I feel like I’ve asked myself can it get any worse so many times since this whole treacherous mess began three weeks ago.

On that dreadful Sunday morning. But what’s actually worse?

Finding out you’re moving countries in a few hours?

Getting caught staring at your boss as if he couldn’t see you—who knows you have the hots for him? Or getting freaking snowed in with him?

I swear my life is turning into a book. This is everything that happens in the novels I read. Like actually, what are the odds? So, to answer my own question… yes. Yes it can get worse. And it starts by feeling the hot water from my shower vanishing.

“Oh, fuck me dead!” The pipes must be freezing over, or something. It used to happen as a kid, the air would be so cold it would turn everything to frost. Australia isn’t designed for winters, but you would have thought Canada would be.

Damn this weather.

In a flash I get dry, and curl up under a million layers of duvets.

I wonder if this is the room I was going to be given to live in?

Trying to ignore the sounds of my belly growling, I wallow in my own self pity and shame for what seems like hours, still naked, and on the back end of overheating from all the blankets.

My phone dings. It’s Cyrus… my prison buddy.

Duh, dick head. Who else would it be?

Being stuck in his house due to a snow storm—and not by requirement for my job—wasn’t exactly on my bucket list for 2024, nor was it a New Year’s resolution, but here I am. Trapped. It could be worse, I guess.

How? How could it be worse than him hearing that I want to date him?

With a sigh, I rub my third eye and hesitantly open my phone.

Cyrus Stone aka Sexy Boss:

Sorry to bother, just checking in to see if you’re alright?

Me:

No.

That sounds too cold.

Me:

But thanks for checking.

Cyrus Stone aka Sexy Boss:

I understand, I’m sorry. I’ve got something for you in the living room if you’d like to see it? I know I said I’d stay away, but this might help you feel a little more… normal.

Normal?

What about this is normal?

Me:

Okay.

I un enthusiastically put my day-old clothes back on, and as I leave the room the hall sconces lead the way since it’s pitch black outside.

They’re warm toned, soft and moody. When I reach the living room, loose Christmas decorations take up the space over the floor, including a gigantic, real Christmas tree that’s covered in actual snow, and?—

Oh, no.

Oh, no, no, no. My worst nightmare stares right back at me by the archway between the kitchen and living area… in sweatpants .

Gray sweatpants.

Cyrus’s lush brown hair appears slightly damp on the ends, the dry sections being fluffy and buoyant on the top of his head.

He’s sporting a plain black t-shirt, that’s pulling tightly over his body…

his ripped body. I mean, I knew he was big, but his clothes had been very modest until now.

My breath quivers at the sight of him, followed by a tight gulp struggling down my throat. Not that it budges the lump of nerves.

“What is this?” I ask, waving my hand at all the Christmas ornaments, and the tree—that has a wet trail behind it, leading to the kitchen door. He’s been outside? How?

“Well, you said that you wanted normal. I can’t offer much given the circumstances and I don’t know what they do in Australia for Christmas, but I thought bringing a tree in from outside, and pulling out the decorations might make you feel a little better. Less trapped .”

“You went outside?”

If he can go outside, then so can I. And how will I get home, huh?

No Uber will come and get me, the roads will be shut now.

My mind drifts, picturing him chopping down a tree…

with his biceps on display all flexing and veiny, and shit.

Lugging a big ol’ tree from all the way out there in here.

It’s doing something to the lower half of my body I tell you.

Ok, nope.

Abort, abort. Mayday, mayday.

“Yes. I did. To get you a nice tree to decorate.”

“Does this mean I can go home now?” I inch towards the front door, even though I know the answer, completely ignoring that he has just done one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me in my entire life. “And for the record, I don’t feel trapped. I’m actually kind of glad that I’m here…”

“Wait, you are?” His curious tone has me assuming he thinks I meant something else. No, not because of you .

“I’ve never experienced a snow storm before, so at least I’m not alone. And I’m safe.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets before pulling them back out again and running his fingers through his hair. My eyebrows hurt from frowning so much at him. “Oh, right.”

“So, if you can go out there, then I can go home?” I repeat the question, reaching for the handle and open it.

“You could. But for the record… ” Cyrus does that thing that steals my breath: leans his presence into mine, making the world around me stop.

He doesn’t touch me. He’s not even close enough for me to feel the heat of his skin radiating, not like last time.

Then, with one swift movement the door closes and he retreats.

“I’m not letting you step even your pinky toe outside that door until everything calms down out there. It’s too dangerous.”

I’m not letting you.

Why does that excite me?

“But—”

“No buts, Miss Cate,” he says, and my mind shifts to the same empty state as before. “I can’t have you risking your life. How about decorating the house in Christmas cheer to brighten your night?”

At this point, I have to accept my fate that this is turning out to be like every other god damn, cliché Christmas Hallmark movie and book that exists on the planet.

I am NOT going to fall in love with my boss!

“Fine.” My stomach rumbles again. Now I know why my reactions are so snarly—I haven’t eaten.

“Why don’t you sift through that stuff and have at it? Decorate the place to your liking. It’s yours for the next… however long we’re stuck in here.” He turns on his heels and starts walking away.

“What about you? Where are you going?”

“I’m going to cook you dinner. Your stomach is growling louder than the storm outside, and if I don’t settle your grizzly bear of a stomach with food I simply will not be able to hear myself writing.”

Well… shit.

It doesn’t feel like Christmas, but Feliz Navidad spins its tune on the record player and I can’t help but to sway around downstairs while hanging the last of the tinsel, filling whatever blank space I can.

How hasn’t he decorated yet? It’s only days away and he had nothing up.

Maybe he doesn’t do Christmas. No that can’t be right, he said that he sculpts every year for the town’s market, so he must be into Christmas.

I suppose that’s why I’m here, so he can reconnect with his old habits.

I’m here to take away his stress, and yet I feel like I’m the one creating more of it.

I’m surprised Cyrus had it—Michael Bublé’s Christmas Edition album in his vinyl collection.

Mr. Bubbles as I call him has always been a favorite of mine.

I play his CD every year back at home on repeat from the first of December right through until January when everything gets torn down, boxed back up, and stowed in the roof for the next eleven months.

Ugh, I wish I had my Bucko and Champs album, that was always a banger on a hot Aussie day, gets you right in the spirit of it.

What am I talking about?

I have access to bluetooth.

I’m not shy with the volume either. Aussie Jingle Bells is the first to blare through the house on the speakers. Pure joy radiates through me and a heavy dose of laughter runs free from my rib cage. Suddenly, I find myself dancing as though my body is infested with fleas.

“Is this how you Australians do Christmas?” Cyrus’s sarcastic tone shouts over the music with two bowls of pasta—one in his hand, the other balancing on his forearm—and two glasses of wine filled to the line, balancing in his other hand, glaring at me as if he’s just seen the stupidest thing in the world.

Thank god it’s not red wine.

“Yeah, it’s the law. In my house anyway.” I adjust the volume, trying to play it cool, but my nervous laugh gives away how much this man makes me giddy.

The sweet, nutty smell of caramelized mushroom with hints of thyme is the first thing to tease my senses as Cyrus places the food on the sofa’s side table.

A flush of cool air fans past me when he flicks a blanket to the floor by the fireplace.

Goosebumps flare under the fabric of my clothing, but since I’m wearing jeans and a long sleeved blouse, he can’t see them.

“Well, you’ll have to show me more of these Bucko and Champs, and what rusty Holden utes are all about after dinner. I might need a translation, though. I’m still learning all of your… abbreviations,” he says, referring to the lyrics of the song that’s playing in the background.

“I can write you a thesis,” I toy and find a spot on the soft blanket, closest to the fire because I like to feel like I’m a few degrees from incineration. I am Australian after all. “I’ll have it on your desk first thing.”

I crane my neck until I reach his eyes— gulp —which are beaming with sparkles by the way.

Why is he so tall? And sexy. And…

Him .

As though he senses my discomfort in having my neck bent that way he crouches, handing me my glass of wine and bowl of pasta like he’s pleased to serve me. “But I’d rather you just tell me using the words from your mouth, not in paper form, Miss Cate.”

Wait… what am I telling you about again?

My head spins. This is what he does to me, like a brain to mouth—no, brain to body malfunction.

“Huh?”

He chuckles at my brain’s sedated absence and his facial expressions cause his glasses to slide down his nose. He pushes them back up before taking a gentle sip out of his glass. “We were talking about you showing me more music, and teaching me Australian slang.”

“Oh, yeah. That.”

I take the dry fruity liquid to my lips, but then hesitate. This guy has class, I probably shouldn’t down the whole thing in one gulp as if I have no gag reflex. One sip draws in, and I responsibly put the glass down beside me to eat.

“Eat up, then we will decorate the tr?—”

Gusts of wind thud against the windows, rattling every square inch of the place, startling me. Then, every light throughout the house flickers into oblivion. Other than the flicker of the fire beside us, the whole place is in complete darkness. My heart drops into the pit of my stomach. Crap.

“Maybe not.”

“Should I be concerned?” I ask.

“Of a blizzard?”

The winds continue to roar, sending my nervous system into a state of both flight, and freeze . Acting on a panicked impulse I startle, jolting closer to Cyrus. “Ah!” I cry. We need fire and rescue to take us to safety, immediately. “What do we do? Should I call triple… wait, nine one one?”

Triple zero? Really?

Moisture begins to clam at my palms. I’ve never experienced a storm like this.

Heavy rain, and hail sure, but never a storm that traps you inside and shuts down all ability of survival.

We have no power, how will we eat? How will we shower?

How will we… The feeling of panic, and claustrophobia creeps under my skin.

I’m going to die here!

He pockets his phone after checking it, probably for service. “Uhh, apart from the fact that we probably won’t reach down under’s emergency line, the phones are dead. We won’t reach any of ours either.” Why is he speaking so calm? Why is he not panicking?

Oh, god.

The walls are closing in.

Chest hyperventilating.

Heart tachy.

Brain cloudy.

Fog setting in.

I notice my hands trembling by my sides, with no idea what to do with them. My next string of words come out one by one between a bated breath. “I need fresh air. I need to get out. I need?—”

“Hey, hey, hey!? Look at me. Look at me!” He snatches my shoulders, forcing my gaze to focus on his.

Cyrus’s body language telling me; follow my voice, you are safe .

I’m like a deer to headlights, his voice in full control and taking over my ability to function.

“It’s just a little snowstorm, they happen all the time here. We’re okay,” he adds.

“Okay.”

Okay.

After a long moment of eye contact, my breathing slows. He eventually lets go of me and when he gets up and grabs a beanie from the hanger my stomach spins. “I’ll just go check the mains.”

The air feels thin around me without his touch. “Wait, please don’t leave me!” I squeak all too desperately, and it takes far too long to realize that my hand is firmly gripped around his bicep—okay, around isn’t the right word, at this point my hand looks like an infant’s against his muscle.

I don’t know what it is that’s written on my face right now but his expression goes from: she’s touching me, to she’s touching me .

“You’re really scared, aren’t you?”

“No. I just need?—”

I try to snatch my hand back but when he stops me I gasp.

A minute.

I need a minute.

My hand disappears inside his palm as he cups it, holding it between us momentarily. “Yes,” I say, barely audible. “I am.”

“Then I’ll stay.”