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Authors: Renae Kelleigh
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“That was quick,” said John, turning away from Meg in time to glimpse a blaze of lightning as it prized apart the sky. He looked from the cottage to Meg. “We’d better make a run for it - the rain’ll be here any second.”
She scrambled to her feet and scooped up her shoes, then grabbed John’s extended hand. They darted from beneath the trees just as the front swept in and assaulted them with torrents of bone-chilling water. The cottage, not a hundred yards away, suddenly seemed much farther.
Meg’s fingers were tingling and her feet were numb by the time they reached the scant cover of the porch. John flung the door open and pushed her through. He kept one arm bent around her waist to protect her from slipping as she stumbled forward.
When he let her go to check that the door was firmly shut, Meg dropped her sodden shoes and gathered her wet hair in one hand. Her jaw was clenched to keep her teeth from chattering.
“Now that,” said John, spinning around to face her, “was a flash flood.”
Her thoughts were momentarily diverted as he took a step towards her: his cheeks ruddy, his hair in dripping tendrils, his soaked shirt molded to the slabs of muscle that he wore like a suit of animate stone. If the predatory glimmer in his eyes was any indication, her appearance was having a similar effect on him, though she couldn’t fathom why. She was well aware of how she must look: hair matted, face blotchy and red. She offered a sheepish smile anyway as she pulled in a breath that whistled between her teeth.
John wrapped her in his arms, fitting her head beneath his chin. Rather than circle his waist with her arms, she kept them tucked inward for warmth, like folded up bird’s wings pressed between them.
“Meg,” he murmured, like a subtle reproof. “You’re frozen.” He nestled her closer while sliding his big hands up and down her bare arms, and she burrowed against his chest, relaxing into the humid comfort of his body heat. Meanwhile, rain crashed and clattered against the metal sheeting of the roof.
John pulled back, stooping to meet her eyes. “Your lips are blue.” He held the side of her face and smudged his thumb across her bottom lip while fingering the hem of her soaked shirt. “I’ll get you something dry to wear.”
Meg struggled to get a handle on her shivering as he walked away. Her trembling seemed absurd given that, all told, they’d only been in the rain for half a minute. She supposed there was more to it than simply being cold.
“Put this on,” said John, proffering a neatly folded shirt. He was frowning. “I don’t...I haven’t got any pants that will fit you.”
“That’s all right,” she answered quickly. “I can leave my shorts on underneath.”
He didn’t disagree, though he appeared unconvinced.
“Where shall I...?”
He nodded to a door behind her. “There’s the bathroom.” His voice was gruff. “Take a shower, too, if you want - the water is good and hot. There are towels in the cupboard.”
“Thank you,” she replied quietly, wresting the shirt from his fingers.
The bathroom, like the rest of the cottage, was tiny but serviceable: on the left, a pedestal sink and commode; on the right, a clawfoot tub with a white curtain. The tiled floor was covered in a threadbare blue rug, while above the sink hung a mirror flecked with age. A narrow shelf held a safety razor and a shaving brush and bowl, along with a toothbrush and half-squeezed tube of paste.
Meg laid John’s shirt on the sink and peeled off her wet clothes. For a moment she paused, still shivering, examining the reflection of her naked torso in the mirror. It was strangely invigorating, being nude, knowing he continued to move about just beyond the flimsy barrier of the door.
She bent over the tub and twisted one of the knobs, then waited as water gushed from the spigot. A moment later, a thin veil of steam obfuscated the mirror and breathed warmth into the confined space. Meg
“That was quick,” said John, turning away from Meg in time to glimpse a blaze of lightning as it prized apart the sky. He looked from the cottage to Meg. “We’d better make a run for it - the rain’ll be here any second.”
She scrambled to her feet and scooped up her shoes, then grabbed John’s extended hand. They darted from beneath the trees just as the front swept in and assaulted them with torrents of bone-chilling water. The cottage, not a hundred yards away, suddenly seemed much farther.
Meg’s fingers were tingling and her feet were numb by the time they reached the scant cover of the porch. John flung the door open and pushed her through. He kept one arm bent around her waist to protect her from slipping as she stumbled forward.
When he let her go to check that the door was firmly shut, Meg dropped her sodden shoes and gathered her wet hair in one hand. Her jaw was clenched to keep her teeth from chattering.
“Now that,” said John, spinning around to face her, “was a flash flood.”
Her thoughts were momentarily diverted as he took a step towards her: his cheeks ruddy, his hair in dripping tendrils, his soaked shirt molded to the slabs of muscle that he wore like a suit of animate stone. If the predatory glimmer in his eyes was any indication, her appearance was having a similar effect on him, though she couldn’t fathom why. She was well aware of how she must look: hair matted, face blotchy and red. She offered a sheepish smile anyway as she pulled in a breath that whistled between her teeth.
John wrapped her in his arms, fitting her head beneath his chin. Rather than circle his waist with her arms, she kept them tucked inward for warmth, like folded up bird’s wings pressed between them.
“Meg,” he murmured, like a subtle reproof. “You’re frozen.” He nestled her closer while sliding his big hands up and down her bare arms, and she burrowed against his chest, relaxing into the humid comfort of his body heat. Meanwhile, rain crashed and clattered against the metal sheeting of the roof.
John pulled back, stooping to meet her eyes. “Your lips are blue.” He held the side of her face and smudged his thumb across her bottom lip while fingering the hem of her soaked shirt. “I’ll get you something dry to wear.”
Meg struggled to get a handle on her shivering as he walked away. Her trembling seemed absurd given that, all told, they’d only been in the rain for half a minute. She supposed there was more to it than simply being cold.
“Put this on,” said John, proffering a neatly folded shirt. He was frowning. “I don’t...I haven’t got any pants that will fit you.”
“That’s all right,” she answered quickly. “I can leave my shorts on underneath.”
He didn’t disagree, though he appeared unconvinced.
“Where shall I...?”
He nodded to a door behind her. “There’s the bathroom.” His voice was gruff. “Take a shower, too, if you want - the water is good and hot. There are towels in the cupboard.”
“Thank you,” she replied quietly, wresting the shirt from his fingers.
The bathroom, like the rest of the cottage, was tiny but serviceable: on the left, a pedestal sink and commode; on the right, a clawfoot tub with a white curtain. The tiled floor was covered in a threadbare blue rug, while above the sink hung a mirror flecked with age. A narrow shelf held a safety razor and a shaving brush and bowl, along with a toothbrush and half-squeezed tube of paste.
Meg laid John’s shirt on the sink and peeled off her wet clothes. For a moment she paused, still shivering, examining the reflection of her naked torso in the mirror. It was strangely invigorating, being nude, knowing he continued to move about just beyond the flimsy barrier of the door.
She bent over the tub and twisted one of the knobs, then waited as water gushed from the spigot. A moment later, a thin veil of steam obfuscated the mirror and breathed warmth into the confined space. Meg
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