Page 24 of Our Little Cliche

Chapter Twenty-Three

HOLLY

“Could you pass me the Tabasco?” I ask, my fingers growing numb while fisting the sausage roll mixture with my hands. Can’t have sausage rolls without a bit of zing . “Please?” I add, remembering my manners finally.

My gaze follows Cyrus as he rushes to my beck and call, bringing me the oversized bottle of spicy sauce with a self satisfied grin.

Seeing his act of service in the flesh makes the guilt run a full cycle in my blood—this guy really has the heart and patience of a saint, and I had the audacity to accuse him of having a wife.

I briefly make sense of him frowning, putting the bottle beside me but I’m too in my head to notice.

“What’s that face for?” His words don’t snap me out of my thoughts.

My brain to body malfunction causes me to leave my hands in the bowl but not mix, so I just stand there staring off into the abyss.

Why do I keep being such an asshole towards him?

The way I treated him only moments ago—and every other time before that—isn’t like me, I’m not like that .

I’m a good person, and Cyrus doesn’t deserve this .

When I told him he needs to keep his distance from me, his face went whitewash like I had just pulled his heart out.

I hated every second as the words rolled off my tongue, because I didn’t want to really say it. I didn’t mean the words. Not really.

Our kiss was not a mistake.

I don’t actually want him to stay away.

And now because of me, the both of us are stuck here in denial and have to pretend that neither of us are bothered by it. When in reality, I am very heavily bothered by it. As is he, clearly.

This is all my fault.

Cyrus is a good man, and I’m a confused emotional mess. Oh, my god.

Why do I have to ruin everything?

A strange sensation runs through my spine, making me shudder. Like every single emotion I can possess hit me all at once. “Hey, hey, wow. Holly? What’s wrong?”

What?

Cyrus’s brows turn upward, like he’s wounded by something. Why is he looking at me like I’m dying? Did I bite my lip again? “What?” My words come out as a squeak, but then I feel it?—

A rogue tear, falling down my cheek. Then another. And another.

Why am I crying? Why do I feel so…

Overwhelmed. That’s what this is. Overwhelm.

“Holly? Jesus,” Cyrus calls in a panic, snatching my hands out of the bowl and under the tap to clean.

He dries them off before cupping them between his until they’re warm.

“Here. I got you.” With ease, he lifts and plonks me on the kitchen counter.

“Talk to me,” he demands with every ounce of urgency as he brushes my tears with his thumb.

I lose my breath for a second as his hands band either side of my face, guiding my eyes to stay fixed on his, which are darting back and forth between mine. I’ve never received so much empathy in my life, it’s both intense and comforting all in one.

He holds me like this for a beat, until my breath slows. “Why?” I weep.

“Why… why what?”

“Why does my life have to be like this?”

“Like what?” He wipes the new tear away, then brushes the stray, cow-licked hairs from my face in such a gentle manner that I can’t put into words. It’s so… intimate , but not sexual. None of this is.

Why does he have to be so amazing?

“Like the books I read,” I murmur.

“What do you mean?”

I sigh, not taking my eyes from him. “I feel like I’m living in a Hallmark movie that I never signed up for.

I’m experiencing every bloody romance book I’ve read.

My head hasn’t stopped running a million miles an hour since I met you, because whenever I’m around you I’m hit with the freight train of every single emotion.

I’ve been so unkind to you for no reason.

I’m so sorry, I truly am. I’m such a mess.

” The tears pick up again, and my throat swells.

“You’re not a mess, Holly. You’re just scared.”

Of what exactly? Being in a country that I never intended moving to? Losing my job? Possibly being scammed, and maybe never seeing my furniture again? Or scared of falling in love?

“Scared is one of the many things I feel.”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

“Unlike most men, I pay attention, Holly.” Oh, god.

Why does he have to say my name like that?

“I listen, I watch, I observe everything about you. Everything you do, everything you wear, everything you like or dislike, what your favorite food is, what drinks you enjoy, the way you like your tea made, the way you plait your hair when you’re trying to get my attention, the way you pinch your cheeks every time I come into the room, the way your teeth chew on your inner lip when you’re nervous, so much so that you make yourself bleed, or when you try to act cool so that you don’t flirt with me…

like calling me mate as if it’ll be a deterrent.

Spoiler alert, it’s not. You’re like a fucking magnet.

Why do you think it’s so goddamn hard for me to stay away?

” Finally, he breathes. “But I respect your boundaries, so I keep my hands to myself, even when it’s killing me. ”

“I’m—”

I’m sorry.

“And when you cry like this, I can’t keep my distance.” Oh my god. “But I have to learn to, before I do something we’ll both regret,” he adds.

Like losing our jobs. “You’re right.”

“Come on, then.” He gently lifts me and puts me back on the floor, then takes the bowl with the sausage mince, tossing a cloth to me over his shoulder. “I can’t have you hungry any longer. You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten.”

How does he know?

He enters my space once more with a lifted brow.

“I pay attention, remember?” Ok. So he’s a mind reader.

Well, it kind of speaks for itself—I do love my food.

A warm smile turns the corner of my lips, as if the boiling chaos in my brain has somehow simmered.

“This smells delicious. I can’t wait to try them,” he adds.

“It’s my mum’s recipe. She used to make it for me almost weekly when I was a kid. Slapped on a bed of mash ‘taty ‘n dead’orse on top,” I say, and Cyrus almost drops the pastry on the floor with an I’ve just seen a ghost look on his face.

“I beg your pardon… but what’s dead?”

A loud cackle breaks free from my chest. “It’s mashed potato and tomato sauce. We call it dead horse in Australia.”

His brow pitches, then continues to gather the rest of the ingredients on the table. “Just when I think you couldn’t get any stranger, you open your mouth, proving me oh so very wrong.”

“Wait til’ you hear what we say when we announce our impending departure after a barbie, or event out or something.”

We roll the mince and pastry into long rolls, and before I know it they’re taking shape into the sausage rolls they’re going to be. “Okay, I’m too curious now. What’s a barbie? And what do you say to people when you leave?”

“A barbecue…” I clear my throat, getting into my true blue Aussie character that I bury deep down. “Well, bugger me dead, look at the time. Better call it a night and hit the frog n’ toad.”

“I have no words,” he says, blinking in such a way that gives the impression I’ve caused a circuit in his brain to fuse.

“Is your head combusting?”

“Yes, and if you keep spitting out words like that I’ll be the one curling up by the fireplace demanding you to read me a book and feed me wine.”

“I could. But you seemed pretty adamant that you’re to read it, and not me.”

“I don’t make the rules, sweet cheeks.” Sorry, sweet cheeks? “I just break them in my books.” I say nothing back, ignoring the temptation to address the pet name as he continues, “You should show your mom that her meals are being carried all the way across the globe, these things smell delicious.”

“I doubt that would go down well.”

“Why is that?”

“She doesn’t even know that I’m here,” I mutter under my breath with every amount of shame.

“Oh. Really?”

He turns to place the sausage rolls into the oven, bending down. “Y?—”

Don’t look at his ass.

Don’t look at his ass.

My words get caught in my mouth, seeing the fabric of his pants stretch from his toned… No. I definitely should not be looking at his behind while he bends over. But alas, I can’t stop my eyes from fixating on his perfectly curated buns.

Crap .

“I need a drink,” I awkwardly, in a panic, yell the words, seeing that the wine rack on the bench is empty. I sound like Captain Sparrow asking where is all the rum gone?

“Grab a bottle from the cellar, I haven’t brought any out to the kitchen sorry.”

Shamefully, I practically bolt from the kitchen into the wine cellar that connects to the pantry. Thank god. I can finally have a second to myself , I think to myself, slapping my forehead on repeat. I’m such an idiot.

“Wow,” I mumble to myself, craning my neck to get a good view of all of the variances of plonk perfectly stacked, cork side out along the ceiling high racks. One for every shade of color and desired flavor. Sauvignons, merlots, chardonnays, pinot noirs, muscats and rosés.

How have I not been in here yet?

“ Wow, ” I repeat the word as if it puts more emphasis on it.

“You know, for a woman who knows her way around a bottle of wine,” Cyrus drops an octave, “ and drunk moves to other countries ,” then returns to normal, “you’re certainly one of very few words.”

He’s leaning against the frame of the wooden, barn-style cellar door with a smirk on his face.

“Oh, now who’s the smart ass?” I chuckle and continue flicking between the bottles, unsure which of the white wines are best suited to mashed potatoes and sausage rolls other than my usual five dollar specials.

“No. A Cabernet Sauvignon if what’s needed.”

Uh oh. “That’s the red one, isn’t it?” I swither, pulling a face. Not the red wine. One glass of red is triple what a whole bottle of white does to me. And it always makes me… horny.

“Yes it is. It’ll enhance the flavors. I’ll grab it,” he brushes past me to reach for a bottle from one of the top rows. “You won’t reach it unless you climb the ladder… and we all know what you’re like with ladders.”

“Hey, that was one time!” I snap with a laugh under my tongue, mindlessly flicking his lower back with the hand towel I had tucked into my jeans. Dare laces his eyes.

“…You’re going to regret that.” he teases, a smirk pulling the corner of his lip.