Page 28 of Van Cort

RIVER

Smoke wafts out of the oven as I open the door to try and rescue the beef.

But the onions and rest of the trimmings are now smoking cinders, charred to death.

“Shit.” I shove the pan onto the stainless-steel plate next to the oven and wave the oven gloves back and forth to clear the air.

This is Everett’s fault.

But as the thought creeps in, so does the smile over my lips.

Gods, he’s dangerous. Commanding me – ordering me – to do things I’ve never wanted to do for anyone before. Yet, there’s something warm in my chest, like I’m proud of answering him, of pleasing him with my acquiescence.

I grab the glass of wine and take a large gulp, thinking what else we could eat tonight, given the burnt offering in front of me.

An idea starts idling, and I check the fridge before I head to the lounge and the impressive open fire waiting to be lit.

We’ve already had the formal dinner. And nothing seems to be going to plan anyway.

Everything is a little off, in a good way, including Everett opening up.

Well, if he’s going to distract me and not have the decency to hire a staff to look after this place, he doesn’t get to choose the dining arrangements.

An experiment plans in my mind, and I search the huge oak mantle for a box of matches to light the fire.

It won’t be a gas system. Those are real logs stacked on either side of the hearth.

There aren’t any photos here, nor any other personal touches in the house that I’ve seen, and if it wasn’t for him telling me this place was his family home and catching those mournful looks on his face as he drifts into memory, I wouldn’t believe him.

Finally, I find the box of matches hidden at the edge of the wood pile and set about striking the long match.

The sizzle of the flame catches on the small wooden split, and I light the kindling already set.

The snap and crackle pops around the room as the fire spreads over the dry wood, and I step back to watch as the flames lick and caress their way.

Once it stays burning, I head back into the kitchen and gather items onto the side, taking another gulp of my wine and topping off the glass.

The heavy, wooden knife block’s six silver hilts all look at me.

Wrapping my hand around the largest one, I pull out a carving fork, and reach the next one and find its pair.

I skewer the meat and begin to carve, taking off the burnt ends and hoping there’s still some tender meat near the middle. We might be lucky.

Next, I take the bread and begin constructing the roast beef sandwiches, smearing mustard I found in the fridge across the bread, slicing the tomato and adding to the beef.

“That does not look like the meal I diligently helped to prepare.”

My eyes snap up to Everett leaning on the door jamb of the kitchen.

“No, it’s not. I improvised as the rest of the dinner is now roasted to your lovely cookware.

A picnic in front of the fire will have to do.

” He raises a brow at me as if questioning my decision.

I point my knife. “You were the one who distracted us in the music room. You should just be grateful I was able to do anything with this. I hope you like your meat well done.” I lift the plate up to him.

“Wine? Although I’m not sure where your glass got to. ”

He steps around me to take another glass from the cabinet and pours himself a glass from the open bottle on the side.

“Wine and sandwiches,” he states. “Can’t say that’s one I’ve had before in this place.”

“Come on.” I scoff, leading the way back out and into the living room. The fire’s in need of attention, so I encourage it with the metal poker in the ornate rack, adding two more logs from the pile, and sit back on the puffed sofa to admire my handiwork.

“If you’d asked me a couple of days ago if this is what I’d be doing over the weekend, I’d never have guessed,” I muse.

Everett takes a seat next to me and throws one of his arms over the back of the seat before crossing his leg at the knee, content to watch me, apparently. The food forgotten for now.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice a little softer, wondering if he’ll share.

“Yes.”

“Can I ask you another question?”

“You can always ask. It’s whether I’ll answer or not that’s the fun bit.” He looks over and grins at me.

“Fun or frustrating, maybe. You said you wanted to talk. Did you mean that?” I hold my breath waiting for what answer I’ll get. I’m giving him an out but hoping he won’t take it.

“I did. This place has a certain… effect on me.”

“Then why did you bring me here? And I know what we said about compatibility, but we could have done that anywhere.”

He takes a breath. And for a moment, I don’t think he’s going to answer. “You asked if I had good memories here? If I was happy?”

“Yes.”

“There were times that were good. Happy memories. But they were only a small part of my childhood here.”

The confession has my heart squeezing in my chest.

“I’m so sorry. My childhood might have been less, compared to all of this, but I have nothing but fond memories.”

“You’re lucky, then. Doesn’t explain everything about you, though.”

“What do you mean?” My brows furrow a little, and I turn to take the plate and pick up the sandwich, hunger winning out.

“So many of our behaviours and attachments, how we even view the world, are formed in childhood. Experiences when we are little ripple out and influence everything in our adult life.” His words are careful, almost testing, as if he’s coaxing me to say something when I thought this was about him telling me about his life here.

“Are you asking me a question or explaining something to me?”

“Both.”

“What happened to open and honest communication? Or does that only apply to when you’re instructing me to fuck you with my mouth or touch myself for your pleasure?” I challenge.

But all it does is cause him to grin a wicked smile at me.

“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t just for my pleasure, darlin’,” I hold his gaze, refusing to melt at the name. “Have I told you how much it turns me on when you turn a little feisty?”

“Stop flirting.” Don’t crack. Don’t crack.

“You make it too easy, Andie.” Another smile.

I shake my head in frustration, my appetite gone. It wasn’t that good, anyway. Standing, I take my plate, fetch his and head back to the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” he calls after me.

“Tidying away. And then maybe to bed. It’s been a funny day.”

“Pouting? It doesn’t suit you.” He calls after me.

The crack of the china plates hitting the worksurface echoes in the kitchen, and I roll my eyes before walking back into the lounge.

“Stop it. Just… stop. Tell me something real. Something true, or whatever this was for will be a waste of time.” I hold his eyes, hoping he sees that I’m being brave and serious.

There’ve been too many hoops, too many conditions, and that was okay when I thought I was getting something in return, but…

He stands from his seat on the sofa and walks over to me, lifts my hand and wraps it in his to lead us out of the room.

“My father was a cruel and bitter man. That was one of his rooms. He’d stay locked away in his study or in there, keeping me out.

Alone. He acted like any shred of kindness was a form of weakness and challenged anything close to it with ruthless barbarity.

The fire in the lounge was a nice gesture, but if you want me to be open with you, it’s not going to happen in there, no matter how warm you try to make it. ”

“Oh, okay.” I give his hand a small squeeze, pleased he’s given me something. And I’m not surprised he leads us back into the music room.

He drops my hand and makes short work of uncovering the furniture hidden beneath several of the dust sheets. An older style two-seater sofa that looks worn and used is revealed, as well as a small fireplace that the seat is positioned in front of.

He repeats the process I did earlier of setting the wood and logs and lighting the fire.

“There. Much better.”

I look around, my eyes lingering on the dark piano and what he did to me, and what he told me to do earlier.

The final sheet reveals an old drinks cart with cut glass decanters, still with amber and golden liquid inside.

I gawk at him. “You have a bar in your childhood music room?”

“The teacher was fond of a tipple. And, when we got older, what can I say.” He winks at me as he takes one of the tumblers on the cart and gives it a blow, as if that will clean it of dust, and pours himself a good measure of the darker liquid.

“Who’s we?” I ask, joining him.

He hands me the glass, and I eye it suspiciously. “What?”

“Who’s we? You said when we got older,” I repeat, taking a sniff of the potent-smelling alcohol.

“I was known to have a friend or two. Despite Father’s best efforts.

It was… hard. Being here, no motherly comfort or compassion.

You learn to rely on only yourself.” He sloshes an even bigger measure into his glass and knocks it back, as I widen my eyes in shock.

He’s always been so controlled about drinking, yet here…

“This room was the place where I could be myself. The only place I found any sort of connection to anything and anyone. Because living here, you were left to fend for yourself. The weak don’t survive.”

He pours another drink and goes back to the fire, adding more wood and stoking the bed to encourage the flames.

A distraction, perhaps, as he avoids any eye contact with me, but I take the time to digest the words he’s shared.

It certainly paints this home in a bleak light, and my first impressions of this place start to shift.

“When did she die?” I ask, and his eyes whip to mine and look stunned at my question. “Your mother.” I add softly, but the sickened look on his face makes me regret voicing the obvious I’ve deduced.