Emma eased herself into the overstuffed armchair Brogan had angled into the nook, the dreamy haze of serenity across her beautiful features making her look like some sort of pensive painting. “Phenomenal.”
“It’s not the expansive sea view you have at your place.”
“But, it’s so perfectly . . . here.” She shook her head. “Do you know what I mean? Your view right here, the stone buildings, the cascading roofs, the water sparkling as it snakes its way around the village. This window captures the essence of this place, like your room captures your essence.”
Brogan couldn’t speak. Whatever words a person could say in response to such a beautiful sentiment, she didn’t know them. Instead, she stood transfixed in the doorway of her own bedroom trying to burn those words and the image of the woman who’d spoken them into her mind.
The silence must’ve grown awkward, because Emma rose, and blushing, said, “I’m sorry. I made myself at home in your bedroom.”
Brogan tried to say “no problem,” but only managed a little squeaking noise.
“Just like I made myself at home in your kitchen, and your car.” Emma’s cheeks were bright pink now. “I’m not normally like this. I mean, most people think I’m a total hermit, but somehow I keep barging in on you. All I wanted was to do something nice to thank you for all the other times, but I totally monopolized your time and energy, and you end up having to cook me dinner while I try to commandeer your personal space.”
Brogan found her voice. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” Emma’s tone neared panic level again. “I saw what you did down there in the kitchen. That dinner is not nothing. I think it’s mini Beef Wellingtons.”
“Well, yeah, it’s definitely that, but I had the food anyway. It doesn’t take anything to share it with someone I enjoy being around.”
The last part seemed to pull Emma up short. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, not ‘really the food’ part. ‘Really’ as in the ‘you enjoy being around me’ part?”
“Yes,” Brogan said more emphatically. “You’re smart, and you have a quirky sense of humor, and I like your way with words. You paint pictures with them even when you’re describing things I look right past every day.”
Emma’s shy smile returned. “Words are sort of my thing.”
“Good, because they aren’t mine, but I like it when you talk to me while I cook, or drive, or sail. It’s nice.”
“Nice.” Emma mused, all the argument gone from her voice. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes, I will stay and eat your food, and drink your wine, because, duh, and we’ll call tonight even because of my serious talking skills, but you have to promise to let me take you out next time, to some place you don’t work. Some place nice, and different.”
“Yes, of course, because of . . . what did you say? ‘Because, duh’?”
Emma grinned. “Totally logical explanation, duh.”
“Same for me. Name the time and the place, and I’ll let you take me there.” The promise was out before both her heart and her brain had time to protest the open nature of the pledge in unison.
“The castle,” Emma blurted.
“Which one?”
Emma scrunched up her face. “Oops, it never occurred to me there’d be more than one. Damn you, England, and your long, proud history. Um, the one where Lady Victoria lives?”
“Ah,” Brogan said, her stomach sinking. “Penchant Castle. That is the castle around here, if you’re looking for places people actually still live and function.”
“Yes, function. I’ve been invited to a function there. A cocktail hour for artists, by personal invitation from Lady Victoria, at Penchant Castle.” Emma said the words castle and lady as if they were exceedingly luxurious. “A week from Friday. It’ll be my first trip to a castle.”
Brogan’s stomach clenched. It would not be her first trip to a castle, particularly that castle, but Emma seemed enamored of the idea, and proud to be able to offer an experience that must feel entirely impressive to her. Brogan couldn’t possibly disappoint her, not after everything she’d overcome to reach this point of excitement.
“You will go with me, won’t you?” Emma asked, her eyes hopeful.
“Of course.” Brogan forced a smile. “I’d love to.”
Emma bounced up to her and placed a quick kiss right on her cheek. “I’m so glad.”
Glad was not exactly the feeling Brogan experienced as they headed back down the stairs. She wasn’t sure what the feeling was, something akin to the sensations she associated with her sailboat cresting over a wave that was bigger than she’d expected, equal parts exhilaration and seasickness, but since Emma was probably the only person she knew who’d have a word to describe the sensation, she decided to simply leave it at “glad.”
£ £ £
“That’s one of the top five best meals of my entire life,” Emma said, pushing back from the table so she wouldn’t take a third Beef Wellington, but that didn’t stop Brogan from trying to push another one onto her plate. She groaned, a mix of temptation and overstuffedness. “Mercy, please. If I eat any more, I’ll explode. My stomach doesn’t know what to do with all this solid food.”
Brogan relented and put the pastry pocket back on the serving plate, but she did look awfully pleased with herself.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d start to worry you were fattening me up for some weird Hansel and Gretel scheme.”
“It’s not like you have to watch your figure.”
“I used to,” Emma said earnestly, “and I will again if I keep eating your cooking. I have no idea how I’d fit into my pants if I ate this ravenously at every meal. As it is, I’m not sure how I’ll manage to walk home tonight.”
“There’s no rush,” Brogan said kindly.
“You say that now, but we’ll see how you feel when you wake up to me still sitting at this table because I haven’t yet managed to digest my first non-pastry-centric meal since before Christmas.”
“If you’re still here in the morning, I’ll make you breakfast, too.”
“Then you’d never be rid of me.” Emma fought off a yawn as the words started to shift from teasing to wishful. She felt cozy and sleepy and comfortable at Brogan’s table with a full belly and a warmth at her core from more than the wine. “I could sleep right here, and then in the morning I could sit in the little nook upstairs and write a story about a woman from the past who sailed across the sea to escape a life that wasn’t hers anymore. She’d brave the high seas until she couldn’t take the turmoil any longer, and she’d sail up that little river to shelter from a storm . . .” Her voice trailed off and her eyes widened at the multiple implications of what had just happened.
Brogan watched her, eyes intent and curious.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” Brogan whispered. “Go on.”
Emma bit her lip, unsure if she should, and yet unable to stop herself. “She’d meet a local fisherman who’d teach her the language and the water, and make her the most amazing foods she’d never had before.”
Brogan smiled almost sadly. “But you wouldn’t want her to lose herself.”
“No,” Emma said seriously. “She’d have to find herself before she could commit to someone else.”
“How would she do that?” Brogan asked softly, as if she didn’t want to press too hard but did genuinely want to know the answer.
Emma shook her head. “I don’t know. I never know the answers when I start writing. I only have the questions.”
“You don’t know the endings to your own books?”
Emma smiled. “That would ruin the adventure. Who wants to know the end before they begin?”
“What if she gets lost? What if she gets homesick? What if she gets her heart broken?”
“She will,” Emma said emphatically. “She has to. It’s all part of the process. How will she know how strong she is if she’s not teste
d? No one wants a book where the character is the same person at the end as she was on the first page.”
“You understand a lot about how these things have to work.”
“You do, too,” Emma said, marveling at the truth of the statement. “You went right there with me.”
“I don’t know anything about writing books.” Brogan shook her head, and a strand of red hair fell across her pale forehead.
Emma fought the urge to reach across the table. She wanted to push it back, to run her fingers through that copper mop.
“All I did was ask questions,” Brogan continued, oblivious to where Emma’s mind had wandered.
“That’s all writing really is, asking questions,” she explained. “What if? Who would? How could? Why not? Then going in search of the answers.”
“That’s where you’d lose me. I don’t know the answers.”
“And that’s beautiful. You didn’t try to pretend you did, but you went there with me anyway. I said something silly, just the voice of a daydream, and you didn’t skip a beat. You didn’t blink or hesitate or poke fun. You were right there searching beside me.” She didn’t say that Amalie had hated those kinds of non sequiturs, that she hated Emma checking out in the middle of normal conversations, that she always found her adventure stories frivolous and resented the way they detracted from more serious discussion of depth and craft. Amalie wasn’t here anymore. Brogan was. And Brogan was profoundly different. “You didn’t try to rein me in.”
“Of course not,” Brogan said softly. “Why would I?”
Emma smiled and finished the last of her wine. “Another simple question that pushes me gently forward. Do you know I haven’t written more than a few sentences since my . . . well, for a very long time?”
“Do you feel like you could now?”
Emma sat still for a moment, listening to herself, paying attention to the pressure stirring in her chest and picturing the lonely river curling around the village. “I think I might.”
“Then you have to go,” Brogan said, pushing back from the table.
“What? No,” Emma said quickly. “I’m going to help you with the dishes.”
“Don’t be silly. You admitted you have the urge to do some-thing important, something that matters to you, something you’ve missed for a long time. Where’s the adventure in passing that up for dirty dishes? Your character will be so disappointed if she never gets to board her ship because you had house chores.”
Emma’s eyes filled with tears, suddenly overwhelmed by Brogan’s easy, unassuming support, her faith in her, and complete acceptance that a woman who’d only minutes ago come into existence in Emma’s mind deserved her chance to fly.
She rose slowly and met Brogan at the door, then, clasping her callused hand between both of her own, managed to say, “You have no idea what this conversation means to me.”
Brogan smiled. “Someday you’ll have to tell me.”
Another perfect response. Emma didn’t even have the inclination to question herself as she released Brogan’s hand, and instead tenderly cupped her face. “Someday soon.”
Then she leaned forward enough to press their lips together. It was a soft kiss, but as a single question could spark a character into existence, this kiss sparked something new and thrilling in her.
Brogan’s lips were strikingly soft. Clearly surprised, she didn’t immediately respond, but neither did she pull away, her breath warm and tinged with the remnants of red wine. She was tender, sweet, with the hint of potential for much more. Brogan did what she did so well in so many situations. She stood, steady and strong, neither pushing nor retreating. The kiss and the woman offered calm, steady assurance that whatever Emma needed was right and welcome. And when Emma stepped back, Brogan did, too.
Their eyelids fluttered open at the same time, and a hesitant smile tugged at Emma’s lips as she watched a haze clear from Brogan’s green eyes. Then, ignoring the questions forming there and in her own core, she made a silent decision to set them aside until later, to savor the perfect end to the perfect evening.
“Goodnight, Brogan.”
“Goodnight, Emma.”
“Thank you, again, for everything.”
Brogan’s smile returned with a hint of bemusement. “No. Thank you.”
And with that Emma stepped out into ancient streets feeling almost completely new.
Chapter Ten
Brogan was still sitting at her dining-room table, a new bottle of wine half gone by the time Charlie came through the doorway where Emma had kissed her.
“Drinking alone? That’s the sign of a problem,” he said cheekily. “Thankfully I’m home now, so if we polish off the bottle together, we go from alcoholics to upper class.”
She snorted and pushed the bottle across the table to him.
He picked up the other glass on the table, then stopped and held it up to the light, where they could both see a few drops of wine still in the bottom and the faint print of Emma’s lips on the rim. The same lips that had recently pressed against her own, though Charlie didn’t know that. Then again, judging by his slow smile, he was starting to have his suspicions. Still, he didn’t know who the glass had belonged to, and he didn’t hazard any guesses as he took a clean one from the cupboard before making himself a plate of the food she’d left out for him.
“That smells wicked good,” he said, setting the plate on the table.
“You could heat it up.”
He waved her off. “The tatties are still a bit warm, and I’m ready to tuck in.”
She supposed that was his way of saying it was good enough for who it was for, which she supposed had also been true enough the first time around, given how the evening had ended. She couldn’t say she understood, even after over an hour of pondering the kiss, but she must have done something right.
Or wrong.
Her assessment wavered with each glass of wine.
“So,” Charlie said, as he finished chewing his first bite of beef. “You got a friend in town for the weekend?”
She shook her head slowly, and he raised an eyebrow but wasn’t curious enough to ask more before jamming a forkful of potatoes into his mouth. Her social life wasn’t his top concern right now, and he was taking the piss out of her to entertain himself while he ate. If she told him to drop the subject, he’d likely tease her a bit without asking any more questions. Likewise, if she changed the subject, he’d roll with it. And yet she still chose to say, “Emma Volant came over for dinner.”
That got his attention, and he swallowed before he’d finished chewing. With a little cough, he managed to sputter, “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Yeah.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “But you said, I mean, you told everyone you weren’t interested in her.”
“I wasn’t. I mean, I’m not. I didn’t ask her out, not really.”
“She just showed up and demanded you make her Beef Wellington? Damn, those Americans are a pushy lot.”
“Little bit.” She smiled faintly. “No, she brought me biscuits to thank me for teaching her to drive last week and taking her to tea in Warkworth, and since I had the food out already, I invited her to stay. Friendly though, no expectations.”
Charlie nodded. “Right, totally casual, like how you slipped in the part about driving lessons and taking her out to a super posh afternoon tea. Got it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Both those things were also unplanned outings.”
He sipped his wine. “Right. Sometime you’ll have to explain to me how you end up on all these unplanned dates with beautiful millionaires you’re not interested in, but for now, carry on.”
“No, that’s it. She stayed for dinner, we chatted about the village a bit and writing, and then she went home.”
He nodded but didn’t speak, even after he’d swallowed his last potato. He kept staring at her.
“What?” Brogan asked, shifting in her chair.
“I’m waiting for you to finish the l
ast part of the story.”
“What makes you think there’s more to the story?”
“I don’t know, just something about my sister sitting in a dark kitchen polishing off a bottle of wine alone. It’s a bit too maudlin for a Monday night dinner with a friend. What gives?”
“Nothing.”
“Right, you’re super not bovvered,” he said with sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Are you in a funk over this woman who wants to be friends?”
“No.”
“It’s all right. I’ve been there before, lots of times, the friend zone. It’s not the end of the world.”
“That’s not quite it.”
“You wanted to convert tonight and got shot down?” he asked. “’Cause I’ve been there, too.”
“Nope.”
He rolled his eyes. “She give you the brush off? Say she can’t see you anymore? ’Cause once again, I’ve got experience.”
“She kissed me,” Brogan finally said.
Both his eyebrows shot up. “Say again?”
“She kissed me. We had this totally platonic evening and seriously just talked about her job when she up and tells me I can’t know what it means to her, and then she kissed me. Not like a full-on snog, but a real kiss, on the mouth, and it lasted longer than a three-count for sure.”
“And then what?”
“She said goodnight.”
“What did you say?”
“Goodnight.”
“That’s it?”
She nodded. “Well, earlier in the evening I’d agreed to be her plus one at a reception Lady Victoria is hosting for local artists up at the castle.”
He sat back. “Are you fecking joking?”
She shook her head.
“I went to uni for years. I did internships and shadowed football coaches in Sunderland, but I’m up at the castle mowing those people’s grass all day and tilling up their flower beds and coming home covered in their dirt. You cook one dinner and get invited into the state rooms for drinks with Lady Victoria?”
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