Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Our five-hour drive whizzed by in a stream of idle chatter. I wowed him with my knowledge of Roman occupation, Saxon tribes, and the ancient burial mounds all over his country while he gave me a tutorial on music from the eighties and nineties.
“Do you really like this song?” I asked, gesturing to the sleek computer console.
Graham did a comedic double take. “Whey aye, man. I hope yer pullin’ me leg. Rick Astley is a fuckin’ legend.”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” he grunted, reaching over to squeeze my knee before turning up the volume on the Rick Astley classic piped through the Range Rover’s speakers. “Come on, ye know this one. Sing it with me.”
So yeah, we sang to classics from Ace of Base, TLC, Natalie Imbruglia, Britney, Mariah. We talked about clubs we’d lived at on the weekends in our youth. I’d been a Castro fixture in college in San Francisco while he’d cautiously sneaked off to Birmingham’s Gay Village.
We discussed the differences of our coming-of-age stories. He’d spent his formative queer years in the closet, and I’d been wearing rainbow tie-dyed cut-offs designed by my mom. In spite of the fact that we were opposites in every possible way, we never ran out of things to talk about. Or chuckle over.
And underneath our compatible senses of humor and long, meandering conversations was a near-constant buzz of awareness.
By the time we arrived at our quaint ivy-covered stone cottage rental on the outskirts of Padstow, my cheeks hurt from laughing and every nerve in my body tingled with a fierce need to get naked and horizontal.
I rescued the key from a metal box tucked behind a giant white hydrangea bush and glanced over at Graham, who was busily hefting our bags from the SUV parked in the dirt driveway. I unlocked the door and held it for him, saying a quick prayer in my head for reality to live up to the incredible pics online. I had visions of curling up on a comfy sofa and playing footsies while sipping wine in front of a crackling fire.
Oh, wow. This was even better.
I dropped the key on the table for two next to a welcome basket laden with fruit, wine, and artisan cheeses and marched over to the windows. The ocean view was spectacular—a panoramic ribbon of blue as far as the eye could see.
“Beautiful,” I murmured dreamily, sliding the door open and stepping onto the deck.
Graham moved behind me and set his hands on my hips. “Very nice, Ray-n. Very nice.”
I turned, draping my arms on his shoulders. “And just think…we have three whole days.”
“This is good. We’ll sit out here and drink wine and pretend we’re on the lookout for pirates. And we’ll have a lot of sex. Thoughts?”
“I’m in.”
The cottage was small but beautifully furnished with low ceilings, a huge stone hearth, and a cozy queen-sized bed with swoony ocean views. It was tempting to stay cuddled under covers and fuck like bunnies for three days straight, but I wanted to do some exploring too.
We walked into town for provisions, poked around the tourist shops near the harbor, tried on hats and sunglasses, and mulled over funny tea towels with quirky sayings like “I don’t like anyone in the morning” and “My safe word is chocolate.” I bought the towels for Winnie and helped pick out wine to complement the seafood we’d purchased from a restaurant on the harbor.
The sun set late in June and in spite of the chill, we couldn’t pass up the opportunity to dine al fresco on a deck perched high above the Atlantic. We sipped Sauvignon Blanc, ate shrimp, scallops, buttered crusty bread, and made plans. There were castle ruins to see, Cornish pasties to try, and adventures to be had.
“I don’t want to rain on your parade, but I have to work too. I have calls in the morning and one in the afternoon,” Graham warned me, linking our pinky fingers, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
“That’s okay. I’ll do the driving while you’re on the phone.”
He frowned as he twisted to face me. “Not likely. I prefer to arrive wherever we’re going in one piece. And where are we going?”
I lifted his hand to my lips and kissed it. “Just here and there. But Deverley first. I’m excited to see it.”
“It’s just a pile of stone, Ray-n. You’ve seen the photos.”
True. And they hadn’t been flattering. A small old stone house, some ruins, and overgrown hedges—nothing special in these parts.
So when we set out for Deverley the following morning, I lowered my expectations a few notches.
They weren’t low enough.
This place was kind of a dump.
Graham parked the Range Rover at the edge of a copse of trees and led the way along a dirt road to the main house, a boring stone box choked by ivy. I wrinkled my nose in distaste as I handed over the key and pulled up my camera on my cell.