Do Anything (6 page)

I hear rolling thunder and glance over my shoulder to see if the clouds are getting close. This is a mistake. In the brief moment I shift my attention from the road, the wheels skid to one side. Before I realize what is happening, I find myself on the ground, the bicycle on top of me.

I groan, leaning to one side, and shifting my aching body, I try to assess the damage. As I begin picking the bits of gravel out of my palms, I feel the first droplet of rain plant itself square on my forehead. “Great,” I mumble, shoving the bike off me and stumbling to my feet.

I pull the bike upright, all while the rain is now coming down on me. There is no more outrunning this storm; it has arrived. I straddle the bike seat and prepare to pedal. The bike shakes wildly beneath me, and I redistribute my weight on the ground over the contraption. The chain must have slipped from its location when I crashed.

“Damn it!” I shout, lifting my head to the heavens, the frustration consuming me, the rain washing over my body. Within minutes my clothes are soaked through.

Holding on tightly to my disabled transportation, I manually propel the bicycle forward. I squint my eyes to assist in seeing through the wall of rain in front of me. There are no buildings anywhere in sight, but I spot an oversized tree, its dense foliage a perfect shield for the sudden storm.

Once under the tree, I shake the excess water from my hair and wrap my arms around my body in an attempt to lessen the chill that has consumed me. Leaning the bike against the tree, I crumple to the ground, curling my body into a ball.

I’m so miserable I have to tell myself not to cry, but the tears are already forming.
What are you, a child?
I ask myself, trying to somehow will some strength. But I don’t feel strong. I feel weak and pathetic.

All my emotions bubble to the surface, and I am helpless to control them. I hate Jack for what he did to me, but I’m haunted by the feeling that it was somehow my fault. The nagging voice in the back of my mind telling me I could’ve been a better partner. If I had been more attentive to him, perhaps he never would have felt the need to seek affection elsewhere. I ball my hands into fists, angry for thinking this. I know this isn’t rational, I can tell myself that I didn’t do anything wrong, but the voice of doubt still lingers.

This entire trip is about me finding myself, but what does that even mean? I’m not even sure I ever ‘lost’ myself, because I never had time to even establish an identity. When friends talk about who I am, they always say the same thing, ’Oh Annabelle, she has always been a good girl. That Annabelle, always has her nose in a book.’

That isn’t who I am as a person. They aren’t personality traits. All people know about me is my hobby, which is also what I do for a living. I read. I read about everyone else’s lives and the adventures they have. I’m not sure why I ever thought this trip would give me some kind of clarity into who I really am.

I’ve spent a bunch of money I shouldn’t have, and after a week, I’m no closer to figuring things out. Hell, I can’t even carry on a decent conversation with an attractive guy without making a fool of myself. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe I should be on the first plane back to Chicago, facing my life for what it is.

I shiver, and my wet body is aching. I jerk as I hear tires on the gravel road, just over the blind hillside. Eager to take advantage of a ride, I rise to my feet. A truck comes up over the ridge, and I notice something familiar about it. It’s the same truck I’d seen parked in front of The Three Horseshoes. I can’t see the driver until the vehicle rolls to a stop in front of the tree. Somewhere in my mind I’d expected to see Abner, but staring back at me is a wide-grinning Holden.

“You know, we have a perfectly fine shower at the inn,” he laughs.

“Real funny,” I grumble. “It was your stupid bicycle throwing a chain that left me stranded out here in the rain.”

While I speak, he wastes no time exiting the truck, and with impressive ease puts the discarded bike in the bed. “Well, come on, let’s get you home.”

I hesitate. “I was trying to find Chawton.”

“Come on, you’re not getting any drier standing out here.” He steps to the side, holding open the truck door for me. His shoulders bunch up, trying to minimize the rain falling on him.

Without another thought, I run and dive into the opening, sliding across, making room for him. He follows me in and shakes off as if he were a dog.

“Are you telling me you’ve been gone all morning, and you never even made it to the village?”

I think about his question. He knows when I left. Was he watching me? I was quiet when I snuck out, so how could he know that?

“Thanks, rub it in.” I huff. “I couldn’t find it.”

“Why didn’t you take one of the maps from the inn?” His question makes me want to sink down and hide under the seat.

“Map?”

He laughs; I’m looking at his smile. I hadn’t noticed in the dim lighting of the pub, but his teeth are incredibly white. I use whitening strips, and mine don’t even shine like that. Based on the rest of his body, though, he has been blessed with good genes.

“Why didn’t you ask one of us then?”

“I didn’t want to be a bother,” I say. I can’t tell him I pretty much thought I’d made a fool of myself the day before and wanted to avoid any further contact.

He shakes his head, confounded by me. “You’re a paying guest. How on Earth would asking for directions be a bother?”

“I don’t know …” I begin. I’m a customer, so not asking is silly. “I didn’t think anyone was up.”

“For future reference, Bea and Abner are always up at dawn.”

“And you?” I ask, surprising myself a little.

He looks over at me, studying me for a moment. “You never know with me. Depends on if I have trouble sleeping.”

“Trouble sleeping?”

“I’m a bit of an insomniac,” he reveals.

Looking at his perfect skin and handsome face, you’d never think this specimen had any such issues.

“I have that problem, too,” I admit, but I’m not about to explain that my trouble sleeping started when I caught my fiancé cheating on me. A nice simple admission to find some common ground seems fair.

“Really?” From his inflection, it almost seems like he doesn’t believe me.

“Yeah, it’s not that unusual. I think a lot of people suffer from sleepless nights.”

“I guess.” His words are soft, and I can tell he is getting lost in thoughts of something he finds troubling. It takes everything in me not to probe deeper. I’ve always had a bad habit of not understanding what is socially acceptable when it comes to situations like this one. I think some consider me nosey.

We turn on the gravel path, almost to the inn, and somewhere in the last mile we drove out of the rain. The sun is beaming down, and as we come to a stop in front, Abner comes outside to greet us. Though the day isn’t particularly cold, when I step from the truck, the breeze hits my body, and I begin to shiver.

“Abner, would you care to start a fire while Ms. Hart and I change our clothes?”

Abner nods and, with chattering teeth, I make my way inside and start up the stairs. Holden is following closely behind. Given the steep stairwell, his eyes have a direct shot of my ass. I try to remember the color of panties I put on this morning. Were they black? Were they now visible through my clothes? Dear God, don’t let them be my granny panties.

I bow my head and focus on getting in my room as quickly as possible. I slide the key in and turn the knob, but just before I enter, I feel him grasp my arm. It startles me; I turn to face him, choking on the air as I see he is standing directly in front of me. So close in fact, by pure instinct my hands land on his chest.

“Whoa, careful,” he says, trying to steady me. “Are you all right?”

I shake my head, but I don’t step back. I like the closeness of him; I can smell a mixture of wood chips and his deodorant—intoxicating. “I’m fine,” I whisper. “Did you need something?”

“Yes, bring your clothes down with you, and I’ll have Bea toss them in the dryer.” He doesn’t release me, though. Instead, he holds my arm that is still bent, my open palms on his chest. I wish I knew what he was thinking. Our faces are close, and I find myself imagining we slip into a kiss. Soft and delicate at first, but one that rises into a feverishly passionate one. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

His question jolts me back to reality. I will be all right if I can put a few more inches between us; otherwise, I’m not sure what I’m capable of. “Yup, couldn’t be better,” I reply, pushing off his firm chest. My knees are shaking in response to the rock hard muscles that hide just beneath the damp material.

“Well, you look like you’re freezing. I’ll see you downstairs?” Holden asks. I nod, and he watches me until I’m in my room and the door is closed.

What the hell was that?
I wonder to myself. There was definitely a spark there, but I have no idea if it was purely on my part or something he was also feeling.

I walk in front of the mirror and stare at myself. My mascara is running, and my hair is hanging in wet, stringy clumps all over my head.
What are you doing, Annabelle? You were with Jack for years, and now a hot guy shows you the slightest bit of attention and you’re falling all over him. Snap out of it.
Just as these thoughts leave my mind I can hear Kenzie’s voice pushing me forward.
Have a little fun; go for it!

I slide into a comfortable pair of olive green cargo-style pants and pull on a peasant tunic. Running a quick brush through my hair, I wipe away the black circles that have gathered under my eyes. I slip on a pair of mules over my sock-covered feet. While I want to look cleaned up, I also wouldn’t want Holden to think I’m trying too hard.

I exit my room and bound down the stairs with my wet clothes tucked under my arm. I’m excited to give what I consider the Kenzie-approved strategy a go. Maybe there is still an adventure to be had.

“Ms. Hart, over here.” I cringe every time he says my name that way. It makes me think of my mother.

I place my clothes on the end barstool and cross the room to where Holden is sitting in one of the high-back chairs near the fireplace. He stands when I approach, and this strikes me as odd. What a sad state of affairs my life has become when I view common manners as surprising.

“Holden, please, Ms. Hart is my mother. I wish you’d call me something else,” I remark, taking the empty seat across from him. He waits for me, and then he sits as well.

“Very well. Should I call you Annabelle?” he asks.

“Most people just call me Anna,” I add.

“How about I call you Belle?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for my answer. He shifts into the next topic. “So how bad is your insomnia?”

“What?” The question catches me off guard. “Oh … I don’t know, I guess it bothers me most nights. I try to write in my journal until I eventually fall asleep.”

“A journal, huh? So does it contain all your deepest, darkest secrets?” he inquires, leaning forward, a keen interest in my answer.

“I write about my days as a CIA agent, but keep that between us, or I’ll have to kill you.”

“See, and you said you had nothing interesting to write about.”

I grin, and my stomach is twisting, but even so, I’m surprised at how easy it is to talk to him. “Does it bother you a lot?”

“What?”

“The sleeplessness,” I remind him.

“Oh … yeah, same here. About every night. The doctor wants to give me something, but I’m just not a pill taker,” Holden reveals.

“I know what you mean. I’m the same way.”

“Well, good, maybe we can be night buddies.” He chuckles, and I just know I turn bright red. “That sounded bad, didn’t it?”

“I know what you meant,” I add.

“I’m not sure I knew what I meant.”

I don’t know what to say in response to his statement. Is he flirting? Is he trying to tell me he wants to be the naughty kind of night buddy? What the hell? Am I offended, or do I want to know where to sign up? I need to change the subject. The silence between us is too long; we’re headed into awkward territory.

“Can I ask you something?”

He flashes me that half-cocked grin. “Anything.”

“How come you don’t have as much of an accent as most people I’ve met?” The question is weak, but it’s keeping the conversation flowing, and that’s all that matters at this stage of the game.

“I grew up Stateside.”

“Wait, what?” I gasp. “So you’re not British?”

“Oh no, I was born in England, and I lived here with my parents until I was two. My mom was American, and she wanted to move back home to be near her parents."

“Really?”

“Yes,” he insists. “Is it so hard to believe I’m half-American?”

“No … I mean, well, sort of,” I joke.

Holden takes a sip from a glass on the table next to him before continuing. “My dad, always wanting to make my mom happy, packed the three of us up and we headed for Indianapolis, Indiana.”

“Are you serious? I grew up in Southern Illinois,” I interject.

He laughs, then asks, “You do realize those are not all that close to each other, right?”

I lean forward and slap his arm with the back of my hand. After I do, I think it was ridiculous rather than flirty. “I know, but they are a lot closer than Illinois and England.”

“True, I can’t argue with your geography.”

“You can kind of be an ass,” I joke.

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me.” When he talks, all I can think about is kissing those full lips. What has gotten into me? I never have these kinds of thoughts.

“So what made you move back to England?”

“My mom passed away—cancer—when I was twelve.”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” I feel terrible for asking the question.

“No, it’s fine, it’s been a long time. My, umm, dad tried to stick it out for my grandparents’ sake, but he couldn’t stand being there without her. So my ten years in the States ended, and we flew back here to our home in England. My dad bought and restored this fine establishment, bringing it back to its former glory days, and here we are.”

“Wow, your dad did this. I’d love to meet him sometime,” I say, looking around at the amazing detail of the place.