Unpredicted Love (Love in Lockdown

Chronicles Book 2) L.S. Pullen

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UNPREDICTED LOVE
L.S. PULLEN
Copyright © 2022 by L.S. Pullen

Unpredicted Love
Text copyright © 2022 L.S. Pullen
All Rights Reserved
Published by: L.S. Pullen

Edited by: Lindsey Powell Editing

Proofread by: Crystal Blanton
Cover Design & Formatting by: Leila Pullen
Photo: Licensed Stock
The right of L.S. Pullen to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the copyright, Designs
and patents act 1988.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters in this publication are fictional and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
 Dedication

To anyone who has ever been bullied or ostracised.

 Contents

Quote
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Epilogue

Letter to Reader
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by L.S. Pullen
 Quote

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise again.” – Victor Hugo
 Author’s Note

Due to adult content all my books are recommended for readers of 18 years and over.

For detailed CW/TW please visit my Website

Thank you, and happy reading!

 Chapter One

It’s the unfamiliar noise that stirs me from sleep, and at first, I ignore it, but then the sound comes
again.
Footsteps––heavy footsteps.
Surely, I’m imagining it, right?
Seeing as it’s my first night alone in a country cottage, I must be mistaken.
I hold my breath as the sound grows louder, followed by a male voice, but it’s too low to make
out his words.
My hand scrambles around on the bedspread in search of my phone. It’s too dark to see and my
breathing is growing heavier as the footsteps approach louder.
I wrap my fingers around the first thing I come into contact with right before the bedroom door
flies open and light crowds the silhouette in the doorway.
Letting out a strangled scream, I panic and launch it in the direction of the intruder, and a loud
thump follows, along with a curse as the main light flicks on.
My eyes adjust to the light and standing there in the doorway is a gorgeous stranger, blinking
rapidly with his hand rubbing against his forehead.
“What the fuck?” he questions.
I break out of my trance and manage to locate my phone.
“Stay where you are.” My hands shake as I dial 999. “I’m calling the police.”
He ignores me and kneels to retrieve the object which socked him straight in the head.
“Is this a fucking dildo?” His eyes flick to mine, slightly unfocused as he moves back into a
standing position, holding Reggie in his hand with a look of utter disbelief. Could this be any more
awkward?
“Did you just hit me with a goddamn dildo?”
My cheeks heat, because yes, it would appear I did.
“Emergency. Which service?”
“Police,” I say, moving from the bed and as far away from the stranger as I can get.
His jaw ticks, his face taking on a hard expression. “Why are you calling the police? You’re the
one who just assaulted me,” he says, angling Reggie towards his chest. Would he put him down
already?
“You broke in,” I say, my voice beginning to sound hysterical as the seriousness of the situation
hits me. Oh my God, he’s going to murder me. That good-looking stranger is about to kill me.
With shortness of breath, I clutch my chest. Becoming lightheaded all of a sudden, I reach out for
the nearest thing to steady myself.
“Shit, are you okay?” The stranger moves towards me, and it only fills me with impending doom.
I’m paralysed as he approaches, and hear the faint sound of the operator on the other end of the line as
they’re talking, but now I can’t catch my breath long enough to speak.
The stranger is now crouched down in front of me. When did I sit down?
He has my phone pressed against his ear as his lips move, but I’m unable to make out his words.
This is so odd, as though I’m detached from reality or in some weird dream.
But if it were a dream, I wouldn’t currently feel like I’m having a heart attack.
“I have no idea, she assaulted me,” he says incredulously, pulling the phone away from his ear
and muttering under his breath. Something about a crazy person.
“Concentrate on your breathing,” he says, calmer with me than the operator on the phone, his
voice a thick velvet baritone. “I promise I won’t hurt you. This is all just a misunderstanding.”
My eyes go to the ever-increasing lump on his head, and I internally cringe as I try to stay focused
and alert. I find myself wanting to believe him, but also, I’m wary. I have no idea who this man is, and
yet he’s trying to pacify me after I threw Reggie at his head. I will never be able to live this down.
Even though my brain is telling me he’s not a threat, my heart rate has shot through the roof and my
anxiety is sky rocketing.
“Breathe in, breathe out,” he says, his voice low and deep.
He exaggerates the breathing until I’m matching his intake and exhale of breath.
I try to focus on the man’s physical appearance.
He has brown hair––no, wait… it’s a brownish red. I watch the way he works his jaw when he
speaks, with his neatly trimmed beard covering his chin and above his top lip. I’ve never found facial
hair attractive until this moment, and I have to stop myself from reaching out to touch it. The soft
russet tone of his brown eyes as he surveys my face calms me enough to slowly bring me back down
from the throes of my anxiety attack.
I don’t know how long it takes, but before I know it, there’s two paramedics and two police
officers here and the entire situation seems so bloody surreal.
“Okay, you seem fine now,” says the paramedic, who then proceeds to check out the stranger.
I hear something about a mild concussion, and I swear I want to crawl into a dark corner and
pretend this never happened.
It turns out, after he pulls up his phone to show the police, he did indeed have a booking for this
cottage too, and he wasn’t breaking in as I had initially thought.
And now I have no idea what to do. The police leave until it’s just the two of us with the
paramedic.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine, but I’d advise you are woken intermittently throughout the remainder of
the night,” she says, looking back to me as though that’s my job.
And to be honest, it kind of is. What else can I do? Kick him out? It’s not his fault I gave him a
concussion by throwing a dildo at his head.
My skin burns with embarrassment, Reggie is still lying where he left it and on view for everyone
to see. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to use it again. Which is a shame because Reggie hasn’t once let
me down.
I nod and thank them as I show them out the door.
Heavy footsteps follow, and when I turn around, I have to tilt my head back to see his face.
 “I’m going to go sleep in my car, get this all sorted out in the morning,” he says, moving to go past
me.
I shake my head. “No, you can’t, you have a concussion. You heard what the paramedic said. I
need to check on you throughout the night.”
His hand moves to his forehead. “You have wicked aim, I’ll give you that,” he’s clearly trying for
light-hearted considering the awkwardness of the situation. “But if we’re going to spend the night
together, I should at least get your full name.”
“Quinn Lawson,” I reply.
He holds out his hand and I stare at it a moment, hesitating before reaching out. He shakes it, firm
but gentle, and I feel the slight brush of his calloused palm.
“Callum Warren.”
He is the first to let go, and I look around wondering how the hell we’ll make this work. It’s a
two-bedroom cottage, but the box room is a makeshift office, which is one of the reasons I knew this
would be the perfect place for me to stay.
“I’ll take the sofa, there’s some linen in the airing cupboard,” he says, already making his way
back upstairs. I follow, keeping a few steps behind him and watch the way his arse hugs his jeans as
he stretches to retrieve the extra bedding.
“How do you know about that?” I point to his arms now holding the duvet and pillow as he turns
to face me.
“I’ve been coming for years,” he says with a slight shrug.
For some reason, the thought puts me at ease. If he’s a regular, there’s less chance he’ll murder
me, right? I mean, the police have seen him after all.
He lets out a low laugh, one that goes straight to my lower stomach.
“I promise you I won’t murder you in your sleep.”
I move out of his way as he goes back downstairs, but I don’t miss the way he wobbles slightly.
“Here. I’ll do that.” I quickly snatch everything from him. “You should sit down.”
He doesn’t argue, but I can feel him watching me as I quickly make up the sofa.
“Okay, all done.” I turn back to face him, and he gives me a warm smile.
And for some stupid reason, I find myself blushing.
“I’ll leave you to you know, and check on you in a bit,” I say before scurrying back upstairs and
into my room, closing the door behind me. I let out a heavy breath. You couldn’t even write this shit.
And with that, I grab my laptop and sit up against the headboard.
 Chapter Two

“Callum, wake up.”

The distant voice is calling to me, but I don’t want to wake up. I’m exhausted.
“Callum.” The voice sounds worried, which brings me to semi consciousness when warm fingers
wrap around my forearm and squeeze gently.
“That feels nice.” I reach out and tug on the hand. My free hand wraps around her arse as I pull
her on top of me. A shocked squeal has my eyes opening when I look up into the face of a goddess
with blonde hair that falls over her shoulders. The most beautiful green eyes blink back at me, and I
groan as her weight bears down on my morning glory.
But reality comes flooding back, I quickly let go of her arse.
“Shit, sorry.” I hold my hands up, surrendering.
She pushes on my chest and moves to sit up, which does nothing for my current predicament. If it
wasn’t for the beautiful flush covering her cheeks and working its way down her throat, I might feel a
tiny bit bad, but I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t a delight to wake up to.
“Sorry, I couldn’t wake you,” she says, breathless and getting to her feet, unable to look at me.
“What time is it?” I move to sit up and instantly regret it when my head pounds. “Fuck.” I bring
my hand to my forehead and rub it gently.
“It’s about five, they said every couple of hours, but you were out for the count, and I started to
worry.”
For some reason, this stranger’s compassion makes my chest constrict and I have to swallow
down the sensation. I remember how she checked on me twice throughout the night, offering me water
and asking me random questions.
“I’m fine, just feel as though I have a killer hangover,” I admit.
She chews on her plump bottom lip. “Can I get you some pain killers, tea, or coffee?”
“Yes, please. Tea wouldn’t go amiss.”
Quinn is already dashing off to the kitchen as I throw off the cover and look down at my shorts
still tenting my morning glory. I reach for my jeans and quickly tug them on and try as best as I can to
hide it, before locating my top and pulling it over my head. Then I grab my toiletry bag and head to the
bathroom.
It takes a minute for my hard-on to calm down enough for me to relieve myself, and then I wash
my face and brush my teeth before I head back downstairs.
 She’s placed a tray on the small coffee table with tea and sugar, along with some toast.
“I didn’t know how you take your tea,” she says, bringing her own up to her lips and taking a
small sip.
“Thank you.” I don’t take sugar, so I just pick it up and blow on it––strong and hot, just how I like
it.
“I thought you might want to eat that before you take those,” she says, pointing at the tablets and
sitting in the oversized armchair, tucking her feet under her, and pulling the throw over her lap.
“You didn’t have to do that but thank you.”
I reach for the toast and take a bite.
“I feel bad about your head.” She watches me as I watch her, and I can’t help but appreciate how
fucking gorgeous she is.
“Yeah, that was some weapon of choice,” I swallow my toast, watching for her reaction.
Her hand goes to her throat as she rubs at the blush. “Oh my God, please don’t remind me.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Something to tell our grandkids one day,” I say with a wink. And if I
thought she was blushing before it has nothing on how red she is now.
“You know you can go back to bed.”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m okay.”
“So, what brings you here?” I ask, sitting back with the plate in my hand as I continue eating.
Picking at the invisible lint on the throw, she nibbles her lip in a nervous way before answering.
“I quit my job and needed to get away for a bit to regroup, I guess.” I can tell there’s more to her
story, but I’m not about to harass her over it.
I lick my lips and then rub the crumbs off my fingers back onto the plate before placing it back on
the table.
“What about you? You said you’ve been coming here for years.”
Picking up the tablets, I knock them back with a mouthful of tea.
“Yeah, it started off with me and my family coming down here in the holidays. We used to stay in
a bigger cottage. When I was eighteen, I needed to get away to hit a deadline for work and they said
this one was available, and I’ve been coming here ever since.”
She sits forward a little. “What do you do?”
I prepare myself for her to give me the typical quizzical look when I answer.
“I’m an author. I write.”
Her eyes go wide, her lips parting. “No shit, I’m working on my first manuscript,” she says,
almost in awe. “I love reading too. What do you write? Maybe I’ve read some of your work.”
“A bit of this and that, romance mainly.” Normally, I don’t even admit that much, because when
people find out I’m a writer they automatically expect me to write horror or thrillers, so when they
find out it’s romance, I’m immediately hit with quizzical looks, and it got to the point where I stopped
answering.
“Wow, that’s amazing. What genre?”
I tilt my head, surprised by her interest and lack of judgement.
“Contemporary romance, urban fantasy, and a couple of other sub genres.”
“Wow, and you publish under Callum… what’s your surname again?”
I roll the mug between my palms. “It’s Callum Warren, but I publish under a pen name.”
Quinn studies me for a moment as I drink my tea.
“Which is?”
I laugh and shake my head but groan when I’m hit with a stabbing pain. What the fuck was that
damn dildo made out of, solid gold? Her face turns guilt ridden when she sees my reaction.
“For me to know and you to find out,” I reply, in the hope she’ll look less contrite over the whole
vibrator incident.
“Fine, be all mysterious,” she says with a twinkle in her eye.
Quinn settles into her chair, and I relax back into the sofa. A comfortable quiet fills the room as I
finish my tea and let out a satisfied sigh and close my eyes.
“Feel free to watch the TV,” I say with a yawn.
She doesn’t reply, but I hear the television come to life as she quickly lowers the volume,
followed by the click of the lamp, and the room is cast in light shadows as they dance over my closed
eyelids.
 Chapter Three

I’m startled awake by the knock at the front door and cover myself in my now cold tea, I let out a
shriek and jump to my feet that are tangled in the throw, and I almost go arse over tit.
“Fuck!”
Callum is on his feet, looking slightly dishevelled as he runs his hand through his hair, his eyes on
my tea covered pyjama top. I quickly pull the material away from my skin.
“I’ll get that.” His voice is rough from sleep as he hooks his thumb over his shoulder.
I nod, unable to form words, still trying to wake up as he opens the front door and daylight fills
the living room. Glancing to my wrist, I see it’s almost nine. We must have fallen back to sleep.
“Bonnie, good to see you,” Callum says, stepping aside and ushering her inside.
I recognise her name from the booking––Bonnie is the owner of the cottage.
“Callum, I think I might have made a mistake,” she says, coming to a halt when she sees me
standing there.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realise you were bringing a lady friend,” she says, turning back to him.
We both try to correct her at the same time, and she looks between us confused.
Callum pulls the curtains open, and the entire room is now covered in light.
“What happened to you, dear? Were you in an accident?” Her worried gaze scans over the
blossoming bruise on his forehead. Fuck, that looks bad.
His cheeks heat just a fraction and I hold my breath, waiting for him to tell her what happened, but
he doesn’t. He takes her hand in his and waves it off. “Oh no, this… it was nothing. Just a little
misunderstanding.”
“Oh yeah, that reminds me,” she says, moving on quickly. “I think I might have double booked the
cottage.”
“Yeah, you did. I was coming to see you about that this morning.”
Her eyes flit to mine. “Are you Quinn?”
I nod and step forward, holding out my hand, not really sure what else to do.
She takes it and covers it with her other hand, and a slight tremble rolls over mine.
“I am so sorry. The electronic mail alerted me to it this morning. I don’t even understand how it
happened.”
I glance to Callum who is trying to not smile at her term for email. She’s probably in her
eighties––her hair is a light grey, with a slender frame.
 “It happens,” I reply, hating how upset she seems to be getting.
“But I already used the money to fix my roof… I don’t know how we can fix this.” There’s a
wobble in her voice and it pulls at my heartstrings.
Callum takes her by the elbow.
“It’s not a problem, Bonnie, honestly.” He ushers her to sit down. “Let me get you some tea,” he
says and my belly flutters at how gentle he is with her.
Callum returns, having switched on the kettle. “Bonnie, how did you get here?” he asks, sitting on
the arm of the sofa.
“I walked, dear.”
“You should have rung,” he says, and it’s clear he not only stays here but holds affection for this
woman too.
She shakes her head. “I forgot about the phone,” she says, almost to herself, and he frowns, a ‘V’
forming between his brows.
“It’s not a problem,” he says, reaching out for her shoulder and squeezing gently.
“Quinn, do you have a second?” He tilts his head towards the kitchen.
I follow him and he looks over my shoulder before he speaks, keeping his voice low.
“Listen, she doesn’t quite seem herself; I’m going to make her a cup of tea and try to get hold of
her son,” he says. “Can you maybe keep her company while I do?”
“Yeah, of course. I’ll just go change into a dry top.”
His eyes roam to my chest and then back to my face. He tries to hide his smile but isn’t very
successful.
The kettle clicks and he turns away, and I take that as my cue to dash upstairs. I grab a bra and a
jumper and glance at my reflection. My nipples are easily visible through the material. It’s not every
day I share a view of my nipples and throw a dildo at a stranger. I quickly change and head back
downstairs, where Callum is squatting in front of Bonnie.
He hears me approach and stands. “Pretty,” he says out of nowhere, and I must pull a face because
he laughs, nodding to my top.
“Your jumper, it’s a pretty colour on you.”
I clear my throat. “Oh, thank you,” I say, taken back.
“Okay, I just need to use the little boys’ room,” he says a little louder, no doubt to make sure
Bonnie heard.
And then I take a seat and smile when Bonnie looks up at me. “Did you want a biscuit with your
tea?” I ask. I brought some bits with me, and I was planning to go and stock the fridge and freezer
later today, but I have no idea how this will pan out now.
“Oh, if you’re offering,” she says, giving me a warm smile.
I pull out the shortbread and grab a plate, taking them back to the living room and placing them in
front of her.
“Oh, Marks and Spencer’s, my favourite,” she says, reaching for one.
She nibbles on the shortbread finger and then looks over to me.
“So how long have you and Callum been courting?”
I shake my head. “No, we’re not dating.”
“Are you friends with benefits?” she asks, and I’m grateful I’m sitting down. “It’s okay, dear. I’m
not judging. Me and my husband were sleeping together before we officially got together back in the
day,” she says, taking another sip of her tea.
“Oh no, I only just met him last night.”
 She waves me off. “Nothing wrong with a one-night stand, either. It’s okay, I’m not a prude, my
love.”
“I’m Quinn, you know, the double booking?” I ask gently.
Bonnie pauses with her tea to her lips and then nods. “Oh, yes, of course, that’s why I came over,”
she says with recognition.
I glance towards the stairs, wondering how long Callum is going to be. I’m a little concerned, I
don’t know if this is usual for her but it’s a little disconcerting to be honest.
“Tell me about your husband,” I ask while we wait.
“He passed away a few years ago,” she says with a wistful sigh. “It’s just me and Nell now.”
I bite my lip. Shit.
“I’m so sorry for your loss. Is Nell your daughter?”
She smiles warmly. “Oh no, she’s our sheepdog. I wouldn’t be without her,”
“I always wanted a dog,” I admit and then glance around the room in awkward silence and then
clear my throat. “This really is the most beautiful cottage.”
The cottage is so idyllic, it’s what drew me to it in the first place. I’d been searching for the
perfect getaway and then this one came up randomly and as soon as I clicked on it, I knew this was
the one for me.
A traditional thatched cottage with exposed beams and a large stone fireplace with a wood
burner––perfection. Don’t even get me started on the entrance hallway with the piano, it makes me
wish I knew how to play anything else other than, ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’.
With a fenced off garden and private parking, it’s just everything you could wish for on paper, and
honestly, reality doesn’t do it justice. It’s nestled in a peaceful riverside village.
Bonnie is deep in regaling me with a story when Callum comes back downstairs. And even though
I hardly know him, I can see he’s a little troubled.
 Chapter Four

I descend the stairs and catch Quinn watching me, and she tilts her head in question, but I shake my
head and join them both in the living room.
“There you are,” Bonnie says, her eyes crinkling when she smiles, and suddenly it hits me how
much she’s aged over the past few years.
“How was your tea?” I ask as she places it back on the saucer.
“It was lovely, your lady friend gave me one of the posh biscuits,” she says. “Sorry, dear, what
did you say your name was again?”
I glance over and see her lips rise in a soft smile. “It’s Quinn,” she replies, her voice patient and
full of warmth.
“That’s right, such a pretty name for a gorgeous girl. Intelligent too.”
She moves to stand and is a bit unsteady, so I reach out for her elbow. “Oh, thank you, dear. I just
wanted to make sure you had everything you needed, Callum. I’d best get back to Malcom, he’ll be
wondering where I got to,” she says, turning to the door.
I don’t correct her; he’s been gone for a few years now. “How about I walk you back, or we can
jump in the car?” I offer.
“It’s not far, but the company would be nice if you want to walk with me.”
She looks back to Quinn. “You have yourself a good gentleman here,” she says, and I mouth
‘sorry,’ but Quinn gives a slight shake of her head and smiles.
“I do, I’m very lucky.”
I’m stunned at her compassion for someone she’s only just met and give her what I hope conveys
as a ‘thank you’ smile as me and Bonnie head to the door.
“I won’t be long,” I say over my shoulder.
“It’s fine, take your time.”
Bonnie’s old farmhouse isn’t that far from the cottage, but it still takes us a good fifteen minutes to
walk. She didn’t bring her walking stick and I’m grateful she didn’t have a fall on her way over.
Her son, Mikey, is my dad’s age, and he gave us all his number after his father died as another
contact because she was adamant she still wanted to have guests stay at the cottage.
He also told me he and his family are stuck in Italy, and due to restrictions, they can’t get back any
time soon. Apparently, Bonnie hasn’t been doing too great the past couple of months and has been
suffering with short term memory loss due to onset dementia. She has carers that come out every other
day.
I told him I’d see what I could do about staying somewhere local to keep an eye on her. We’ve
known their family for years and there’s no way I can leave her like this, and I can’t expect Quinn to
give up the cottage because of the double booking either.
Barking catches my attention and Nell comes running towards us.
I kneel down and rub her behind the ears, she’s about six now but still as lively as ever.
“Nell, I need to take you for a walk,” Bonnie says.
“I can take her.”
She takes hold of my arm as I stand up and squeezes. “Such a good young man,” she says.
I walk her towards her house, and she pats around her pockets for her keys but comes up short.
“Oh my days, I forgot the key,” she says to herself.
I reach over and try the door and it opens. It looks like it was on the latch, and I push it open, but
the smell of burning soon assaults my nose and there’s the beeping of a smoke alarm.
“Wait here,” I say sternly and rush into the house and to the kitchen, which is thick with smoke. I
cough and cover my nose and mouth. Black smoke is billowing from the closed oven door. I turn off
the knobs and seek out the oven gloves and then pull down the door, taking a step back as heat hits
like a hot wave.
Dragging out the oven tray, I quickly toss it into the sink.
“Shit.” I wave away the smoke and then drag a chair over so I can reach the alarm to disconnect
the battery, before slinging the window open.
“Oh dear,” Bonnie says, and I quickly usher her back into the hallway. “I must have left the toast
in the oven.”
I glance back and see the charred remains for what could possibly have been toast.
“No harm done,” I say and walk her to her favourite armchair. “Take a seat and let me go sort it
out.”
She nods and picks up the remote and turns on the TV. Twenty minutes later, the kitchen is cleaned
up and the battery reconnected to the smoke alarm. I make her a cup of tea and take it to her.
“Bonnie, you need to be more careful in the kitchen,” I say, worried it could have been a lot
worse. I’ll have to call Mikey and let him know.
There’s a knock at the door before someone enters, calling out her name.
A woman enters in a smock and smiles when she sees me.
“I’m Nadia,” she says.
“Callum,” I reply.
“I’m here to check on you, Mrs Ambrose.”
Bonnie glances at her and smiles. “Call me Bonnie, dear.”
Nadia nods and then sniffs the air. “A little accident in the kitchen,” I say.
“Oh, everyone okay?” she asks.
I nod and notice she has a medical bag with her and decide it’s best I make myself scarce.
“How about I walk Nell while Nadia is here?”
Bonnie nods and Nadia smiles. “I’ll be with her for an hour or so.”
After grabbing Nell’s lead, I take her and head back to the cottage.
As soon as I walk inside, I’m hit with a fresh floral scent, it’s both playful and seductive, and
when Quinn appears in front of me, I soon realise it’s her perfume.
Her lips part as she’s about to say something but Nell brushes past me and makes a beeline
straight for her.
 “Hello.” Quinn drops to her knees and stroking Nell on her back, and also giving me the perfect
view of her cleavage. She looks up and catches me before I have the chance to look away.
Great.
“I take it you’re Nell,” she says with a smile, looking back at the dog. “Is Bonnie okay?”
I shake my head as she rises to her feet, coming up to my shoulder.
Nell barks. “I just need to take her for a walk and then I’ll explain.”
“I can come with you,” she suggests.
“Yeah okay. It’s chilly, do you have a warm coat?”
She nods and unhooks one from the coat rack before pulling on a pair of flat boots. I glance at my
trainers, and then hold up my finger and go to my car to pull out my Dr Martens, swapping them over
while at the boot of my car.
Quinn is standing at the front door, untucking her hair from her coat.
“Okay, you ready?”
She nods and falls into step beside me.
 Chapter Five

I don’t even know what is happening right now, I’m walking a dog with the guy I gave a concussion to
by a dildo, and the thought alone makes me laugh out loud. Callum looks over and smiles, but all that
does is highlight the damn bruise on his forehead which only makes me laugh harder. I have no idea
what the fuck is wrong with me, maybe it’s from the lack of sleep and the excitement of the past
twenty-four hours but I have to stop walking to catch my breath.
“Are you okay? Want to share the joke?” he asks.
I shake my head. “It’s not even funny,” I wheeze out, trying to get my laughter under control. I
wipe away a stray tear and straighten.
“It’s just this is so surreal.” I point to his forehead and then stretch my arm in front of me for
emphasis.
He rubs the spot on his forehead with his index and middle finger.
“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll ever live it down. My best friend will have a fucking field day when I tell
him.”
Any laughter I have quickly subsides.
“You’re not really going to tell him, are you?”
He shrugs. “Probably, he knows everything about me, and this will make his bloody decade.”
“Oh my God.” I bring my hands up to my face and shake my head, but he gently tugs them away.
“Come on, it’s actually kind of funny when you think about it.”
I cock an eyebrow, and now he’s the one laughing. And then I feel bad because whatever
happened back there with Bonnie couldn’t have been good.
“Anyway, how was Bonnie? She seemed a little forgetful.”
He nods, his expression becoming more sombre.
“I spoke to her son Mikey and he told me she’s been getting worse with her short term memory.
She’d left toast in the oven at the cottage, the kitchen was full of smoke when we got there, and she’d
forgotten her door key.”
I bring my hand to my throat. “Oh my God. Lucky you were with her.”
“Yeah, as you can imagine I wasn’t able to speak to her about the double booking. But I’ll look
and see if anyone local has a room or something. I want to stay close by until her son can get home.
Him and his family are in Italy, but due to restrictions they can’t get home.”
Wow, he really does care about Bonnie, and the thought of him having to be the one to find
somewhere else to stay fills me with guilt.
I touch his arm and he stops walking. “No, you stay. If I can’t find anywhere else, I’ll just head
home.” I doubt I’ll be able to find anywhere I can afford to pay for another month, but I can maybe
afford a week or two.
He shakes his head. “No, you were here first.”
Nell barks and comes barrelling towards us and I brace myself, expecting her to jump, but she
suddenly lies down flat at my feet.
“I think someone wants our attention,” Callum says as he reaches in his pocket for a ball and
launches it into the field. “Go on, Nell, fetch.”
And with that, she’s running to retrieve the ball.
“You’re good with her,” I say as we fall into step beside one another.
“I remember when they got her as a pup.”
I inhale the early spring air and exhale. “And that right there is why you should be the one to stay.”
“Let’s worry about it back at the cottage,” he says just as his phone rings. “Sorry, I just need to
take this.”
I nod and walk towards Nell who drops the ball at my feet, and I retrieve it and throw it, though
my range is seriously lacking compared to Callum. However, the dog doesn’t seem to mind as she
wags her tail wildly.
Glancing over my shoulder, I watch as Callum talks to whoever is on the phone. I can’t quite hear
him from where I’m standing, but it does give me the perfect opportunity to check him out properly in
the light of day.
He is tall, dark and mysterious. More my best friend Sienna’s type than my own, but there is
something alluring about him. Maybe even more so after he was so gracious after the whole mistaken
break in fiasco. And don’t even get me started on the way he was with Bonnie. I throw the ball once
again for Nell and then pull out my phone.
When he pulled me on top of him this morning, I was so bloody surprised I couldn’t even gather
the forethought to move, not even after his erection pressed against my core. It was only when he
removed his strong hands from cupping my arse that I came to my senses and scrambled off of him.
If it wasn’t for the fact he was just waking up, I might have thought the move intentional. And then
to try to gloss over my embarrassment and my arousal––I’m only human after all––I offered to make
him tea. I was glad when he went to the bathroom to give me enough time to compose myself.
Yes, I could have gone back to my bedroom, but I found myself sitting in the armchair instead. To
say I was intrigued to discover he’s an author is an understatement and I’m desperate to find out who
he writes under… maybe he’ll tell me before the day is out.
My attention gravitates towards him once again as I watch the way he walks in small circles as
he’s talking, like he struggles to keep still. As if sensing me watching, his eyes roam to mine and he
gives me a lopsided grin, and I have to look away––pretty sure I’m blushing.
I go back to my phone and open up Instagram and search his name. I’m surprised when a profile
comes up and then I have a look––it’s definitely his, he’s in almost every photo, and what’s not lost on
me is how in each one he’s with a group.
Sighing, I quickly come out of the app, worried I’ll accidentally like one of his photos and he’ll
know I’ve just social media stalked him.
 Chapter Six

As soon as we got back to the cottage, I pulled out my laptop and immediately I’m hit with a ton of
emails from my agent. I would normally have been logged on by now and writing. But I know if it
were really important, Laura would have gotten hold of me on my phone. I leave them for now and try
and see if there is anywhere local to book for the night, but so far not so good, and it’s only when
Quinn opens something on her phone that I get a better understanding of maybe why.
There were already concerns over this virus and talk of possible measures in place, and it would
appear there’s to be an announcement by the prime minister later tonight.
I let out a huff and rub at the spot on my forehead––that damn dildo seriously fucking hurt.
“Are you okay? Did you want any paracetamol?” Quinn asks, concern lacing her features.
“Yeah, that’s not a bad idea.” I move to stand up, but she stops me and rushes into the kitchen.
That’s the good thing about this cottage, its open plan downstairs so I can see her from the small
dining table.
She fills a glass with water and then returns with a strip of tablets.
“Thanks,” I say, popping two from the foil and flushing them down with a mouthful of water.
“No worries, it’s the least I can do. So, looks like we’ll know tonight what measures are going to
be put in place for this pandemic.”
I nod. “It’s like everyone is already panicking. I still can’t find any availability for anywhere
nearby.”
Wiggling my mouse, I continue to scroll through, hoping something will come up.
“I mean, you could always just stay here for tonight again and then see what happens after Boris
makes his announcement?”
She’s moving from one foot to the other, and I can tell this is making her uneasy.
I shake my head. “No, the last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable,” I admit.
Her eyes shoot to mine. “You aren’t. I mean, you don’t. I mean, granted, I don’t know you and
under any other circumstances I’d be giving myself a big pep talk as to how crazy this all is, but you
know the owner and the police have already been here. I think if you were to do anything untoward
you would have done it by now.”
I cock an eyebrow at her polite way of saying she doesn’t think I’m a threat, but still, if it were my
sister in this situation, I don’t think I’d be too impressed.
“Listen, you’re sweet and all, but I don’t want you to feel obligated.”
 She shakes her head. “I don’t, honestly. What’s one more night?”
When she says it like that, I kind of agree, and it’s almost lunch time now anyway.
“Okay, but only if you’re sure?”
“Of course.” Her shoulders relax which makes me feel a little better about the entire fiasco.
“Do you like fish and chips?”
She tilts her head to the side, not sure where I’m going with the question, but answers anyway. “I
do.”
“Good, then as a way of saying thank you, how about I treat us both to dinner from my favourite
chippy?”
Her lips form a smile.
“Okay, yeah, that sounds good. But thinking of food, did you want a sandwich for lunch? I brought
some bits with me, not much, but enough for a decent sarnie.”
I rub my belly; I never turn down food.
“Is there anything you don’t like or that you’re allergic to?”
“Nope, not a thing.”
She nods and leaves me to go back into the kitchen.
“Can I give you a hand?”
Quinn peers over her shoulder. “No, I’ve got this.”
When she turns back to the kitchen counter, my eyes roam over the length of her body and the
shape of her arse, but I quickly force myself to look away. The last thing I need after she offered to let
me stay the night is to be caught eyeing her up like a pervert.
It’s hard not to appreciate her appearance though, and it’s not just that, I barely know her, and I
can already tell she’s the kind of person I’d like to get to know better.
My phone pings with a message and I swipe the screen.
Liam: Hey, mate, you settle in okay?
Shit… with everything that happened I never texted him and he’s a worrywart, always been a bit
of a mother hen.
Me: Yeah, had a little incident on arrival and apart from a concussion, otherwise good.
I can see dots appear as he types a response.
Liam: How the fuck did you manage that?
Glancing towards Quinn, I quickly type out a response.
Me: Let’s just say no one could have predicted my arrival. It would appear Bonnie double
booked the cottage. The other occupant was not expecting a stranger to walk through the
bedroom door, hence my concussion… a dildo was her weapon of choice.
I can hear Quinn moving around the kitchen when my phone pings again.
Liam: Please tell me you are lying and this is something you’re writing for your book?
Shaking my head, I laugh under my breath. I wish. I quickly snap a photo of my forehead and hit
send.
Liam: *GIF of a giant dildo*
Followed by lots of laughing emojis in quick succession. Yeah, he’s never going to let me live this
shit down.
Liam: I like her already, brilliant story for the grandkids.
The next photo I send is one of me flipping him off, but it’s not far from what I insinuated to Quinn
either. It’s a ridiculous notion. Shit like that doesn’t happen in real life, right?
I hear light footsteps and look up to see Quinn smiling as she places a plate beside my laptop.
 “Everything all right?”
My cheeks heat, and I can’t remember the last time I blushed. Fuck.
“Yeah, just my best mate giving me shit,” I reply.
She takes a seat opposite. “Oh my God, you didn’t tell him about Reggie, did you?”
I lean back in my chair. “Reggie?”
And now it’s her turn to flush crimson and fuck me if it isn’t a delicious shade against her
beautiful pale skin.
She swallows and I watch the roll of her throat and wonder what it would be like to taste her
skin… okay, man, rein it in.
“My battery-operated friend,” she replies, looking down at her sandwich.
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me, and she glances up, rolling her eyes.
Holding up my hands, I smile. “Hey, I’m not judging, I write romance for a living. But why
Reggie?”
She stares at me, and I expect her to tell me to mind my own business, but instead she replies,
“Me and my best friend both got one, she named hers Ronnie and I have Reggie. We kind of had a
thing for Tom Hardy from Legend, you know, when he played Reggie and Ronnie Kray.”
I can’t say I blame her; he is fucking fit.
“Cool,” I reply. She blinks, a little surprised by my reaction, and watches me as I pick up my
sandwich and take a huge bite.
 Chapter Seven

I can’t believe I let slip about Ronnie and Reggie, Sienna will piss herself laughing when I eventually
tell her, and I will, of course, but maybe not yet.
As promised, Callum orders us fish and chips, and I can see why it’s his favourite chippy.
“That was delicious, thank you,” I say, sitting back, tempted to undo the button on my jeans and
wishing I were in my leggings instead.
“You’re welcome. Are you finished?” he asks.
I nod and he points to the remaining chips on my plate.
“Do you mind?”
Smiling, I shake my head. “Help yourself.” And he does. Pulling my plate towards him, he picks
at my remaining chips.
“So, Quinn, tell me, what brings you to a cottage all on your own?”
I watch the way he licks his fingers and something akin to excitement flutters in my lower belly,
not that I’m surprised by the visceral affect he has on me, he is handsome, and probably for that
reason alone a red flag.
Clearing my throat, I decide to go with honesty.
“I didn’t have the best experience in my corporate job. There were some women who made my
life a living hell.”
He frowns, forming a ‘V’ between his brows.
“Grown women do that?”
“Yeah, you’d think they’d grow out of the mean girl shit, but evidentially not. I spent almost two
years questioning everything about myself, my worth, wondering how to make them like me, and the
harder I tried the worse they became. It got to a point my emotional and mental health were taking a
huge hit. So eventually, after support from my best friend and my parents, I was signed off sick and
then I quit. It’s weird because up until that moment I kept trying to make it work.”
He sits forward and reaches out and touches the back of my hand.
“Did you employer not do anything? Did you go to Human Resources?
I let out a heavy sigh. “They didn’t give a shit; it was only after I left that they asked if I wanted to
take the matter further. I refused, of course. Hence why I’m here. I needed an escape and some time to
find myself.”
His smile is soft when he responds. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m glad you found this
place, it will be good for you. How long are you staying?”
His thumb is circling the back of my hand, and when he notices, he pulls back and grabs his drink,
taking a swig, a tinge of embarrassment coating his cheeks. The contact––no matter how fleeting––
was welcome, and I miss it already. When things began to escalate with my job back in the beginning,
it put a strain on my relationship, and it wasn’t long before he dumped me. All that did was bring my
added insecurities to the surface too. Sienna never did like him anyway and has always said I deserve
better. It’s taken me some time, but I actually think she’s right.
“I booked it out for the month.”
He smiles wider now. “Yeah, me too. It’s the only time I can really hanker down and meet my
deadlines.”
His phone rings, and for a moment, I think he might ignore it.
“It’s cool, take it, I’ll get this cleared up.”
He shakes his head. “Honestly, it’s fine, you paid for dinner, it’s the least I can do.”
Just as I rise to my feet and reach for the plates, stacking them, he swipes his screen and there’s
the telltale sound of FaceTime.
“Callum, there you are, I texted you, but you didn’t reply. Do you want to play?”
His eyes go straight to mine and back to the screen.
“Yeah, I’ve been busy. No, as nice as your offer is, like I said before, I’m good.”
I finally manage to move and take the plates over to the sink, but not before I risk a glance over
my shoulder and catch a glimpse of a dark-haired bombshell in the tiniest top I’ve ever seen.
“Oh, come on, you know I can make it good for you. Come round.”
He clears his throat and the tips of his ears turn red, and it’s clear he’s uncomfortable. I’m not
sure if it’s because I’m here or her advances really aren’t reciprocated.
“Karman, I’m away, and even if I wasn’t, it would still be no.”
I glance back to see her pouting and I tuck my own lips between my teeth. Do men really fall for
that?
“Who’s that?” she asks, and I quickly turn back to face the sink.
“None of your business,” he replies, his voice taking on a cold edge.
“Is that why you’re fobbing me off? You’re fucking someone else?”
Even I gasp at that. Shit, she’s not holding back, is she?
“Even if I was, it would be none of your concern. We are not and never have been exclusive. We
had one night no strings attached sex. So do me a favour and lose my number.”
I glance back just as he ends the call, and he comes over to where I’ve started washing the dishes.
His scent wafts past me and I try to discreetly inhale. Usually, men’s aftershave can be a little
overpowering, but his carries the perfect amount of smell, if that’s even possible.
“Sorry about that,” he says, digging in the drawer for a tea towel. The way he knows his way
around this cottage makes me think I should be the one to find somewhere else for the month. I’m only
an aspiring author after all, and from what I gather, he comes here when he has a deadline to meet.
“No need, it’s really none of my business.”
He lets out a rough laugh. “Yeah, well, the moment she enquired after you it became your
business.”
I shrug, because really it isn’t, we’ve known each other… what? Twenty-four hours?
“Listen, I’m going to be transparent here, I like to enjoy myself, but I’m always honest from the
get-go. Yes, my best friend calls me a man whore, but I never make promises unless I mean them.”
He takes the plate from the drainer and begins drying it.
 When I realise he’s waiting for my reply, I answer, “Honestly, I’m not judging.”
“Maybe not, but for some reason, I felt like it was important you knew that I’m not a complete
arsehole.”
I laugh at that. One thing I never took him for, even from our initial encounter, is an arsehole.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know many who would be as gracious about being concussed by a dildo.”
“It is definitely an experience I won’t forget any time soon,” he says, bumping my hip with his.
I flick him with the water from the washing-up bowl.
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” he asks, and then before I know it, he has me pinned. My spine is against
the sink, and his body is flush with mine. My breath catches in my throat when he reaches around my
hip and dips his hand in the water.
His intentions are clear as he brings his hand to my face, smearing some bubbles over my nose
and cheeks. I let out an audible gasp and I lick my dry lips, his eyes tracking the movement.
His nostrils flare slightly, and his eyes grow a shade darker, his head dipping precariously close
to my mouth.
 Chapter Eight

The powerful gravitational pull I feel towards Quinn is unfamiliar, no-one has ever had this kind of
affect on me before, but I can’t deny my attraction towards her. It’s as though she’s cast a spell and
rendered me like a magnet.
My phone starts ringing, causing Quinn to jump, and the spell is suddenly broken. I quickly pull it
out of my jean pocket and look at the screen––my sister.
I don’t say anything to Quinn as I turn my back and swipe to answer the call.
“Verity?”
“Callum, have you seen the announcement?”
Walking over to the TV, I grab the nearby remote and turn it on, flicking through the channels until
I find the news, and my eyes scroll the headlines.
“Well, it was kind of expected.”
“Yeah. Have you managed to speak to Mum and Dad?”
I shake my head. With everything that’s happened, I haven’t had a chance.
“No. Have you? Are they okay?”
The sound of her moving about comes through the speaker before she replies.
“Yeah, not long ago, they’re stuck on the ship, something about an outbreak of cases and not being
allowed to dock.”
Scrubbing my fingers thorough my hair, I let out a curse.
“Shit, I better give them a call,” I reply, instantly feeling like a bad son for not knowing this
sooner. But then I’m hardly surprised they still treat me with kid gloves, like I’m a baby, not that I can
blame them. My sister has been on at me for the past two years, saying I need to grow up––twenty-
four and I still live at home with my parents. It’s not like I can’t afford to move out, the royalties I
make off my books are enough to pay a huge down payment if I were to get a mortgage. At least while
I’m there I can contribute and pay them rent, but the moment I move out I know they won’t accept any
money from me. My parents have always worked hard, and I just want them to be able to enjoy
themselves without worrying about money.
The only reason my sister is back at home is because she’s searching for somewhere else to live,
after selling the house she shared with her douche canoe of a boyfriend.
I’ll never understand what she saw in him, I swear even Liam hated him and Liam likes everyone,
so if that isn’t a red flag, I don’t know what is.
 I feel rather than see Quinn approach and I look over to catch her reading the headlines too. She
goes over to the table and retrieves her phone and disappears off upstairs.
“Well, at least you won’t be in the house alone and Liam is there,” I say.
“Huh, what do you mean?” she asks, her voice going up an octave.
I sit down and rest my head on the back of the sofa. “Just that you won’t be alone.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” she says.
“Come on, he’s a good guy, Verity, he’ll make sure you’re okay.”
Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose; I don’t know if it’s still the concussion or the
onset of a headache at this point.
“I don’t need looking after,” she says through gritted teeth. I laugh at that; she’s always been so
fiercely independent. “Oh, shut up,” she says, and I hear the amusement in her voice.
“Hey, can I quickly speak to Liam?”
“What the hell? I’m not a damn secretary, he has a phone, why don’t you call him?” she says.
I let out a sigh of frustration. “Because you are in the same house and I’m already on the phone to
you. Don’t be a such a brat,” I retort.
“Fine.” She huffs, and I hear her breathing as she seeks him out. “It’s for you…” I hear her
muffled voice before Liam comes on the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hey, man, it’s me.”
“Oh, hey, Cal, you saw the announcement then?”
“Yep,” I reply, popping the ‘p’. “Just wanted to make sure you’re good to keep an eye on Verity.”
He laughs and I hear her in the background. “I heard that, you’re on speaker phone, you chump.
And I don’t need a babysitter. I’m thirty years old, for fuck’s sake.”
She’s on form today, I’ll give her that.
“Yes, exactly, practically an old age pensioner. Liam and I just want to do our part for society,
looking out for the elderly.” Liam chuckles as there’s muffled sound.
“Give me that back,” she says breathlessly and then comes back on the phone.
“Bye, jackass,” she says before swiftly hanging up on me.
Charming.
“What will that mean for Bonnie?” Quinn asks, and I turn my face towards her as she takes a seat
in the armchair. Is it possible for a chair to suit someone? If a piece of furniture was designed with a
person in mind, this one would have been designed for her.
“Callum?”
I shake my head––people who know me are used to me zoning out on them.
“Sorry, I get stuck in my head sometimes, what was your question?”
She nibbles her lower lip, and I know if it hadn’t been for that interruption, I would have tasted
them, providing she consented, of course.
“What will this all mean for Bonnie, with her son being in Italy and the non-essential travel and
contact?”
I chew the inside of my cheek.
“Honestly, I’m not sure. I’ll ring Mikey in the morning and go from there.”
She nods and her eyes flick back to the TV. “My dad said there’re rumours of a lockdown, do you
think that’s true?”
“Yeah, there’s already localised lockdowns, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”
I can see the worry on her face, and understandably so. This is all so unprecedented, and nothing
is certain.
“Listen, whatever happens next is already out of our control. Just try and make the most of your
time here, just concentrate on why you came in the first place.”
She turns back to face me, twisting her hairband around her wrist in a slow, methodical way.
“Just seems ridiculous in the grand scheme of things. I’m kidding myself if I think I have it in me
to write a damn book.”
I sit forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my eyes trained on her.
“Would you say I was kidding myself?”
She shakes her head. “Well, no, of course not.”
“Exactly, so why would you say that about yourself? I get it, imposter syndrome is real, but it’s
also a mindset and you have to learn to think past that. You aren’t comparable to anyone else because
it isn’t a competition. Yes, the market is competitive, of course it is. But just work on finding your
own unique style, your voice, work on the craft and getting your words written.”
Her eyes sparkle and her smile spreads. “Wow, you really are an author, aren’t you? You’re so
passionate about writing,” she says, and I swear I hear admiration in her voice.
Truth is, I don’t usually talk about my writing to anyone other than my agent, family, and a few
select friends. It’s not that I’m ashamed or have anything to hide, even though I hide behind a
pseudonym.
 Chapter Nine

Neither of us spoke about the almost kiss, and maybe it’s for the best anyway––he’s clearly not
lacking in female attention, and I’m already riddled with insecurities as it is to throw in worrying
about just being another notch on his bed post. Not that he’s been derogatory in any way, he’s just
made it pretty transparent. I mean he might as well call himself Casanova.
I’ve stewed over this situation most of last night and spent the majority of it tossing and turning.
Because it’s not hard to see the concern and love Callum has for Bonnie, and there is no way I want to
be the reason he can’t be here for her.
“Listen, I’ve been thinking, why don’t you just stay here with me?” I say.
He’s just taken a bite of his toast and I see the way his throat rolls when he swallows. His lips
curve into the cockiest grin.
“Why, Quinn, are you propositioning me?”
My eyes bug out and I feel the need to clarify.
“What? No, I mean yes, shit. I mean we both already paid anyway… I mean we’re both already
here, and it would be stupid for either of us to have to pay to stay somewhere else. And it makes
sense for you to be closer to Bonnie, and I can help out with Nell too.”
I find myself getting flustered and clearly sounding like a stuttering mess.
He wipes the crumbs from his fingers over his plate.
“I know what you meant. But only if you’re sure? I mean, it would make sense, at least for the
interim anyway. But just for the record, if you ever did decide to proposition me, I can assure you I’d
be interested.” He stands up and reaches for his plate, winking at me before he turns and walks into
the kitchen, leaving me with my mouth agape.
I look down at my toast, at a total loss for words, when his shadow falls over me.
He crouches down, and I raise my eyes to meet his.
“Quinn, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I promise I can be on my best behaviour. You
don’t have anything to worry about.”
I suck in my bottom lip, his close proximity making my lower belly flutter.
Part of me wishes I was brave enough to say maybe I want him to be bad.
But instead, I go with a safer response, one that doesn’t have me in a puddle of hormones at his
feet.
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable. It was unexpected is all.” I glance away, but he reaches out
his finger, hooking it under my chin.
“I don’t know why, Quinn. Granted, we’ve only just met, but it doesn’t take a genius to see how
bloody stunning you are.”
There he goes again, saying all the right things… damn he’s good.
It’s only when he drops his hand and moves back to his full height that I take a breath.
Okay, maybe this was a bad idea, but maybe Callum is just the distraction I need? If anyone can
do no strings attached, it’s him.

I’ve been glued to the book I’m currently buddy reading with Sienna and don’t even hear him come in
until he drops down on the sofa beside me, causing me to gasp.
I grab my chest, which earns me a smirk from him.
“Good book?” he asks, tilting his chin to my hands currently strangling my book for dear life.
“Yeah, so far so good,” I reply, my heart still thumping wildly in my chest.
“What’s it about?” He props his feet up on the small coffee table.
“It’s a paranormal reverse harem.”
He smiles, showing his pearly whites. “Oh, a why choose…”
“Yeah, some of it is a little far-fetched in my opinion, but it’s fiction, so what the hell do I know?”
Callum moves closer and tips the book towards him, trying to glance at the inside pages, but I
quickly pull it back towards me.
“Do you mind?” I happen to be on quite a graphic scene and I’m not sure I want him to know as
much.
“Not at all,” he replies, making a grab for my book. I lean back just as he clasps his fingers
around it and stops just shy of falling on top of me. “Fine, I know what happens anyway. Just curious
what page you were on.”
He sits back, giving me room to breathe, but his knee brushes against mine when I move back into
a seated position, and even though there’s material between us, it brings all my nerve endings on high
alert.
“You’ve read this?” I cock an eyebrow, trying to decide if he’s lying or not.
Looking down at his fingernails, he nods. “Yep.”
I shake my head. “I don’t believe you,” I retort.
“Oh really?” His eyes flick to mine. “Then how would I know the female lead and two of her
harem get down and dirty in a very inappropriate place? Oh, and her name is Alice, by the way.”
Shit, he’s not lying.
“Okay, I believe you. But don’t say anymore, I’ve only just read that part and I hate spoilers.”
“So, you don’t want to know that one of them dies?”
I let out a gasp, but as soon as he laughs, I know he’s just having me on.
“You’re an arsehole.”
He shrugs. “I’ve been called worse. But seriously, when you’re done, I want to know your
thoughts. Oh, it’s a series by the way and ends on a cliff hanger.”
“Callum, I said no spoilers.”
Giving me a panty dropping smile, he pushes himself to his feet.
 “It’s not a spoiler, it’s clearly stated in the blurb.”
I can’t hold back my eye roll. “I don’t read blurbs.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “No author wants to hear that; do you know how much blood,
sweat, and tears go into writing them?”
I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. He’s serious, and I think I might have actually hit a nerve.
“No, but I think I’m beginning to understand.”
The moment he stands up I miss the warmth from his body as he starts walking backwards to the
stairs. “Well, when you’re a published author, you’ll have all of that to look forward to.” And then he
spins on his heels and jogs up the stairs two at a time, followed by the click of the bathroom door.
I can’t help my smile. It’s not lost on me how he said when I’m a published author, and coming
from a writer and someone who is yet to find out if I completely suck, I’m taking that as a compliment.
Grabbing my phone from the coffee table, I quickly message Sienna.
Me: You know this book ends on a cliffy???
A bubble appears and I wait for her response.
Sienna: For fuck’s sake, Quinn, have you finished it already? I’m not even halfway through.
Oh, and did I tell you that he dog-eared one of my pages, like he actually read some of it?!
I can’t contain my laugh. Wow, he’s seriously asking for trouble if he’s touching her books.
Me: No, I’m only on chapter seven, someone just told me though. Seems that not everyone
is like us when it comes to going into a book blind. Maybe bookmark it with a tampon next time,
maybe then he’ll leave it alone.
Instead of a text, she sends a quick voice memo.
“See, this is why I love you, that’s a good one. Wait… and who told you?”
I send back a GIF blowing her kisses.
See, that would have been the perfect time to mention Callum, but maybe I want to keep something
to myself just for a little while so I can live out a little fiction fantasy of my own.
 Chapter Ten

Shit, catching her reading one of my books surprised the hell out of me. I mean, I know they’re
popular. I’m not a best-selling author by any means, but they’re getting more and more exposure since
I joined BookTok. Who says social media is all bad?
Almost kissing her was one thing, but just now, when my body was so close to hers, it would have
been so easy to cover her body with my own.
I’ve been physically attracted to plenty of people in the past, but there is just something about her
that calls to me like a siren. She’s an enchantress––something so sweet and inviting about her, making
me wonder what she’d taste like.
I try to push my thoughts away, but it’s impossible.
No wonder those women she worked with were jealous of her, but that’s no excuse for what she
endured, and I know she only let me be privy to the lighter version of what she probably went
through.
Pulling myself free of my jeans, I take my erection in my palm and squeeze the base. Because
there is only one way for me to get this to go away. Well, there’s two ways but I think this is the only
one available to me at present. I’d love to offer her some kind of friends-with-benefits scenario, but
something tells me that’s not really her thing.
I spit onto my other hand and move it up and down my shaft and over my head, which is already
leaking with pre-cum. Keeping my movements smooth and firm, I speed up and slow down, wanting
to ride it out for a moment. Quinn’s face is front and centre as I piston my strokes over my hard shaft,
wishing it were her soft palms encased around my erection right now instead of my own.
A low groan rumbles through me at the thought of her touch.
Adding more pressure, I pump faster. My balls tighten, pulling up into themselves, and my
breathing grows heavier as my release floods through me, and I come all over my hand.
“Fuck,” I grit out.
Cleaning myself up, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I really need to get myself under control.
Quinn wasn’t fucking propositioning me, and if anything, I’m seeming like a bit of a creep right now.
When I go back downstairs, she’s glued to her phone and smiling. I’m hit with a wave of
jealously. What if she’s seeing someone? Fuck.
Not that it’s any of my business. She hears me approach and glances up at me.
“Have there been any more announcements?” I ask, picking up the remote and flicking on the TV
but turning the volume on low.
“I haven’t even checked to be fair. Fiction is definitely better at this point,” she says, her eyes
flicking to her now closed book.
“Well, not all fiction,” I say with a wink.
Her cheeks bloom with a red tinge, and there I go again… what is it about her that has me not
knowing when the fuck to shut up?
“You’re so bad,” she retorts, her eyes roaming back to her phone.
This time, I have to bite my lip to hold back my retort. Because for her, I can be as bad as she’d
like.
I watch the headlines for a beat and then leave the remote on the coffee table.
“Do you know what? I think I’ll go do a food shop. Find out if Bonnie needs anything.”
I grab my wallet and keys off the side table by the front door.
“Any requests?” I ask Quinn.
She pushes to her feet. “Do you know what? I’ll come with, and we can split the cost,” she says,
walking towards the stairs. “Just let me go grab my purse.”
“You don’t need to do that,” I call after her. It’s not like I’m shy for cash or anything.
“No, but I want to, we’re house mates now,” she says as she comes back down and meets me at
the door. She stuffs her feet into her trainers and grabs her light coat off the rack.
I cock an eyebrow.
“What?” she asks, looking down at herself before running her hand through her hair self-
consciously.
“Nothing, just impressed you’re ready to go at the drop of a hat.” I pull the door open and usher
for her to exit first.
“Well, I’m dressed, what else would I need to do?”
Shaking my head, I smile to her back. “Nothing at all.” And I realise she looks exactly the same as
when I first met her, free of makeup.
We jump in the car and drive the short distance to Bonnie’s. I’m surprised when Quinn gets out of
the car and joins me as I knock on the door.
A small ‘woof’ emanates from somewhere in the house, followed by a louder barking before
Bonnie appears at the window, and then she pulls open the front door.
“Callum, I was wondering when you’d stop by,” she says, ushering me to come inside, and she
quickly does the same to Quinn.
“You brought a girl with you this time I see,” she says, and my guts twist.
“Yeah, I’m Quinn,” she says, holding her hand out for Bonnie, not correcting her, and it makes my
chest tighten.
“Oh, you’re beautiful. I can see why he likes you.” She takes Quinn by the elbow and leads her
into her front living room. “Have you been together long?” Bonnie asks.
If the situation wasn’t so sad, I’d probably smile at that.
“No, it’s pretty new,” Quinn says, not missing a beat. “We’re just going to get some provisions
and wanted to check if you needed anything?”
Bonnie gets up, albeit slowly, and it’s only now I notice how her age is catching up with her. For
years she was the same exuberant woman I’ve always known, and then in the space of six months
she’s drastically changed.
“Actually, yes, I have a list somewhere.”
Quinn and I both follow her into the kitchen, and sure enough, she has a notepad on the fridge with
a shopping list.
She pulls it free and hands it over to Quinn and I quickly scan it over her shoulder and then move
to the cupboards and have a quick look in them before glancing in the fridge and freezer.
I know for the most part her meals are taken care of as part of her care plan, but I hate the thought
of her running out of stuff, especially now.
Bonnie tries to give me some money, but I shoo her away and then tell her we’ll be back in a few
hours. Just as we’re leaving, Nadia arrives and gives us a wave.
It makes me feel somewhat better her not being on her own. I mean, of course she’s got Nell, but I
mean human contact, someone watching out for her.
Back in the car, I take a deep breath, and Quinn rests her hand on my forearm.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
I turn my face towards hers. “It’s just hard to see if I’m honest.”
She nods in understanding. “Come on, let’s go, the sooner we go the sooner we can get back.”
Quinn squeezes my arm once and then drops it back into her lap as I start the car. Once we’re on
the road, I reach over automatically and squeeze her thigh.
“Thank you,” I say, enamoured by her obvious compassion.
I see her nibbling her lips out of my peripheral vision and her eyes focus on my hand. I quickly let
go, bringing it back to the steering wheel.
“Sorry,” I say under my breath.
Her soft laughter breaks my unease. “Please, it’s fine, and you’re welcome by the way.”
 Chapter Eleven

This past week hasn’t been anything like I would have imagined. Sharing a cottage with a complete
stranger isn’t something anyone could have envisioned. And if it wasn’t for how he was with Bonnie,
I’m not sure I would have suggested we both stay. Let’s just say, after he didn’t murder me and then
seeing him with her, I decided to take the risk. But I can’t deny something about him lures me in, and
honestly, I don’t think I’m quite ready to say goodbye, not just yet anyway. The way he is with Bonnie
tugs on my heart strings, she’s clearly like a nan to him and it’s not hard to see how much he cares. It’s
enough to make even the coldest hearted people weak.
Stripping out of my clothes, I hold my hand under the shower head to make sure the temperature is
good before I step into the bath and pull the shower door closed, but instead of closing, I feel the
weight of it in my hands and barely stop myself from falling backwards.
I let out a scream as I try to hold on to the door, which has somehow come off the runners, and it’s
heavy. It doesn’t help that the glass is currently pressing up against my naked body.
“Fuck.”
In an attempt to try and move, I make it worse and almost slip again. The shower is still running
overhead and my fingers are slowly losing purchase.
“Quinn, are you okay?”
Callum calls through the closed door and I squeeze my eyes closed.
“No,” I grunt out, my heart racing.
“What’s wrong?”
I blow out a heavy breath. “The shower door came off.”
“Oh shit, yeah, it does that from time to time. Do you need me to fix it?”
My cheeks are blazing as I try to manoeuvre again, but it’s no use.
“Hmm, well, it came off in my hand and now I’m kind of stuck… shit.” It’s slipping and my upper
body strength is really letting me down right now.
“I’m coming in,” he says.
My eyes spring open and panic engulfs me.
He turns the handle and wriggles it, and I let out a sigh of relief because I locked it. But then how
the fuck am I meant to get myself out of this situation?
I don’t have to worry about it for long, because with a loud pop, the door swings open, hitting the
wall with a loud thud.
 Callum almost falls as he takes in the situation before he blinks and covers his eyes with his hand
as he approaches.
It’s frosted glass but there is no way he didn’t see all my lady bits on display, pressed up against
the glass.
Suddenly, the weight eases and he takes a step back.
“I’ve got it,” he says, and I quickly cover my chest and cross my legs, my hand going over my
fanny as he rests the door up against the wall. “Are you okay?” he asks, and I notice how hard he’s
trying to avert his eyes. He holds out a towel and I step out of the bath and grab it gratefully and
quickly wrap it around my body.
“Shit, that was heavy,” I say, reaching over and turning off the shower.
“But you’re okay, you’re not hurt?” he asks again, his eyes locking on mine.
“No, I’m fine, just didn’t expect that.”
He nods and keeps his focus solely on my face, but I know I’m blushing all the way down to my
chest.
“I can fix it enough for you to finish your shower. And then later I can pop to the local DIY shop to
get new runners,” he says.
“Oh, yeah, please, that would be great.”
He nods and we both just stand there staring at one another for a beat before I realise I need to get
out of the way in order to let him do his thing. We both move at the same time and in the same
direction.
“Sorry,” we both say and then try again, but both move in the opposite direction.
I let out a nervous laugh, and he smiles, his dimples on full display.
“You have dimples,” I say.
He reaches up and rubs his chin.
“Yeah.”
“I always had a thing for dimples,” I blurt out and then quickly tighten my towel for something to
do with my hands, seeing as I clearly have verbal diarrhoea.
“Is that so?” he asks, his mouth curving on one side.
“Yeah, don’t let it go to your head,” I say, unable to stop my eyes from glancing down to his crotch
before they quickly return to his face. “Anyway, I’ll just wait out there.” I point past him, and this time
I move past him without incident and go and wait in the bedroom.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and sure enough, my face is flushed––as is my throat and
chest. My eyes scan the length of my body and it’s only now I realise how small the towel is––any
shorter and my vagina would be on full display.
Groaning, I sit down on the bed. He just saw me pressed up against the door like a damn suction
cup, and I am sure there was nothing even remotely flattering about that.
Callum taps on the door and I move to open it.
“Okay, it’s all done, you should be good for now.”
“Thank you,” I say, biting my lip.
“Nice tattoo by the way,” he says with a wink. “You’re braver than me. I’m shit scared of
needles.” He presents me with his back and heads back downstairs.
Any pretence I might have had about how much he didn’t see disintegrates––my tattoo is on my
pelvic bone is of a flower shaded in black and white and moves down to my hip.
I also have a flamingo on my ankle, that was my first one. To represent being a flamingo in a
world of pigeons. Sienna got her hummingbird the same time I got this one. It’s still a work in
progress. I plan to keep adding to it and then have one on the other side too. We also want to get
matching tattoos.
Scurrying back to the bathroom, I manage to make it under the shower without incident this time––
yet another embarrassing moment to share with Sienna.
Kudos to Callum though, apart from his remark about a tattoo, he remained quite the gentleman.
It’s moments like that I know why I suggested he stay. There aren’t many people I feel comfortable
with, and after everything with my toxic job, my confidence has been mullered. But there is something
about his demeanour that sets him apart, the way he’s actually quite open and transparent––well, with
the exception of his author’s name that is. Maybe it’s a kind of non-disclosure thing and he’s not
allowed to say? Well, whatever it is, that won’t stop me trying to find out… he definitely has me
intrigued.
 Chapter Twelve

So many things need fixing up around the place, and I don’t know if Bonnie’s son is even aware and
being in Italy probably hasn’t helped either.
It was impossible not to get an eyeful of her in all her naked glory, even with the frosted glass,
and I tried my best to try to stop the effect it had on me.
It threw me when she pointed out my dimples, but nothing could have prepared me for when she
admitted to having a thing for them––the way her eyes inadvertently flicked just below my waist and
then back to my face nearly killed me.
Is she even aware of the power she has over me in such a short space of time?
As soon as I temporarily fixed the shower, I waited until she was finished before heading out to
get what I needed to fix it. I checked to see what Bonnie had in her shed and I noticed her fence was
also broken, so I grabbed some nails and some panels to fix that too.
I don’t think Nell would run off, but it’s best to be safer than sorry, I guess.
The entire day my mind and thoughts have been consumed with Quinn, and I want nothing more to
spend the night––or day––worshipping every inch of her body.
But it’s not just about the physical reaction she has over me, we click on a more profound level.
Yeah, I write romance, but maybe part of me was cynical about finding someone who ticks all the
boxes. Don’t get me wrong, my parents are just as in love now as they ever were. And I’m aware it’s
time I finally moved out and leave them to be together without their adult son hanging around. It’s why
I treated them to the cruise for their last anniversary.
And now when I think of Quinn and how I’d like to see if we could have anything, I don’t want to
take her back to my parent’s house and my childhood room. I’m not saying it’s covered in posters or
anything like that, but how can I expect her to take me seriously?
I stopped at the local off-licence and also got a bottle of wine––thought we could have a drink
tonight, maybe get to know each other better. We’ve talked, of course, but I want to know everything
there is to know about this woman––every secret, every desire.
Banging the last nail into the panel, I hear Quinn as she approaches.
“You really are a Jack of all trades,” she says, her hand going to her hip when I glance up and
cover my brow to block out the sun.
“You have no idea,” I reply suggestively.
She bites her lip, trying to stifle her smile, and her cheeks redden. I can’t help the innuendos when
I’m in her presence, and it’s probably not helping my cause where she’s concerned, but I’m a
persistent guy when I want something.
“I wanted to stop and say hi to Bonnie and take Nell for a run,” she says, and I don’t miss the way
she steers away from my comment.
“She’d like that, she’s just sitting out back, go say hi. I’m just finishing up here, so I’ll come walk
Nell with you.”
Smiling, Quinn opens the gate and walks around the path to the back gate, and I can hear the low
murmur of their voices.
Packing everything away and making sure there’s no debris, I pack the toolbox back in the shed
and join them in the back garden.
Quinn has her head back in laughter and Bonnie is smiling, holding her stomach.
“Care to share?” I ask, approaching.
“No,” Bonnie replies deadpan, causing me to laugh. I hold up my hands.
“Enough said. The fence is all fixed.”
Bonnie shuffles in her chair and pushes herself to her feet. If Quinn hadn’t already beaten me to it,
I would have taken her elbow to help steady her.
“Anyway, I think I’ll go take a nap while you walk Nell, if that’s okay?”
“Of course,” Quinn says, walking with her towards the backdoor.
Once Bonnie lets herself inside, Quinn reaches around to grab Nell’s lead from the hook and
grabs the dog ball launcher.
I whistle and Nell rouses from her spot in the sun, tail wagging like crazy.
Quinn clears her throat once we’re on a trail, with Nell leading the way.
“Thanks again for this morning, that was… awkward,” she says, keeping her focus ahead, her skin
heating.
“Glad I could help and believe me when I say it was no hardship on my part.”
Her steps falter before she finds her stride again.
“Yeah, well, you weren’t the one starkers,” she replies.
As we enter the field, Nell runs in a circle around my feet, and I launch her ball.
“That’s something I’m more than happy to remedy, just say the word.”
This time, she stops walking and turns to face me.
“Callum, I’m being serious.”
Her eyes grow a darker shade of green.
“And so am I, Quinn.” Nell drops the ball in front of me and lies low to the ground in anticipation.
I scoop it up with the thrower and launch it again, getting a good distance away from us. “Listen, I
know we’ve only known each other for a week, and granted, the circumstances around how were far
from ordinary, but you, Quinn, are above average, and far from ordinary.” I reach out and tuck a loose
strand of hair behind her ear. “I had no chance when it came to you. Call it fate, or kismet, call it
whatever you want, but I truly believe I was destined to meet you.”
She visibly swallows and I can see the uncertainty in her eyes, which are now almost emerald in
this light.
“I honestly just don’t understand what someone like you would see in someone like me,” she
replies.
I sigh and hate that she even has to question me. “I’ve seen enough, Quinn. Give me this time to
prove to you I’m sincere. I don’t have an ulterior motive. If it was just about sex, believe me, I would
have already pursued that with you.”
 She raises her eyebrows and I love seeing the sassier side of her, the one that I know will
challenge me.
“Someone seems pretty sure of themselves,” she says just as Nell comes bounding back over. She
takes the launcher from me and scoops up the ball and throws it. Granted, it doesn’t even go half the
distance as my throw, but it was a good effort none the less.
“I’d say I’m more hopeful. But, Quinn, I’m not spinning you a line. I like you, and you know as
well as I do we have chemistry.”
She looks back towards me. “No bullshit?”
I shake my head. “No bullshit. We can take this at your pace, you have the control here, Quinn.”
I must have said something right because when she smiles, I see one of her walls come down.
“We keep this just between the two of us. No outside world interference.”
“Yes, if that’s what you want. What happens in the cottage stays in the cottage.”
I hold out my hand and she places her soft one in my palm, and I give it a firm shake.
“Okay, deal.”
“Deal,” I repeat, and I doubt anyone would be able to wipe this smile off my face right now.
 Chapter Thirteen

Callum blew me away with his little speech earlier, and I was surprised when he offered me his hand
in agreement, not even the attempt of a kiss, which is probably for the best, because I still need to get
my head around this.
As soon as we got back to the cottage, he headed upstairs to fix the shower runners, and I went
straight to work on my WIP, feeling inspired. And I don’t know if it’s this place or his presence, but
all I want to do is write.
I don’t know how long I’ve been at it when I see him out of my peripheral vision as he comes
downstairs. I’ve been working on my laptop on a tray, sitting on the sofa. I love being able to write
wherever I want and not being anchored down by a PC. We’ve taken it in turns to use the small office
upstairs, but mostly, we move around the downstairs or the back garden.
Rolling my neck, I pull my headphones off and smile up at him as he approaches, clicking on
sleep mode as he gets closer. He shakes his head but doesn’t push––I’m not ready to reveal my word
monstrosity to him just yet.
“The shower door is all fixed.”
“Thank you. I’m not sure my biceps could handle that happening again,” I admit.
“You had it under control,” he says, smiling.
I shake my head. “I totally didn’t, but thanks.”
He looks at his watch and then back to me. “How do you fancy fish and chips for dinner? It’s our
one-week anniversary and it was our first meal,” he says.
Coming from anyone else it might seem cheesy, but not when it’s him––only he could get away
with saying something like that.
“You are ridiculous, but it’s a yes from me, and I’m paying this time,” I reply.
He nods but backs away as he pulls out his phone and dials the number.
“Same as last time?” he asks.
“Yes please, and don’t forget the mushy peas.”
He laughs. “Like I would.”
Walking into the kitchen, he leans against the counter as he places the order.
“Okay, that will be here in about an hour. I’m going to check my emails and work on my WIP
while we wait.”
Pulling out his top-of-the-range laptop, he sets it up on the table and pulls out his notebook and
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
blood would not allow her to rest. She was the daughter of an artist, and the
fire had descended on her—that fire which had been withheld (perhaps
mercifully, who knows?) from Teresa, the younger sister.
Out it all came in a cataract. I kept my head as well as I could, and I
glanced with respectful admiration at the bundle of shawls that had borne
these historic shocks. But the ladies let him drop once more, having played
out his part for him; and they launched into a strophe of which the burden
was Leonora, poor Leonora with the fever of art in her veins, and yet so
human, a true woman, proud to devote herself to the task of binding the
wounds of a hero. Maundy—where was Maundy all this time? He was
fidgeting restlessly on the edge of our group, and I judge that the tale of the
hero and his bride wasn’t new to him; he now managed to interrupt it with a
word to excuse himself, to bid us good-evening and depart. He left me in the
hands of Teresa and Berta; I saw them close about me and cut me off from
the chance of declaring that I too must be going on my way. Really, these
women—they were like famished creatures, rejoicing in the taste of fresh
blood; they hadn’t the least intention of resigning the chance. So they found
they should like to walk a little further under the trees, to enjoy the evening;
it occurred to them both that the evening ought to be enjoyed, for they were
passionately fond, they said, of the country.
“You English are all so fond of the country,” said Teresa, “you are such
lovers of sporting!” She had meant to say “we English,” but she wasn’t so
awkward as to correct herself. She broke off into an ecstasy over the evening
sunshine. “I adore,” she cried, “the solitude, the quiet of the country.” The
spot where we happened to be pausing was not very countrified; for close to
our green alley was an enclosure covered with little chairs and tables, from
which there went up a volley of the brilliant chatter of Rome; but it reminded
Teresa of the country days to which they always looked forward in the
summer, when they went away to the mountains or to the baths. What
mountains? Well, they sometimes went to Frascati—“si sta tanto tanto bene
in campagna,” exclaimed Teresa without thinking, and she remembered at
once that the language into which she dropped without thinking should be
English, the native English in which she habitually (she made it clear that
she habitually) thought and dreamt. As for the “baths,” they went
occasionally to the sea; Berta was the girl for the sea—she would like to
walk for miles along the shore, alone with nature, quite out of sight of
everybody. “Our Italian friends think me an extraordinary gurl,” she brightly
confessed, “as mad as a—as a hunter.” She had a misgiving as she produced
this English idiom, but she recovered herself to pick up the next réplique.
“We shock our Italian friends jolly well,” she said; “ra-thur!” The last word
had an English note that quite reassured her.
But how was it that they came to be so English? Oh, they recurred again
to the strophe of Leonora—who was Teresa’s sister, you understand, and
Berta’s mother. Leonora and Teresa, they were daughters of the house of
Shacker—I never arrived at the true form of the name, which can’t have
been this; but they passed rather lightly over the strain of the Shackers, and I
had only a doubtful glimpse of a Polish nobleman, an exile from an
ungrateful country, who had once upon a time sought refuge in Rome, and
had found in Rome a piece of good fortune in the midst of many and
unmerited disasters. He had found a wife—and this was the point where
Teresa flung up her hands and eyes in a mute effusion of piety for the shade
invoked. In those old days, it appeared, there was a high and noble worship
of art, of true art, that you wouldn’t meet with anywhere now; and the proof
was that a woman, a pure and splendid young sculptress from Virginia, could
follow the calling of her art and carve the chaste marble in her studio, here in
Rome, and be worshipped herself and respected by the chivalry of the other
carvers and painters around her—oh, Teresa couldn’t express the beauty of
the homage that had encircled this grand severe young figure, white as the
stone she chipped, whose life was dedicated like a nun to the service of art.
No man could touch her, none, save only the poor Polish outcast—one of the
handsomest men of his time indeed, but now slipping on the brink of
starvation and despair. Oh what a romance! The snow-white marble had
taken fire; the handsome Pole became the father of Leonora and Teresa, the
fair young sculptress their mother.
And so I now, about twenty minutes after our first meeting, possessed
their history. Already they felt I was a friend; and Berta, who might
reasonably think it was her turn to make a speech, began to hope that
perhaps we might chance upon her brother—she believed he was with a
party of companions in the park, not far off. Her brother? Yes, we now
reached the next generation, the children of the aged patriot. They were two,
Berta and Luigi; and Berta couldn’t help wishing that I and her brother
might become acquainted, we had such a deal in common. Luigi, she said,
was dreadfully clever; he wrote articles in a newspaper, at least he would do
so if he had the chance; but a man without influence was so terribly helpless,
and Luigi was so awfully proud. Teresa interposed to the effect that Luigi,
like the rest of them, was indeed half a stranger in Rome, though
circumstances had compelled him to be born and to live there. “Ah,” said
Berta, “if only he could get on to a nice position in London—everybody is
happy who goes to London, I think!” Luigi’s great distress, according to
Teresa, was that in Rome he was able to meet so few nice Englishmen. “And
you,” said Berta, “you are in business, yes?” They both looked at me
expectantly; it was the first question they had put me, and it was followed by
a close and lengthy cross-examination. I came out of it rather badly; I could
give my story nothing like the brilliance of theirs, though I obediently
supplied them with the details they demanded. They noted my information,
but they hardly seemed to be impressed by it. Berta presently suggested that
we should turn back towards the tea-garden and look for Luigi.
We discovered Luigi surrounded by a group of young companions who
certainly weren’t nice Englishmen. They looked to me like decidedly
second-rate Italians, but it didn’t appear that Luigi found them uncongenial.
They were all lounging and talking round one of the little tables, and Luigi’s
chair and his straw hat were tilted back at the same angle, and while he
volubly held forth to the circle his loud black eye (he had the same plum-like
eye as his sister and his aunt) was scanning and following the stream of
people who passed on their evening promenade. He watched with care; Berta
pointed him out to me as we approached, and she waved her parasol to
summon him; but he shook his forefinger in reply without shifting his tilt or
interrupting his discourse. Berta waved more urgently, and her thumb flicked
out sideways in my direction as she looked at him; and Luigi then stared at
me very frankly, lifted himself from his place and came forward to join us.
He was a short and sturdy young man, smartly appointed, with a flashing
smile that was polite, indifferent, insolent—that was anyhow very great. He
paid no attention to his sister and his aunt, beyond waiting for them to
pronounce an introduction. He smiled upon me and he spoke—and there was
a sad drop in his style when he spoke, for his English came of a meaner
strain than that of his ladies. It was not less fluent, it was more correct; but it
had a vulgar flatness that wasn’t inherited from the sculptress of Virginia. He
was a pretty young gentleman so long as he was silent, but he was common
and dingy and commercial when he opened his mouth. I suppose he had
successfully caught the intonation of the Englishmen he had been able to
meet in Rome.
 Teresa began to recount with vivacity the story of our acquaintance. Luigi
listened to her for a moment and then murmured a few quick words of
Italian, I don’t know what they were, before which poor Teresa seemed to
drop like a stone. He had cut her short in the middle of a word and her mouth
hung open; but she said no more, she dumbly signalled to Berta, and two
anxious women stood waiting before Luigi for their orders. He turned away
from them and they understood; they spoke up bravely, reminded me (or told
me) that I had promised to take tea with them on the following day, and
declared that they must now hasten back to convey their old man home.
They hurried away, and Luigi immediately displayed his smile again,
suggesting that I should walk with him. His young friends appeared to hail
him, to invite us both into their party; but he denied them without a glance,
with the same slight shake of his forefinger, talking to me and drawing me
off as he did so. He talked familiarly; he asked no questions, and at first he
was chiefly concerned to explain to me the great disadvantage at which a
gentleman almost necessarily finds himself in Rome. It is all very well if you
are rich; but if you aren’t, and if you happen to be a gentleman, why then
Luigi thought there was no place in the world where you were so rottenly
situated as in Rome. Roman society is utterly snobbish, and a gentleman
doesn’t care to push among people who think themselves too good for him;
and the company of a lot of bounders is unpleasant to a gentleman, and Luigi
could assure me that it was a treat for him to shake hands with a gentleman,
and not only a gentleman, mind you, but a man of the world, the right sort.
He was pleased to imply that I was the right sort, and he cordially took my
arm.
Luigi was odious. With a gush of memory from across the years it returns
to me, the odiousness of Luigi. There was a touch of gallantry about Teresa
and Berta, a swing of bravery in their pretensions—and a real impulse of
unselfishness, poor creatures, in their care and respect for this vulgar youth.
He was their pride, the object of their disinterested ambition; they took
thought for him and used their simple arts on his behalf; and Luigi repaid
them by spending an hour in implying to me that his family were an
unfortunate drag upon a spirited gentleman. I soon understood that I wasn’t
to judge him by the dreadful commonness of his womankind; he was in the
unlucky possession of a rarer refinement, a loftier pride, a diviner discontent
than the rest of his house; and yet here he was, tied and handicapped, as I
could see for myself, by a family incapable of profiting by his example. We
took incidentally a brief glance at the loyalty with which he stuck to them,
admitting the claim on him of two foolish women and a helpless old man,
however unworthy; that was the kind of good fellow he was—too faithful
and dutiful, perhaps, to do justice to the power that was in him. But though it
was splendid of him to make the sacrifice, it was also very distressing that
such a remarkable nature should be sacrificed at all; so back we came to the
miserable scope that this infernal old Rome has to offer to the talents of a
gentleman, if he is not prepared to cringe and crawl for his opportunity.
Luigi had much to say of it, and he passed an agreeable hour.
The sun burned lower, the great lordly pines were smitten with gold, the
shadows crept along the green dells of the open park; and there came a
moment at last when rebellion seized me, and I actually turned upon Luigi
with a passionate outburst. It didn’t last long, and he took very little notice of
it; he merely paused, checked the flow of his lament, and proceeded again
when I held my peace. Not long ago, you remember, I had been told at
considerable length that my poor old Rome was no place for an artist; and
that tirade of the opera-singer now came over me, while my companion
ingeminated his cry that it was a place unworthy of Luigi. The opera-singer
seemed the less fatuous of the two. I can easily bear to hear the name of art
re-uttered in Rome, for the thousand-millionth time, in any connexion, on
any pretext. Is Rome a step-mother to the arts?—it may well be so, and very
likely Rome has thought nothing of smashing an artist, carelessly,
disdainfully, at all the changes of the moon since the suckling of the twins. I
can imagine that it may lie in the character of Rome to be often brutal to the
arts; and by all means let an artist (though not that egregious Bannock
indeed, for choice) stand up and hurl out his reproach. But when Luigi, in
the face of Rome, maunders on with his vulgar stuff about the feelings of a
gentleman, I rebel—I say that to mention these flimsy refinements in the
noble great park of the Borghese is more than my sense of fitness will
endure. A gentleman!—what has Rome to do with this nonsense of gentility,
tediously and querulously droning in the mouth of Luigi? No, Luigi; Rome, I
believe, has had some slight acquaintance with greatness and grandeur since
the twins fell out with each other, but Rome hasn’t the mind to contemplate
your precious distinctions. You might as well suggest to a poet of heroism, to
the chanter of an immemorial saga, that he should study the manners of a
tea-party in a suburban drawing-room.
 My outburst took another form, however; these sentiments let it loose, but
it was differently worded. Luigi only stared and waited till I had finished. I
ended on the cry that seemed never to be far from my lips in those days, the
cry of envy at the sight of the fortunate folk who could do their cringing, if it
had to be done, in Rome. I said that I should willingly crawl the length and
breadth of the city for the reward of an abiding place within the walls; I
shouldn’t mind what pope or king might think of me. Luigi very naturally
felt that I hadn’t quite grasped his situation. He resumed his discourse, and
he began to point out to me that in my place and with my opportunities he
would indeed go far. No doubt, for example, I had very influential friends.
Not very? Well, only give him the chance of a footing in England, an
opening that would bring him into the society of gentlemen—and he
developed his theme still further, guiding it, as I presently noticed, into
preciser detail than before. The sun had hardly faded from the tree-tops
when I learned that a person in my position, with my advantages, was just
the person whose hand Luigi had long desired to shake. And what did he
take my position to be, and where, pray, did he recognize its advantages? I
didn’t put the question as plainly as this, for indeed I had no wish to meet
Luigi when he came to detail. I clung to generalities, and I suggested that
there were plenty of most ungentlemanly people in London. “I’m sure I
shouldn’t think any of your friends ungentlemanly,” said Luigi.
What are you to do with a youth like that? I own that I felt a little excited
by the thought that somebody, were it only Luigi, should turn to me for
patronage; and Luigi would certainly never discover just how much of it I
had to dispense. And yet he had taken my measure fairly enough; he didn’t
suppose that my own credit was very high, but I could “mention his name,”
he said, in certain quarters, and he shot out a suggestion or two which
showed that he had already considered the ground and was prepared. Any
chance was a chance worth seizing; any simple Englishman thrown in his
way might be a step on his ladder. But he was shrewd; and when he found
that his hints were left lying where they fell, he turned aside to disparage his
unfortunate family again—his sister, his aunt, his father, a bunch of futility
that hindered a man in his effort to announce and express himself in the
world. In a few words it was delicately implied that anybody who lent a
hand to Luigi would never be embarrassed by Luigi’s family—the admirable
youth would see to that. He was rather uneasy to think that already his
women had engaged me to visit them; he knew, to be sure, that their pride
and delight was to serve Luigi, but a prudent man doesn’t entrust his
business to the bungling devotion of two ignorant women. With this in mind
he insinuated that I needn’t trouble myself with their officious invitations;
though if I cared to see something of the town under his guidance, why
indeed he was very much at my disposal. Rome the inexhaustible! The
sacred place as Luigi saw it was quite unlike the city of Deering’s vision, or
of Jaff’s, or of Cooksey’s; but he too was convinced that his was the real and
only Rome, such as it was—a poor thing compared with the Strand of
London.
 VII. VIA DELLA PURIFICAZIONE

T HERE is a little dirty wedge of the streets of old Rome, there is or there
still was a few days ago, which runs up the hill of the Ludovisi, on the
way to the Pincian Gate. The garden of the Ludovisi crowned the hill, I
suppose, in the days of Kenyon and Roderick Hudson, and now the vast new
inns of the tourist stand there; but even before the time of Rowland and
Roderick the old streets had encroached up to the very edge of the garden,
and there they are still, with the great hotels towering above them—a
handful of tangled byways between the boulevard on one side and the tram-
line on the other. These papal relics are exceedingly squalid, I must own,
what with the cabbage-stalks in the mud and the underclothing that hangs
drying in the windows; but they are charmingly named, and Luigi’s family
lived in the Via della Purificazione.
From the doorstep of the house a narrow black staircase tunnelled its way
upward, and I climbed in the darkness and the dankness to the apartment of
my friends on the fifth story. I rang and stood waiting, not in vain, for the
delightful shock that seldom fails you on a Roman threshold; I knew it well
and I counted on it, for nothing gives you a swifter tumble into the middle
ages than the Roman fashion of receiving a stranger. You stand on the
landing, and you might suppose that the commonplace door would open to
the sound of the bell and admit you in a moment. Not at all; there is a dead
silence, as though somebody listened cautiously, and presently a shrill cry of
challenge from within—“Chi è?” So it happens, and for me the house
becomes on the spot a black old fortress-tower of the middle ages, myself a
bully and a bravo to whom no prudent householder would open without
parley; that deep dark suspicion, that ancient mistrust of the stranger at the
door—it pulls me over into the pit of the Roman past, suddenly yawning at
my feet. I used to wait for the cry when I knocked at a Roman door, and to
wish that I could answer it and call back with the same note of the voice of
history. It takes a real Roman to do so, and I chanced to hear a real young
Roman do so once or twice; he answered the challenge with a masterful tone
of command that he had acquired long ago, in days when he shouted and
fought in the streets of Rome, a fine young figure in the train of the Savelli
or the Frangipani.
 Luigi’s family kept a dishevelled old maid-servant, wild of hair and eye;
insanely staring and clutching the tails of her hair she ushered me through a
dark entry into the family apartment. It was a bewildering place; there were
plenty of rooms, freely jumbled together, but their functions were
confusingly mixed. I couldn’t help knowing, for example, as I passed from
one to another, that Teresa was hooking herself into her gown by a small
scullery-sink in which there stood a japanned tea-pot and a cracked bedroom
looking-glass. I was deposited finally in a very stuffy little parlour,
smothered and stifled with a great deal of violent blue drapery and tarnished
gilding. The door was closed upon me, but it didn’t cut me off from the
affairs of the household. There was a rattling of tea-things in the kitchen and
the voice of Teresa giving directions in an urgent whisper; and from
somewhere else there came another voice, a man’s, that was new to me—a
voice which uttered a fruity torrential Italian, quite beyond any apprehension
of mine, though I could easily tell that it wasn’t the language of formal
compliment. Before long Teresa rustled brightly into the parlour, one hand
outstretched, the other searching stealthily for an end of white tape that had
slipped through her hooking and wandered over the back of her skirt. She
welcomed me on a high-pitched note, at the sound of which the man’s voice
immediately stopped; and she drew me forth through another small room,
containing an unmade bed, to an open window and a balcony that
commanded a fine wide view of the city. The balcony was large enough to
hold a table and two or three bedroom chairs; and there we found Berta,
together with a man who offered himself politely for introduction to the
new-comer.
“Mr. Daponte,” said Berta, presenting him. He was a very short thick man
of forty or so, chiefly composed of a big black moustache and a pair of
roving discoloured eyes; he was glossily neat, though rather doubtfully
clean. He bowed, while the ladies graciously exhibited him and explained
that he spoke no English. “But he understands very well,” said Berta, “and
he loves to listen.” The gentleman showed his understanding by a grin and a
flourish of his large dirty hands, and a remark seemed to be labouring up
from within him, so that we all paused expectant. It was an English remark,
but it miscarried after all. “I speak—” said Mr. Daponte; and he spoke no
more, appealing mutely to the women to help him out. But the Medusa-head
of the old servant appeared in the window at that moment, and she fell over
the step to the balcony and landed the tea-tray with a crash on the table; and
in the commotion, while Berta busied herself over the cups and plates,
Teresa drew me aside and whispered archly, indicating the little gentleman,
“He will be the hosband of my niece.” Berta looked round and performed a
blush—she felicitously glanced, that is to say, and stirred her shoulders as
though she blushed; and she gave a little push to her swain in a girlish
manner, which took him by surprise and mystified him for an awkward
instant; but then he nodded intelligently and responded with a playful blow.
“Tea, tea!” cried Teresa, smiling largely; and we packed ourselves round the
table to enjoy a plate of biscuits and a pale straw-coloured fluid which Berta
poured from the japanned tea-pot.
The view from the balcony was magnificent, only you had to overlook
the nearer foreground. We seemed to be swung out upon space, above the
neighbouring house-roofs; and beyond and below them was a great sweep of
the sunlit city, with the dome of St. Peter like a steel-grey bubble on the sky-
line. But the nearer house-roofs, crowding into the foreground, made a
separate picture of their own, and I found it difficult to look beyond them.
There is much oriental freedom of house-top life in Rome, on fine summer
evenings; you scarcely catch a glimpse of it from the street below, but on
Teresa’s balcony we were well in the midst of it. Bath-sheba wasn’t actually
washing herself, but she felt safe and at ease in the sanctity of the home,
lifted up to the sky, and she displayed her private life to the firmament. Little
gardens of flowers in pots, tea-tables like our own, groves and pergolas of
intimate linen, trap-doors and hatches from which bare-headed figures,
informally clad, emerged to take the evening air—it was a scene set and a
drama proceeding there aloft, engaging to the eye of a stranger, and our
balcony was hung like a theatre-box to face the entertainment. Close in front,
just beneath us, there was a broad space of flat roof on which the
householder had built an arbour, a pagoda of wire with greenery trained
about it; and in the arbour sat the householder himself, a grey-headed old
priest, crossing his legs, smoking his cigar and reading his newspaper; and a
pair of small children scuttled and raced around him, while he placidly took
his repose, and rushed shrieking to meet a young girl, who climbed from
below with a basket of clothes for the line; and the priest looked up, waved
his cigar and cried out a jest to the girl, who stood with her basket rested on
her hip, merrily threatening the children who clutched at her skirt. The blast
of a cornet came gustily from another roof-sanctuary, further off, and there a
young man was perched astride upon a bench, puffing at his practice in
solitude. And so on from roof to roof, and I found myself sharing all this
easy domestic enjoyment of a perfect evening with rapt attention.
The voice of Teresa recalled me; for Teresa was appealing to me to
confirm her, to say that she was right in telling Emilio (Emilio was Berta’s
betrothed)—in telling him some nonsense, whatever it was, about the
splendour of London, its size or shape, its social charm; Teresa was certain
of her fact, for once she had spent a fortnight in London, and now she dwelt
upon the memory. A sole fortnight—but how she had used it! She had
discovered in some handbook a scheme for the exploration of all London,
within and without, in fourteen days; it appears that after fourteen tours of
inspection, each of them exactly designed to fit into a long summer’s day,
you may be satisfied that you have left no stone of London unturned. Only to
be sure you must rigidly stick to the directions of the handbook, and Teresa
had to regret that they didn’t include the spectacle of Queen Victoria; which
was the more to be deplored because actually she had had the chance, and
yet couldn’t take it because the handbook forbade. You see she had duly
taken her stand one morning, according to plan, before Buckingham Palace;
and a crowd was assembled there, and a policeman had told her that the
Queen was to appear in ten minutes; but ah, the handbook gave her only five
for the front of Buckingham Palace, and then she must seize a certain
omnibus and be off to the Tower; and she couldn’t upset the whole
admirable scheme on her own responsibility, now could she?—so she hadn’t
seen the Queen, and she couldn’t convince Emilio of something or other
which I could certainly confirm if I would. What was it? Apparently Teresa
had just been telling me; but I was so much interested in the young man with
the cornet that I had missed the point.
For me the point lay rather in the surprise of our meeting together upon a
roof in Rome to talk about Buckingham Palace. I met the appeal rather
wildly, but Teresa was contented; Emilio perceived that she knew more of
London than I did, and the two women struck up a familiar selection from
their repertory, the antiphonal strain of their singular affinity to all things of
England, of the English. How they adored the “dear old country,” they said
—how they were drawn by that call in their blood, of which I knew. Berta
too had seen London, she had spent three days with her father in a boarding-
house of Bloomsbury; she had saluted and recognized her home. So lost, so
transfigured were they in their Englishry that the Roman evening all about
them was again forgotten, it touched them not at all. Berta begged me to
remember how from Gower Street you may step round the corner into the
sparkling throng of Tottenham Court Road; and “the policemen!” she cried,
and “the hansom cabs!” and “Piccadilly Circus!”—Berta hadn’t much gift of
description, it was enough for her to cry upon the names of her delight.
Emilio’s gooseberry-tinted eyes were strained in the effort to understand our
English talk; he could offer no opinion upon its subject, for all his mind was
given to its translation, word by word, in his thought; but perhaps he didn’t
entirely approve of the general drift, for it was not quite seemly that Berta
should display an experience of the world in which he couldn’t share. She
gave him no attention, however; for she was quite carried away, the mad
thing, by her fond enthusiasm over our dear old country. She was a little bit
cracked on the subject, her aunt had said; and her aunt leant forward and
tapped her on the cheek with tender ridicule. “You silly child!” said Teresa—
for it was not to be forgotten that the call of the English blood came from her
side of the family, and that Berta stood at a further remove than she from the
pride of their lineage. “But her father,” added Teresa, “is just as bad. He was
always italianissimo, as they say here, but he loved the English freedom. The
Italians do not understand our adorrable freedom.”
No, of course not. Rome, that had old genius of tyranny, lay outspread
beneath and around us, bathed in the spring-sweetness of the first of May.
The white-headed priest had folded his newspaper and was attending to his
flower-pots, snipping and fondling his carnations; while the two children
were struggling with bleating cries for the possession of a watering-can,
which they busily hoisted under the old man’s direction to the row of the
pots; and the girl, stretching her linen on the line, cried to them over her
shoulder to be careful. The young man upon the further roof had laid aside
his cornet and was singing, singing as he leant upon a parapet—a trailing
measure that lingered upon clear high notes with a wonderful operatic throb
and thrill. On another roof another group had assembled, lounging about a
table on which a woman placed a great rush-bound flask of wine; they were
a group of men, four or five of them, in dark coats and black soft hats, and
they stretched their legs about the table and talked in comfort while the
woman filled their glasses. I thought of Gower Street and Tottenham Court
Road; but Berta’s pitch was too high for me, and I felt that I flagged and
dragged upon them in their fine English flight. But what matter?—so much
the more brilliantly their native patriotism soared and shone; and I couldn’t
but see that it was a true passion, genuinely romantic and pure, by which
they were transported above the daily dullness of the Street of the
Purification, above the lifelong habit of Rome.
“I think you are not so English as we are,” cried Berta; and indeed it
might seem so, as my eyes wandered away from Piccadilly Circus and
followed the old priest and the children—the two children were still
struggling and yelping joyously over their watering-pot. To Berta it might
seem that I was no true Englishman, and I left it at that. Neither she nor
Teresa was troubled with a doubt whether a true Englishman, sitting there on
the balcony in the golden evening of Rome, would be found to yearn
desirously to the thought of the boarding-house in Gower Street
—“Invergarry” was the name of the house, Berta said; perhaps I knew it?
They certainly betrayed themselves badly with their innocent outcries. I
wished that we might have had Cooksey or Deering on the balcony with us,
to teach these women the style of the truly English. My own was below the
level of Cooksey’s—Berta was so far right. I ought to have shown myself
more actively and resolutely Roman, I ought to have hailed the old priest
with kindly patronage, I ought to have been ready to instruct Berta in the
custom and usage of Roman life, leaving her to grapple as she could with the
life of Bloomsbury; Cooksey would have done all this, the good English
Cooksey, true offspring of the diocese of Bath and Wells—“bien trairoit au
linage,” as they say in the old poems. The better you favour and hold to your
lineage, if it is English, the more complacently you flout it upon the soil of
Rome; it is the sign. Berta, poor soul, hadn’t had the opportunity to grasp
these distinctions. She had only passed three days at Invergarry, and she had
learnt no more than to flourish the ecstasy of her intimacy with our dear old
country. It takes more than three days, it takes a lifetime and a lineage, to
teach you the true cackle of scorn, the thin unmistakable pipe of irony, which
you may hear and salute upon the lips of Cooksey and of Deering. They are
the sons of the dear old country, and I should recognize their accent
anywhere; Berta and Teresa, if they live for ever, if they live till the reign of
the next English pope, will never acquire it.
But what about Luigi? Luigi, they said, had been detained by business,
but he hoped to join us before the tea-party was at an end. And presently,
sure enough, Luigi appeared on the balcony with his conquering smile; and
my first thought was to study his accent, which differed from that of his
women and which indeed, truth to say, was considerably more genuine than
theirs. It was not a pretty accent, as I have said; it was exceedingly low; but
his slurred and flattened mumble, with its bad vowels and vulgar stresses,
brought the pavement of London much nearer to me than the lyrical
coloratura of his sister and his aunt. Luigi had only to open his mouth, only
to say “Ah believe you” and “A give yer mah word,” to throw something like
a fog of the Thames-side over the fair southern evening; which should have
pleased the ladies, only they weren’t aware of it. Through Luigi’s talk I
dimly peered into the depths of the cosmopolitan jumble of Rome; and I saw
a company of Englishmen, young blades of commerce, spirited young clurks
in enterprising young houses of business, established upon the sacred hills in
the hope (the vain hope, Luigi assured me) that Rome would awake from her
stuffy old dreams, blinking and rubbing her eyes, to hustle out into the world
of modernity. Sanguine souls, they thought the sleepy old place might yet be
roused to bestir herself; but Luigi told them plainly that they didn’t know
Rome if they had any idea of that kind. He knew Rome—a dead place, dead
and rotten and done for; it passed him why anybody who wished to do well
for himself should come to Rome. They did come, however, quite a number
of them; and Luigi frequented their society and caught their tones and
sedulously practised their slang.
But in all that commercial society, you understand, there is nothing that
will do a man any good; Luigi indicated the reason for this, and you will be
surprised to hear that it was because these commercial chaps, clurks and
agents and travellers and such, are not gentlemen—not a gentlemanly lot at
all. One frequents their society because no better is at hand; and one
frequents it because one can’t afford to miss any chance in a place like
Rome; and perhaps one frequents it a little because a man likes an
opportunity to swagger round the town with a company of dashing young
strangers and to induct them into its resources of pleasure; but one doesn’t
care to lay stress upon these frequentations when it happens—when it
happens that something just a little bit better presents itself. I state what was
in Luigi’s mind, I offer no opinion upon his judgment; Luigi, as you know,
took the flattering view of my company that it was of the sort which might,
if it were judiciously ensued, do a man good. But I am entitled to claim that
in the end he was disappointed with me, and that the end came soon. I saw
very little more of Luigi, and I believe he never discovered that “opening” at
which he was prepared to jump, dropping the embarrassment of his family.
Some voice of the air afterwards brought me the news that he had married
the elderly widow of a Portuguese Jew, and that with her too, or perhaps
rather with her late husband, he was grievously disappointed. His smile had
carried him, I suppose, beyond his prudence.
Meanwhile I was able, as I say, to compare his note and accent with those
of his family; and the result was that I warmed a good deal towards the
valiant cheer of Berta and Teresa. They had dropped into the background (so
far as that is possible on a small balcony where five people were now
squeezed about the table) when Luigi made his appearance; they abdicated
and he assumed the rule of the entertainment; and it became so common and
squalid under his direction that I clearly saw the bravery which the women
had lent it till he came. We had been munching the biscuits with perfect
dignity, and when Luigi began apologizing for them he seemed to degrade us
all. Teresa had handed the plate like one who does honour to herself and her
guest, and even Emilio, whose table-manners were not very good, had pulled
himself together to imitate Berta’s dainty fingering of her tea-cup. But now
Emilio went entirely to pieces; he gulped, he filled his mouth with the dust
of the biscuits and forgot about it while he greedily questioned Luigi, raising
some matter of a promise or an appointment which Luigi rather sulkily
discouraged. “Afterwards!” said Luigi crossly, in English, and Emilio
gloomed in silence and resumed his mouthful of dust. I don’t think those
women had a gay or comely time of it when they were alone with Luigi; I
had a vision of interminable sessions on that balcony, day after day, Luigi
grumbling his discontent and his pity of himself in an endless acrid argument
with the women, while the priest took his evening repose hard by and the
young man on the further house-top blasted perseveringly upon his cornet.
How strange and sad that these people should have no more suitable stage
for their dreary wrangles than a balcony swung out upon so much of the
history of the world, an airy platform from which you could wave your
handkerchief to the dome of St. Peter! I tried to measure what it might mean
to Berta that in the midst of the golden-brown city beneath us, the treasury
outspread before her every morning when she looked from her chamber, you
could distinguish the smooth unobtrusive crown of the Pantheon; I pointed it
out to her and found she had never noticed it before. “La Rotonda?” she
said; “but the Rotonda should be—” she didn’t know where it should be, she
didn’t know anything about it at all, she had never seen the view from her
balcony, though she knew it was very fine. “We have a so beautiful
prospect,” she said, surveying it with aroused curiosity, as though for the
first time. “In Bloomsbury the view is not so fine,” I suggested; and she
turned her back upon Rome to protest that I didn’t know my own good
fortune, with beautiful London to enjoy whenever I would. But I liked her
for the word; she loved London for the beauty of Gower Street, not for its
openings and its chances; and she looked coolly upon Rome, not because it
is no place for a gentleman, but because in Rome she had had more than
enough of the care of a decayed old father, of the struggle with mounting
prices and expenses—and very much more than enough, I dare say, of
Luigi’s sulking and complaining, though she still managed to think she
thought him a handsome and brilliant young man. She had, however, secured
a husband; Emilio wasn’t handsome, but like Luigi she took her chance
where she found it.
 VIII. ALBANO

D AY after day the bounty of the springtime was unfailing; and the day of
our excursion to Albano began as a crystal, towered to its height in
azure and gold, sank to evening over the shadowy plain in pearl and
wine. If the world had been created and hurled upon its path to enjoy a single
day, one only, before dropping again into chaos, this might have been that
day itself—and quite enough to justify the labour of creation. But in Rome
that labour is justified so often, between the dusk and the dusk, that the
children of Rome have the habit of the marvel; so I judge, at least, by Teresa
and Berta, who occupied most of the time of our small journey in wondering
why they had forgotten to bring the two light wraps which they were
accustomed to take with them in the country. Berta could only remember
that she had laid them down for a moment in the—in the scullery-sink, I
suppose, with the cracked looking-glass, but she stopped herself in
mentioning the spot. And Teresa had all but lost her very smart ivory-hilted
umbrella in the crowded tram, on the way to the station; and she was so
much upset that more than once she thoughtlessly broke out to Berta in
Italian—a sure sign in Teresa of ruffled nerves. We travelled to Albano by
train, and in our flurry of discomposure we couldn’t for a while attend to the
landscape; but presently Teresa reflected that the light wraps would be safe
where they were (she had read where they were in Berta’s eye), and we
could abandon ourselves to our national delight in the country.
The excursion had been the happy idea of the two ladies. Luigi luckily
found that he had inevitable business in the city, and of course there was no
question or exposing the aged patriot to the risks of travel—he seldom
ventured abroad; but a friend of Teresa’s was to join us at Albano, a
charming Russian lady in reduced circumstances, and perhaps Emilio would
follow us later, and Berta had sent word to another friend of hers, a German
girl, who lived out there, and possibly we should find Miss Gilpin too—only
it seemed that Miss Gilpin was rather “proud of herself,” Berta said, rather
“high,” and if she knew that Madame de Shuvaloff, poor thing, was to be
one of our party she might think it beneath her; for Madame de Shuvaloff,
you understand, had been reduced to keeping a boarding-house near the
Ponte Margherita, to support herself and her little girl, and Berta for her part
could see nothing dishonourable in poverty, but some people—“som
people,” said Teresa trenchantly, “think it wrong for som people to be even
alive, isn’t it?” We must, then, remember that if Miss Gilpin should
condescend to accompany us—“condescend?” cried Berta, “I shall just give
her a good piece of somthing if she condescends, oh yes I shall!” “You silly
gurl,” said Teresa, “always in a passion about somthing!”—and Teresa began
to reckon the number of our party for luncheon, confusing herself
inextricably in the effort to keep the certain and the probable and the
unlikely in separate categories.
We had crossed the shining plain, had tunnelled into the hills and arrived
at Albano before we had time to delight very much in the country; and even
the glorious free English ramble that we were to take in the woods before
luncheon consisted mostly of debates and delays, harassing doubts, wrong
turnings—for Teresa was positively afraid of her niece’s boldness, once the
girl was let loose in the country, and she was resolved that the crazy thing
should incur no unpleasantness, so she darkly mentioned, such as may easily
befall one in the wild places of the mountain. The wildness, Teresa seemed
to hold, begins where the back-streets and the chicken-runs and the rubbish-
heaps of the Albanians leave off; and our hour of adventure ran out while we
peered round corners, measured the risk of climbing a stony path that
disappeared in an ilex-wood, and recollected that we mustn’t be led on to
wander too far before the time appointed for our party at the trattoria. “How
quick the morning passes in the country!” exclaimed Berta, casting out a
black-gloved hand to beat off the flies and the puffs of white dust—the flies
and the dust in the safer parts of the country are very thick. “But we must
hurry back,” Teresa reminded us; and we turned away from the prospect of
the ilex-wood, keeping to the shade of a high wall covered with bright blue
posters, and stepped out with more assurance to regain the street of the tram-
line, the town-piazza above the railway-station, and the homely eating-house
where Madame de Shuvaloff and the rest were to meet us.
Our party kept us waiting interminably, and in the end it consisted only of
the Russian lady, reduced and charming, with her sharp and shrill little girl.
Everybody else, it seemed, had failed us, whether in forgetfulness or in
pride. But no matter, Teresa and Berta could make a party, as I have noted,
out of the leanest material; and Madame de Shuvaloff (it is but a random
shot that I take at her name) was one of those who occupy a large amount of
room for their size. We waited long for her; but she came straggling into the
trattoria at last—a tiny scrap of a woman with a thin pale face and huge eyes,
a clutching and clawing and shrieking little creature, like a half-fledged
young bird of prey escaped from the nest. She strayed in upon us as though
by accident, and with a shriek and a flourish of her claws, catching sight of
us, she scrambled over chairs and tables, beat her wings in startled surprise,
dashed herself against the walls and ceiling—I give the impression I
received—and disappeared again, fluttering out through the doorway with a
cry for something she had left behind. It was her child that she had lost, and
there was a scuffle without, an encounter of clashing beaks, and she returned
with the child in her talons—a still smaller but quite as active young
fledgling, which struggled and shook itself free and bounced across the floor
to its perch at our table. Teresa and Berta sat up, very decent and straight-
backed, to meet the shock of the party, and with the subsiding of the first
commotion they were able to keep it more or less in hand. Our guests were
induced to compose themselves on their chairs in the likeness of human
beings.
They did their best, and the little girl indeed (her mother called her Mimi)
straightened her frock and folded her hands and pursed her lips in a careful
imitation of Teresa, enjoying the pretence of social and lady-like manners.
She improved on her example with a coquettish dart of her eyes (at the
gentleman of the party) under lowered lids; she had a native expertness
beyond the rest of us, and at intervals through the meal she remembered to
use it. But she broke down when a dish of food appeared, and she then
became the voracious nestling, passionate to be the first to get her fingers
into the mess and to secure the likeliest lumps. She screamed to her mother
in a jumble of languages to give her that bit, the best, not the nasty scrap
beside it; her mother ordered and protested, Mimi fought and snatched—on
the arrival of anything fresh to eat there was an outbreak of the free life of
the wild. Mimi, pacified with the lump she needed, was again a young
person of gracious style; and Teresa, quite powerless before these glimpses
of the unknown, could resume her control of the occasion and the ceremony.
Mimi then, momentarily gorged and at ease, watched us with a flitting
glancing attention that I in my turn was fascinated to watch. Her mind was
keenly at work, transparently observing and memorizing; she noted our
attitudes, our speech and behaviour, she stored them away for her benefit;
and I wondered what words she was using, what language she thought in,
while she seized and saved up these few small grains of a social experience.
Whenever she caught my eye on her she began immediately to make use of
them; she consciously arched her neck, she fingered her fork with elegance,
she shot her glances with eloquent effect.
Her mother meanwhile—but her mother was indeed a baffling study.
Teresa was quite right, she was charming; she was perfectly simple and
natural, and just as much so when she was human as when she clawed and
shrieked in her native bird-savagery. When she was human she talked with a
curious questing ingenuity in any or all of the civilized tongues. She raised
us above trivialities, she neglected Teresa’s questions about her journey, her
plans, her unpunctuality; she started (in French) a fanciful disquisition upon
some very modern matter of painting or dancing or dressing, some
revolution in all the arts that was imminent; and it seemed that she was deep
in the inner councils and intrigues of the revolution, which had its roots in a
philosophic theory (she slipped, without missing a step, into German) that
she expounded in a few light touches of whimsical imagery (suddenly
twisting off into Italian); and I can hear her assuring Teresa that the black
misery of a woman’s life will flush into pink, will whiten to snow of pure
delight, if she breaks through the bonds of—I forget what, of earthly
thought, of esthetic imprisonment; and I can see Teresa’s blank white face,
her bonnet-strings neat under her chin, her lips decently arranged as though
her mouth were full of dough, while she waits her opportunity to declare that
this modern art is all “too ogly, too drrreadfully horrible and ogly for
words.” The little visitor smiled sweetly and darted with nimble grace into
further reaches of her argument—where she evoked a stonier stare upon the
faces of Teresa and Berta, who began to look straight across the table at
nothing at all as though they could suddenly neither see nor hear. There
seemed to be no malice in Madame de Shuvaloff, but there was no shame
either. She talked most improperly (in French), breaking through the last of
the bonds that restrain us, not indeed from the snowier heights, but from the
pinker revelries of speculation; and I don’t know where it would have ended
or how Teresa would have tackled the daring creature at last, but Mimi (who
had quite understood that she was to look inattentive when these topics were
broached)—Mimi presently distracted her mother and all of us by hurling
herself (out of her turn) at the fritto misto, in a passion of fear lest the dish
should be rifled and spoilt before it reached her.
Mimi was not a nice child, but her mother was decidedly attractive—far
more artless, more unconscious, more heedless than her daughter. What in
the world was the history behind them? Madame de Shuvaloff never