One... The Collection: Three fun, flirty novellas, page 23
‘But you’re stuck here with me,’ Chris says with a sigh.
Suddenly I feel a bit bad, for implying that Chris isn’t my friend, but he isn’t, is he?
‘I didn’t mean…’
As I step towards him I lose my footing and head straight for the floor. Luckily I narrowly avoid landing on the hard garage floor. Instead, I land on a big fluffy pile of snow and while it isn’t painful, it is absolutely freezing, and I can feel the wetness soaking through my clothes.
‘Shit, are you OK?’ Chris asks.
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I insist, jumping to my feet, dusting myself down. ‘Just cold and wet and kind of embarrassed.’
‘Why don’t you go have a bath and put some dry clothes on,’ Chris insists. ‘I can finish up here.’
‘Are you sure?’ I reply.
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘You’ll soon feel the cold in wet clothes. Go, have a bath, and wait there for further instructions.’
I raise an eyebrow.
‘Well, that sounds interesting,’ I say.
‘It is interesting,’ he replies with a smile. ‘If I were you, I’d get a move on.’
‘OK,’ I say.
There’s an undeniable spring in my step as I head for the bathroom. I can’t believe I’m only just saying this now, after everything that has happened so far, but things just got very interesting…
Chapter Seven
Baths are officially ruined for me, forever, and it’s all because of this bath I am in right now. I will never be able to enjoy another bath again.
So deep it should technically be classed as a pool. So silky smooth – unlike my bath at home, which has this invisible layer of fuzz that no product seems to be able to shift. The water is so warm, the bubbles smell so good, and as if all that wasn’t enough I just found the control panel for the jets. Massage jets! I would have lived a much happier life, never knowing massage jets existed, because now I want them so bad. I’ll just have to make the most of them while I’m here.
I find myself daydreaming, lost in the fantasy of my dream house. I begin to imagine it with a smile on my face, as if I'm walking through its rooms, feeling the warmth and comfort it provides.
I walk through the front door into a grand entrance hall with a soaring ceiling and a sparkling chandelier hanging above me. The walls are elegantly decorated with intricate mouldings and framed artwork. A comfortable bench near the door invites visitors to remove their shoes and stay for a while.
Moving into the living room, I'm greeted by a symphony of colours and textures. A stunning fireplace is surrounded by plush sofas and armchairs adorned with soft cushions and blankets. The crackling sound of the fire and the warmth it emits create a cosy atmosphere ideal for curling up with a good book or sharing stories with family and friends.
The adjoining kitchen is a chef's dream. Gleaming countertops, high-end appliances, and a large central island entice me to unleash my culinary creativity. Sunlight pours in through the windows, casting a warm glow on the gleaming surfaces. I can already picture myself cooking delicious meals while sipping a glass of wine and socialising with friends gathered around the island, like a fancy middle class housewife from a Netflix domestic thriller.
The dining room is a visual feast. A long, elegant table is set beneath a stunning chandelier (can you ever have too many chandeliers in your dreams?), ready to host memorable gatherings and delectable feasts. The shelves on the walls are decorated with cherished family heirlooms and whimsical trinkets collected from around the world, sparking conversations with everyone who visits.
As I make my way upstairs, I find myself in a luxurious master suite. The bedroom is a haven, with a superking-sized bed draped in soft linens and fluffy pillows. French doors lead to a private balcony with breath-taking views of the garden. A deep soaking tub, a spacious shower, and marble countertops in an en-suite bathroom create a spa-like ambiance where relaxation is pretty much inevitable.
I would have my own cosy library, complete with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves brimming with all my favourite reads. A cosy armchair is nestled in a corner, bathed in soft lighting, creating the ideal setting for immersing myself in captivating stories where I can escape reality.
As I continue to explore the dream house in my head, I come across more bedrooms, each one with its own distinct design and charm. One room is brightly coloured, inspiring creativity and imagination, while another exudes a serene and tranquil atmosphere, ideal for chilling out. To be honest with you, I don't think I'll bother with a sex dungeon, I can't imagine my having much cause to use one - although this is a daydream, so maybe we'll say my sex life is popping, so there's a cupboard in the bedroom with all the bits and bobs that go with that, because why not? This is at total fantasy after all.
Finally, I take a step outside into the back garden, where a natural oasis awaits. A sprawling garden brimming with colourful flowers and aromatic herbs invites me to reconnect with nature and indulge my green thumb. There isn't a flake of snow in sight. A large patio offers plenty of space for outdoor entertaining, and a sparkling pool promises cool relief on hot summer days.
My dream home is a haven, a sanctuary where I can be completely myself. It's a place where laughter echoes through the halls, where love and warmth fill every room. It's a place that accepts me, nurtures my dreams, and helps me make lasting memories. It's also a house that is never going to happen, not unless I win the lottery, marry well, or wind up stuck here for every.
My mind is dragged back to reality all at once. I can only distract myself for so long.
I can’t stop thinking about what Chris told me about his mum, and how devastated he must feel at this time of year. I almost feel bad, for telling about my selfish sister woes, because it’s hardly a comparable problem, is it? I know how pushed out I felt, and how it made me feel like I couldn’t spend New Year’s Eve with my parents, but at least I know they’re alive and well, and I can see them any other day. Chris will never see his mum again and, because he’s stuck here, his poor dad is probably all alone.
I feel a tear escape my eye and drop into the bathwater. No. Enough of that. This is strictly a no crying bath. I’m supposed to be warming up and relaxing, making the most of being stuck here.
I wish I’d remembered to bring my phone with me. I left it downstairs. I do like a soak in the bath but I don’t like being alone with my thoughts for too long. Between my tendency to dwell on things, and my overactive imagination, the conversations I have with myself can get pretty out of hand pretty fast. I’ll think about things that have happened in the past – and that covers everything from things I did five minutes ago, to times I embarrassed myself when I was a kid and everything in between. I’ll think about things. I’ll have hypothetical arguments with people – and I won’t always win them, which is insane, you’d think my own imagination would let me win.
I just feel like I have so much on my mind at the moment. More so than usual. We all carry stress around with us but there’s only so much that can be carried around before it starts to feel heavy. On top of the usual life stresses, I’ve got the drama with my sister and now being stuck here in my boss’s house. I yoyo between almost having a lovely time and being terrified of getting caught here, and I’m not even sure they’re different feelings sometimes because, for a girl like me who has never really put a foot wrong, something about being kind of bad for the first time in my life feels weirdly good.
I have always been a good girl. The naughtiest thing I did as a teen was sip my mum’s drinks while she wasn’t looking (interestingly, my sister and I would only ever take sips – it’s like we wanted to be “bad” but we didn’t want to actually get drunk) and occasionally staying up late to watch movies after bedtime. That’s it though. I was good as gold throughout uni – I wound up with a job in the legal profession, for crying out loud, you don’t really get more straight-laced than that, do you?
This might be the only time, in my entire life, that I ever do anything wrong. As things go it’s pretty spectacular – although I can’t take credit for the wildest part of it. Still, I’ll be able to look back at this and feel like I did something out of line, for once in my life, and hopefully it will be a happy memory – something my grandkids can laugh at. Wait, no, I can’t exactly tell my hypothetical grandkids about granny’s one one-night stand, can I? My grown grandkids, perhaps. If I’m lucky enough to get that far in life.
I’d love to have grandkids – kids first, obviously – but a family, that’s the goal. Well, a family and one of these big baths with the jets. Then I’ll know I’ve made it.
Chapter Eight
As I reach the bottom of the stairs two things hit me. First of all, it’s the gentle sound of music, drifting into the hallway from another room, loud enough for me to hear, but quiet enough that I can’t quite identify it from here. Next, the delicious smell of something cooking hits me. I couldn’t possibly tell you what but I get a sort of warming winter meal vibe from it. It reminds me of Sunday dinners at my parents’ house in the winter months. The delicious smell of a roast dinner, the cosy room, the steamed-up windows. It’s a real nostalgia kick, a throwback all the way to my childhood, and it makes me miss my family – even my infuriating sister.
I find Chris in the kitchen, busying himself around the hob, a tea towel over his shoulder to show that he means business.
‘Ah, perfect timing,’ Chris says.
He has two plates in front of him which he is loading up with mashed potatoes. He turns around to pull something out of the oven.
‘Go through to the dining room, I’ll bring this through in a second,’ he says.
Chris turns around to face me, oven dish in hand, takes one look at my face and freezes on the spot.
‘Don’t worry, I only used foods they had lots of, that no one would miss – we have to eat,’ he says.
I don’t know what the look on my face is like right now but I think that’s what Chris is reacting to.
‘Oh, I’m not worried about that,’ I insist.
Chris stabs a sausage with a fork and places it on one of the plates. He’s about to do it again when he freezes on the spot, the stabbed sausage hovering above the plate.
‘Oh no,’ he says. I can see his jaw tightening as panic takes hold of him. This is the first time I’ve seen him lose his cool since we got here. ‘You’re not a vegetarian, are you? Or worse, a vegan? Not that being a vegan is bad, but not one bit of this meal is suitable for a vegan. Maybe the gravy – I’d have to check, but you’re not going to have just gravy, are you? Are you? I don’t know any vegans.’
I can’t help but smile. It’s nice to see a version of Chris that is not so sure of himself. Even earlier, when he showed me his emotional side, he was so comfortable doing it, which I really like, I’m all for men sharing, but his confidence never faded. It’s nice to know that he does worry about somethings.
‘No, no, I’m not vegan,’ I say quickly. ‘Or a vegetarian. I’ll eat almost anything.’
‘Phew,’ he says. I see the relief wash over his face, relaxing his muscles. ‘You were just doing a face.’
‘It just surprised me, to come down here, and see you cooking dinner for us,’ I say. ‘I didn’t have you down as the type to cook.’
I know he made breakfast earlier, but everyone can make breakfast, right?
‘Yeah, I’ve been eating for most of my life, so the need to cook has cropped up now and then,’ he jokes.
‘You know what I mean,’ I insist.
‘I do,’ he replies. ‘Well, we’re having bangers, mash, cauliflower cheese, gravy – I even found some Yorkshire puddings in the freezer. Again, don’t worry, they had loads. You could live in their freezer if it wasn’t, y’know, a freezer.’
I smile.
‘Sounds amazing,’ I tell him. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Yes, you can get out of my kitchen,’ he jokes. ‘Head through to the dining room, I’ll be through with these in a minute.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I reply, doing as I’m told.
It’s only now, upon entering the dining room for the second time, that I really notice the Christmas tree. Well, I was in a bit of a flap earlier, and it’s dark out now, and the tree lights are on. It’s a big tree. At least 7ft tall, reaching up towards the high ceiling, and it’s plenty wide too. I know it’s real because I can smell it. You really can’t beat the smell of a real Christmas tree.
The next thing I notice is that the table is laid for two. The candles glow in the dimly lit room – coupled with the fairy lights on the tree, it’s such a dreamy, romantic scene.
Next to our places, there is a bottle of prosecco. I sit down and touch the bottle. It’s perfectly chilled.
‘So, they’ve got this thing in their kitchen,’ Chris explains as he carries in the plates. ‘Like a hole in the worktop, which I thought was bottle holder, but you tell it how cold you want your drinks to be and it chills them for you. Isn’t that amazing?’
‘It is,’ I reply. ‘But not as amazing as this dinner, Chris, wow, everything looks amazing.’
‘You will also be pleased to know that the prosecco is mine, not lifted from the chiller. It was my secret Santa gift,’ he explains. ‘So, you can drink it guilt-free.’
‘I can and I will,’ I reply.
Thankfully my hangover has shifted enough to allow a little light drinking. I’m even more grateful my appetite has returned.
‘I’ve also knocked together a crumble,’ he says. ‘It just needs popping in the oven when we’re ready for it.’
‘OK, this Chris I like,’ I tell him. ‘Earlier I thought you were so selfish, and infuriating, but as the day has gone on, I’m almost warming to you.’
He laughs.
‘Amazing what a bit of dessert can do, to get a person on-side,’ he muses. ‘I probably wasn’t totally myself earlier. I was a bit freaked out and trying to hide it because, you’re right, coming here was really stupid. I guess I wanted to impress you.’
‘Well, if there’s one thing you need to learn about me, I’m far more impressed by your crumble making skills than this house.’
Chris’s face suggests he doesn’t believe me.
‘I’m serious,’ I insist. ‘This is an amazing house, without a doubt, there’s so much to love about it. But being able to buy stuff isn’t really a quality I look for in a person. Someone who cooks for me, goes out of their way to lay a beautiful table, who shares their secret Santa present with me… that I can get on board with.’
‘And there’s me thinking girls liked a bad boy,’ he replies with a smile. ‘I broke into a house to impress you – nothing. I mash a few potatoes and you’re weak at the knees? Perhaps pop culture has lied to me.’
I gasp theatrically.
‘Imagine!’ I say.
As Chris and I chat over dinner I start to get little flashbacks from last night. I start to see in him what I saw in him yesterday. I can feel that connection again.
‘So, what do you like to do for fun?’ I ask. ‘Other than breaking and entering, and video games.’
‘One passion probably fuels the other,’ he jokes. ‘Hmm, well, other than that… I’m a bit of a dork really. I like superhero movies – I like the comics even more. I really, truly consider my Netflix subscription to be a bargain. I’m so addicted to true crime documentaries, but who isn’t? And I love reading. I’m a book-a-night kind of guy. Once I get started, that’s it.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ I say.
‘I know, it sounds insane, but you wouldn’t turn a movie off part of the way through, would you?’
‘I’m not surprised you read a book in a night,’ I reply. ‘I’m not a monster. I’m surprised you read.’
‘I don’t seem the type?’ he replies.
‘You don’t,’ I say. ‘Sorry if that sounds rude. You just seem too cool, I guess. I was surprised when you gave me the time of day last night.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ he replies. ‘I’ve always loved reading. Even when I was a kid. I saw you reading that Goosebumps book…’
‘Don’t tell me you loved Goosebumps too?!’ I reply.
‘Not really,’ he says. ‘I thought I was too mature for that. I preferred Point Horror.’
‘I remember those,’ I say, thinking back to my school days. ‘I used to eye them up but you had to be in year 8 to read them. So, I worked my way through every Goosebumps book I could find and, by the time I hit year 8, and I finally got to read one of the “grown-up” books… I don’t know. I just didn’t like them as much. They didn’t seem as much fun.’
‘It’s OK, they were pretty scary,’ he teases.
‘Perhaps if we’d got to know each other like this before we had sex, I wouldn’t have felt so awkward today,’ I say with a laugh.
Chris sniggers.
‘What?’ I reply. ‘I’m sure it’s a bit more typical, to get to know someone before you sleep with them, that’s if you want to look them in the eye again…’
‘Yeah, I’ve heard that said before,’ he replies. ‘It’s just funny because, well, we didn’t sleep together. Do you really think we did?’
‘I, er…’
I totally did.
‘We didn’t,’ he says. ‘We kissed – a lot – but we didn’t have sex. We drank that whiskey, you fell asleep, I fell asleep next to you not long after.’
‘I was in my underwear,’ I point out, a bit embarrassed.
‘Ah, yeah, well there was a dancing segment,’ he replies. ‘I thought I might spare you the details, seeing as though you don’t remember much, but you definitely took your own clothes off, willingly.’
And now I’m a lot embarrassed.
‘How was your dinner?’ Chris asks, changing the subject.
