Sense of Place

by N. R. Walker

  Well, we had dropped the ‘fucking’ prefix, but kept the Winston.

  No matter what we called it, it was home.

  During the course of construction, Cooper would bring something home, be it a small floor rug, or a frame for the wall, and when I’d ask him who it was for, he’d smile and answer, “Winston.”

  It was like the small cottage became a living entity, another person, and in many ways, I guess it did. Winston was a huge part of our lives.

  Even if we only spent every other weekend there, or any vacations we could, it was home. Sometimes, when work allowed, we’d base ourselves there. It was serene, peaceful—it was a part of us. I’d asked Cooper to design it, to decorate it, so it was indicative of both of us, and he’d done it well.

  It was a place that as soon as you walked through the front door, you felt at ease. It was like pulling on an old favourite pair of jeans, or a favourite sweater. It was comfort, it was familiar and it was…home.

  Just as he’d said it should be, it was now warm timbers, slate floors, rugs and rustic stonework. Books, plans and maps adorned the walls. It was perfect.

  I pulled my car in behind Cooper’s. He’d driven up earlier today, saying he could work from home while I had some meetings in the City, and I told him I’d meet him here.

  I walked in, taking in the familiar smell and the warmth of the fire, and headed straight for Cooper’s favourite room, knowing that was where I’d find him.

  He turned from his drawing board, and smiled at me as I walked in. “Hey, you.”

  “Hey, handsome,” I replied, kissing him softly. He had on a long-sleeved knitted top and jeans, and was looking particularly comfortable.

  He sighed contentedly and looked up at me. “You ready for tomorrow?”

  “I am so ready,” I said, taking off my glasses. A testament to my age and too much time looking at computer screens, my failing eyesight now required glasses. I was almost afraid to show him, but Cooper loved them on me.

  Cooper took the pair of glasses from me, folded them and rested them on the lip of his drawing board. “Sofia called,” he said. “Mom, Dad and Max are on their way.”

  I smiled, and kissed the top of his head. “Ryan and Bianca are driving up after work,” I said. “And Jennifer will be here in the morning.”

  Cooper smiled again. “Isn’t it against tradition for us to see each other in the morning?”

  I kissed him softly. “I don’t care much for tradition.”

  We were having a small ceremony here at the cabin. Our guests, who consisted mostly of family, were staying at the Casa, thanks to Sofia’s generous offer. Everyone had pretty much organised the entire thing for us, including the catering and decorations. All Cooper and I basically had to do was be here.

  “I can’t wait to marry you,” he said reverently. “I wish it was happening today.”

  “You’re so impatient,” I said with a smile.

  “It’s a Gen Y thing, remember?”

  “How could I ever forget?”

  “Did you remember the rings?” he asked.

  I resisted rolling my eyes. I pulled a small box out of my pocket. “Want to see them?”

  Cooper’s eyes lit up, and he nodded. So I opened the box for him, and he took out both metal bands. He’d picked them out, but we’d needed them resized, so I’d added a surprise engraving. I waited for him to notice it then he looked at me.

  Written inside both bands were three words.

  “Et cor domum,” I murmured. “It’s what you are to me.”

  His eyes darted to mine. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s Latin,” I murmured. “It means ‘heart and home’.”

  Cooper’s eyes softened and he smiled, almost tearful. “Oh, Tom. It’s perfect. That’s what you are, that’s exactly what you are.”

  I leant down and kissed him softly. “Heart and home.”

  “Always.”

  Coming Soon from Totally Bound Publishing:

  Taxes and TARDIS

  N.R. Walker

  Released 21st March 2014

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Traffic on a Friday afternoon in the central business district was hell. After two laps around the block, I finally found a parking space. I pulled my truck into the too-damned-small spot, grabbed the old shoebox off the front seat and walked quickly back to my intended destination.

  It wasn’t very often I ventured into the business district. And as I walked into the building fronted by glass, I remembered why. My reflection was a stark reminder of just how underdressed I was. Compared to the expensive suits walking around filled with their own importance, my work boots and plaid overshirt were somewhat outclassed.

  Following the signs, I walked down the expensive hall to the expensive office with the expensive desk. “Brent Kelly,” I said, introducing myself to the receptionist. “I have a three o’clock appointment.” I looked at my watch. “Which I’m a little late for.”

  I smiled apologetically at her, hoping my scruffy blond hair, dark blue eyes and three-day growth would come off as rugged charm. I knew my looks could work in my favour with most women. Not my usual intended target, but hey, whatever worked.

  She looked at me, my clothes, and the box in my hand, and she smiled. “Take a seat, Mr Kelly,” she offered kindly. “Logan will be with you shortly.”

  Logan. My new accountant.

  I hadn’t believed it when I’d phoned my old accountant to make my annual tax appointment and been told she’d been taken ill. I’d used the same accountant for years—she understood that I was hopeless, and now I had to explain that I was accounting-challenged to someone new. All her clients were being referred to new accountants downtown. Well, they weren’t new—they were just new to me. They were quite old and reputable, and I could just picture this Logan as a bean-counting dinosaur.

  My accounts were a shambles. I knew that, and so did my old accountant. I’d gone to her for years. I’d hand over my shoebox of receipts and tax invoices with a warm smile, and she’d just do it all for me. Now I’d have to start from scratch, explaining everything to this new guy.

  I was going to be there for hours.

  “Mr Kelly?” I looked up to see the receptionist now standing in front of me. “Logan will see you now,” she said with a professional smile. She walked towards the open door at the other end of the room, and I presumed I was to follow.

  She led me down the dark mahogany hall and about halfway down the corridor, she showed me into a dark office with a wall of books where a guy sat behind the desk, scribbling in a file. With another professional smile, and not another word, the receptionist turned and left, and there I was standing in front of a desk and a guy who still hadn’t even looked up.

  I cleared my throat nervously. “Um…”

  Only then did he look at me. “Yes, Mr Kelly, please take a seat.”

  I noticed his English accent first. Then the fact that he wasn’t old like I’d presumed he would be. In fact, he didn’t look any older than me, maybe twenty-four, twenty-five. He had short, dark brown hair, pink lips and blue-grey eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses.

  He looked at me for half a second, blinked, and looked back down at his paperwork. Typical pen-pusher. Typical bean-counter.

  Nerd.

  Geek.

  I rolled my eyes in frustration, took a seat across from him and put my shoebox on the seat next to me. “Sorry I was late. I got held up at work then traffic into the city was bad. Took forever to find a parking space.”

  He looked up from his desk at me. “That’s okay.” Then he cleared his throat and shook his head. “I’ve been going through your files sent over from your previous accountant,” he said casually, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I thought the shoebox might have been an exaggeration.” He smiled, as though he found me amusing.

  I sighed. “Uh…no. It’s been my filing system for years…”

  “Yes, that’s what it says here,” he said, ta
pping the file in front of him.

  “Oh.” I couldn’t help being a bit embarrassed. “Yeah, um… Accounts are not my forte.”

  He pulled out a clean piece of paper, pushed his glasses back up on his nose, and looked at me. “So, Mr Kelly—” he started.

  “Please, call me Brent.”

  “Okay, Brent, I’ll need some background information.”

  So I started at the beginning. I told him I was an electrician by trade, self-employed and subcontracted to one of the biggest construction companies in San Antonio.

  He asked questions about superannuation, taxes and insurance. He pulled my shoebox over and started leafing through the mess inside while he talked about income, expenditures, write-offs and whatever else, stopping every now and then only to push his glasses up on his nose.

  His accent made everything he said sound musical and soft, which was a weird thing for me to notice. As was the colour of his shirt. It was a normal long-sleeved business shirt, but it was the bluest blue I thought I’d ever seen. He wore a darker blue tie and had a black vest on over the top.

  I watched his fingers, his long, slender fingers, as he tapped them lightly on the page in front of him, and how he held the pen, and I watched his lips as he spoke. He had pink, even lips, and his pale British skin was like cream. He really wasn’t my type at all. I’d never been one for the studious kind. I preferred the athletic, adventurous type, but I found myself staring at him.

  I didn’t know why I couldn’t stop staring as he spoke, the way his lips moved, his accent—God, his accent—how the too-blue shirt looked against his slender, pale neck, how the shirt highlighted the flecks of blue in his eyes, how his glasses didn’t make him look geeky, just smarter, cuter. I stared at him as he talked numbers, wondering…daydreaming… fantasising about what he smelt like, what he tasted like…

  “Brent?”

  My name snapped my attention back to what he was saying, rather than where my mind had just gone. I shook my head. “Yeah?”

  “I asked if you’d categorised your tax holdings?”

  “I’m sorry.” I shrugged. “You lost me at superannuation.”

  He smiled and put down his pen. He really did have a pretty smile. “It’s obvious you’re not interested—”

  “Yes, I am,” I said too quickly, interrupting him. Interested? In him? Oh, hell…

  He blinked, seemingly surprised by my quick response. “Interested in your accounts?”

  “Um, I try to be,” I said with a shrug, looking around the room. “It’s just that I’m not very good at it.”

  “Hmm,” he hummed with a thoughtful nod. “This will take some time…” he murmured, though I think it was more to himself than to me. His long, delicate fingers rubbed over the smooth skin of his jaw. “I guess I could work on it over the weekend.”

  “I don’t want to be a bother,” I told him honestly. One eyebrow lifted behind the dark rim of his glasses, as though he didn’t believe me. “If there’s anything I can do…” I stopped talking when I realised how stupid I sounded. “Well…” I cleared my throat. “If there’s anything I can do besides being better at my accounts.”

  He looked at me and grinned. I think he almost laughed.

  I nodded with a chuckle. “Yeah, I’m really not very good at anything with numbers.”

  He chuckled that time and looked pointedly at the shoebox of receipts. “I can see that.”

  I smiled at him and nodded, and in that moment of silence when I shouldn’t have said anything, I opened my mouth. “Your shirt is really blue.”

  He blinked, taken aback by my not-related-to-accounts comment. “Oh,” he mumbled, a little embarrassed. “It was a birthday gift from my sister.”

  “It’s very blue. Is it like a peacock blue?” God, why couldn’t I just shut up?

  “Um, no.” He shifted in his seat. “It’s TARDIS blue.”

  TARDIS…TARDIS…what the hell was a TARDIS? “TARDIS?”

  He swallowed loudly. “Time and Relative Dimension in Space,” he murmured. “The telephone box from Doctor Who.”

  “Really?” I snorted. Was he kidding? Oh, my God, no, he really wasn’t.

  He stared at me, unmoving, and mumbled, “Yes. I happen to like Doctor Who.”

  Oh, fuck. “Sure,” I amended. “I’m sure it’s great. It’s just that I’m not that familiar with it, that’s all.” I groaned inwardly. Talk about awkward. I changed the subject. “So about these accounts…”

  He pushed his glasses back up on his nose. “I’ll have a look over them this weekend,” he told me.

  “Um, I don’t want to interrupt your plans.” Then because my brain-to-mouth filter was on vacation, I said, “If your girlfriend doesn’t mind…” His eyes widened as the stupidity poured out of my mouth, so I tried to fix it. “Or your boyfriend. I mean I don’t want you to think you have to do it this weekend. I’m sure I can take my box of stuff and sort them, at least…”

  His mouth fell open in shock, and he blinked. Twice.

  “Oh, Jesus,” I mumbled, horrified. “Sorry…”

  He blinked again.

  I closed my eyes, wishing that my stupidity would just disappear. “Sorry. I didn’t… I mean…” I groaned, and taking a deep breath, I started again. “How about I take these,” I said, reaching out and picking up my old shoebox off the desk, “and give the office a call when I have them sorted?” I stood up, mortified at my inability to think or speak in front of this guy, and walked towards the door.

  “Brent?”

  I turned around, thinking he’d tell me he’d hand my files over to another accountant. He surprised me by walking around the desk towards me. And there we stood, facing each other, him in his expensive suit pants and vest, and me in my dirty work clothes and boots, with my stupid mouth. He reached out and took the shoebox from me. “I’ll take these,” he said, clearly amused.

  I wasn’t expecting him to be as tall as me. His height surprised me, and as I opened my mouth to say something, only more stupid came out. “You’re tall.”

  He laughed at me, and I wished the ground would open up and swallow me whole. But then I was suddenly aware of how close he was, and how he matched my six-foot height, how his eyes were in direct line with mine. He was still smiling. “Do you always struggle in social situations?”

  I looked into his blue-grey eyes and shook my head slowly. “Not normally, no.”

  He stared at me, tilting his head to the side. “And to answer your assumption before, no, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Neither do I,” I blurted out. Then I let out an embarrassed huff and tried to talk some sense. “Have a boyfriend, that is. I mean, yes, I’m gay, but I’m not seeing anyone.”

  And he smiled at me. Not an I’m-glad-you’re-single kind of smile, but more of an I’m-smiling-because-you’re-an-idiot kind of smile.

  I shook my head. Me, Brent Kelly, who played football, who could pick up any guy with just a suggestive nod, was being bent all out of shape by a bean-counting nerd.

  A tall, delicate bean-counting nerd. A totally cute, funny, really smart, British bean-counting nerd with pink lips and long fingers. And a TARDIS-coloured shirt.

  Still smiling, he walked back to his desk. “I have your details if I need anything else,” he told me. But then he put down the shoebox and picked up a business card. “This is me,” he said, handing me the small slip of cardboard. He pushed his glasses back up his nose. “If you need to contact me, you can phone my cell out of hours.”

  And just like that, he very smoothly gave me his number.

  I took the card and read his name. “Well, Logan Willis, BCA, I might just do that.”

  The corner of his mouth almost lifted in a smile, but he tilted his head as though he was trying to figure something out. His eyes were intense behind his glasses, like he was trying to find the answers on my face.

  I stared back at him, wondering what he was looking for, and I wondered what he found when he huffed quietly and shook hi
s head. “Okay, then,” he said with a puzzled smile.

  “Okay, then,” I repeated with a nod.

  I left him with the shoebox of receipts and papers, took his phone number with me, and went home on a mission. I really needed to ease the ache in my dick. And I really, really needed to find out what the fuck a TARDIS was.

  Order your copy here

  About the Author

  Who am I? Good question…

  I am many things; a mother, a wife, a sister, a writer.

  I have pretty, pretty boys who live in my head, who don’t let me sleep at night unless I give them life with words. I like it when they do dirty, dirty things…but I like it even more when they fall in love.

  I used to think having people in my head talking to me was weird, until one day I happened across other writers who told me it was normal. I’ve been writing ever since…

  Email: nrwalker2103@gmail.com

  NR loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.

  Also by N.R. Walker

  Turning Point: Point of No Return

  Turning Point: Breaking Point

  Thomas Elkin: Elements of Retrofit

  Thomas Elkin: Clarity of Lines

  Totally Bound Publishing

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Dedication

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Publisher Page