Room to Breathe (2 page)

Chapter 2

I wake to sunlight streaming in the window of my little room. This bed has always felt cozy to me. It has a soft handmade quilt, crisp cotton sheets, and fluffy pillows, all in white and purples. I have tried my best to make the small space feel like home. I have a small bookshelf in the corner that holds my favorite books. I have a very broad taste in reading. There are copies of the Bronte sisters’ finest right next to some stories about a waitress and vampires in Louisiana. They are my favorites and I devour the books as fast they come out. I love pretty much anything with a sexy vampire. There are also random books in mystery, romance, and a few classics.

The top of the bookcase is covered in frames that hold pictures of my family and friends from America. There is a picture of my parents on Thanksgiving from when I was ten, a picture of my brothers and sister at another family get together, and an old picture of my grandma from when she was my age. My favorite is a picture taken the summer before I left of my best friend and me at a bonfire on the beach. As much as I like England, there are a lot of things I miss about Oregon.

I slept in later than I normally would have even after working. It is already around lunch time. I roll out of bed and notice I am still stiff from my encounter with his Lordship’s car the night before. I’m very eager for my morning yoga routine to help work out the kinks.

As I stand putting weight on my injured ankle I am surprised to find that extensive icing last night has worked wonders. It is only slightly sore and I can walk normally. I neglected to put away my laundry last night and have to rifle through the pile of folded laundry to find my favorite yoga pants and a tight fitting tank.

There is a spot on the floor by the window where I like to spread out my yoga mat. Today the sun is warming the area nicely. I run through my usual routine in about fifteen minutes. I have been doing yoga for several years now and always feel better after my morning routine. It helps reduce any tension I have and prepares me to start the day.

I am resting on my back at the end of my routine, concentrating on my breathing. I can’t help but remember Eric’s words last night. I focus on making my inhale and exhale the same length and fall into an easy rhythm.

Thinking back to my panic attack last night causes a chill to roll through me. I reach for my grey hoodie from last night but before I put it on I notice the right arm has a rip. It is- I guess now
was
- my favorite. I am fairly annoyed as I toss it in the trash and grab a cranberry colored hoodie instead. I had been too tired to examine my clothing last night before bed. I grab the jeans I was wearing last night. They also have a tear in them. While that doesn’t mean they are ruined it does mean I can’t wear them to work anymore.

I decide to stop pouting about my clothes and go make some tea. I put the kettle on and set about heating up a scone Maggie dropped off yesterday. I pour myself a cup of tea and add a small splash of milk, a custom I have come to love since moving to England. I take my tea and warmed scone to the small round wooden table. I open my laptop to spend some time catching up just as there is a knock on the door.

I look through the peep hole in the door to see a young delivery man holding a dozen red roses. I am sure he has the wrong house, so I open the door to tell him so.

“Are you Cora Allen?” the delivery man asks before I can say anything.

“Yes,” I respond, scowling.
Who would be sending me any flowers, especially red roses?

The delivery driver has me sign for the flowers. I take them inside and place them on the table next to my laptop. There is a small card attached. I open it and can’t help but laugh at the inscription.

Sorry I almost killed you with my car, Eric

They are the first flowers anyone has ever sent me. Ever. They are lovely but it is a little strange that he is sending me roses.

I decide I should call to thank him. It is the polite thing to do, after all. I go into my room and get his card off my nightstand where I left it last night. As I pick up my cell phone to dial Eric’s number I feel my stomach flutter at the thought of hearing his voice. It must just be that I haven’t eaten yet. I dial his number and then check the card to make sure I have it right. I stand there with my thumb hovering over the send key. I decide to be brave and go for it but before I can press send the phone begins to ring.

“Son of a bitch!” I jump and almost drop the phone. The name didn’t come up on my display but I recognize the number as the one I just dialed. Lord Eric Ashford is calling me. I have no idea how he got my number, but I am assuming being a Lord has its privileges.

“Hello,” I answer. My voice sounds more surprised than I mean it too.

“Cora?” says the posh accent on the other end. His voice is velvety and masculine. I feel my breath catch in my throat.

“Yes, who is this?” I don’t want to seem like I just spent three minutes staring at his number.

“This is Eric Ashford, we met last night.”

“Oh yeah, I think I remember you. Didn’t you almost run me over?” I respond, trying to sound casual.

“Yes, that would be me,” Eric said in a light tone evident he was smiling. I am happy to know he can take a little sarcasm. “I was just checking to see how you are and if you had received the flowers I sent.”

“Yes, I was just getting your number to call you. Thank you. They are really beautiful. I love the card. I bet that is the first time the florist has had to write that,” I giggle just a little more at the thought. He has a strange effect on me. I should still be really angry with him but I just can’t be.

“Good, I am glad you like them. I wanted to let you know I am very sorry about last night. I know it certainly doesn’t make up for my actions but I hope it is a start. How is your ankle and arm?” He seems very genuine. Maybe that is why he disarms me so easily.

“They’re both much better, thank you. Seems the only causalities on my end were my jacket and jeans,” I answer, joking.

“I am very glad you weren’t hurt more seriously, truly I am; however I am sorry to hear about your clothing. I do hope to make it up to you,” Eric’s concern is evident in his voice.

“Oh, it isn’t a big deal, honest. It’s just clothing.” I am worried that he thinks I am really upset.

“No, I insist that you let me replace them at very least and let me take you to dinner tonight.” Eric’s tone is very clear that he isn’t asking.

“Okay, that would be nice.” My stomach flips over at the thought of being with him.

“I do have a question for you, Cora. How old are you?” Eric asks in a failed attempt to sound casual.

Oh crap, how old does he think I am? How old is he? Most people tend to think I am a few years older than I am. If he is still worried about my age he is really not going to like my answer. I consider lying for a brief moment but I am a really bad liar so I opt for the truth.

“I’m twenty-two but I will be twenty-three in the beginning of April,” I confess, then hold my breath waiting for his reaction. I know he has to be at least a few years older than me.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. I check my phone to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. “Okay, I will pick you up at seven tonight.” His pause makes me think I am younger than he hoped.

As I disconnect the call I start to get nervous. I haven’t been on a date in a long time. I am not even sure this is a date. It could be he just wants to make sure I don’t sue him or anything. But, if it isn’t a date why did he want to know how old I am?

No, it can’t be a date. He is an English Lord and I am a bartender in my cousin’s pub. I am sure he is just worried about me pressing charges or something like that. Still, it doesn’t mean I can’t dress like it is a date.

I grab my tea and head into my room to look through my closet. I know I want to wear a dress but I only have a few that will work. I decide on a short black dress with a lace overlay. It has a modest neckline and cap sleeves. It is my favorite and I had it tailored so that it fits me perfectly.

My ankle still hurts a little. I would really like to wear high heeled pumps since Eric is so tall but I don’t think it’s wise. Falling out of your shoes is never sexy, trust me I have done it more than once. I opt for my favorite pair of boots to give me a little more support. They are high heeled and tight fitting to just over my knees. It is too cold for the dress alone, so I grab a short cardigan in the exact same shade of purple as the boots. My favorite simple stud earrings and a small black satin handbag complete the look.

I feel better having everything picked out. I look over at the clock next to my bed. Even though I woke up late I have a few hours before I need to start getting ready. I head back to the kitchen and pour myself another cup of tea. I settle in next to my laptop again and spend the next hour getting caught up online.

I have a few emails from friends that I respond to. I spend too much time looking on
Facebook
, as usual. One of my friends shared a story that took me to a gossip website. I get sucked into reading about the lead actor from the
Nightwalker
movies, Luke Williams, going off the radar. It is amazing how many pictures there are of this guy. No wonder he wants out of the spotlight. If I was him, I would be perfectly happy never having my picture taken again. I doubt I will ever be interesting enough to the paparazzi to be hounded. I may not be interesting enough, but what about a very handsome English Lord?

Without really thinking anything through, I pull up Google and search for Lord Eric Ashford. There are mentions of him attending a few parties on websites that stalk the Royals. I click on the tab to display images and am surprised to see several dozen pictures of Eric. There are a handful of pictures of him in a tux at different benefits. Wow. Most men look sexy in a tux. On Eric it looks good enough to be illegal.

I scroll down and there is a picture of him playing polo with the princes.
The Princes.
The next picture is what looks like more of a portrait shot. I am curious about what it is for so I click on the picture. It is from an article in an English paper about the fifty most eligible bachelors in London.

After scrolling through a bunch of celebrities, Eric is listed at number thirty-five on their rank. There are two pictures accompanying a small article. The first one is the portrait of him from the image search. He is wearing a black three piece suit with a dark red tie. The next picture is obviously from the same shoot but he isn’t alone. There is an older man and woman seated in front of him that are obviously his parents. His height, strong jaw, and kind eyes are clearly from his father. His dark hair and slightly bronzed skin is echoed in his mother. There is also a young woman next to him that appears to be his sister.

I start to skim the accompanying article. Apparently, he is thirty-one, which explains why he asked about my age. A few sentences in there is a word that stops me in my tracks; “widower”. Eric is a widower. Suddenly, I feel really awful about looking him up at all. I decide I should stop reading the article. I feel like a snoop. Eric deserves the chance to tell me these things himself.

I log on to my favorite site to buy shoes long enough to see they have new styles for spring. I already have more shoes than I need and zero self-control where shoes are concerned. I decide to close my laptop and head into the bathroom. If I am going to dinner with one of London’s most eligible men I better spend some extra time primping.

I spend the next few hours scrubbing and buffing every surface of my body. I am usually pretty low maintenance. I’ve always had a cute, innocent look. It worked wonders when it came to getting away with things in high school.

On most days my makeup routine is just mascara and lip gloss, but I have to admit that I really have fun dressing up for special occasions. I smooth on a light lip gloss that is the perfect shade to compliment my lightly smoky eyes. I run my fingers through my long, loose waves and step back to evaluate my appearance.

I am pretty happy with what I see. I look a little bit older and I hope that is a good thing. I do a girly twirl and notice that my hem is about an inch shorter than I would like but it is too late to change. I will just have to hope that no one notices.

A quick glance of the clock tells me I have about fifteen minutes before Eric is supposed to be here. I am debating if I should meet him outside or not when there is a knock on the door. He’s early.

Chapter 3

I hurry across the main room to the door. I pause, taking a deep breath to try and quiet the butterflies in my stomach. I open the door and I am speechless.

If Eric was handsome last night, then tonight he is simply exquisite. He is wearing a dark charcoal suit that is tailored so well it looks as though it was fitted to him just a few moments ago. His classic white shirt looks crisp beneath the matching charcoal vest. He isn’t wearing a tie and his collar is open. His dark brown hair is styled perfectly and I can’t help but picture my hands running through it. It is the perfect length to grab ahold of. The color of his suit makes his deep brown eyes smolder and combine with his full lips in a way that would make any
GQ
model jealous. Just then I notice that once again I have been staring at him for far too long.

“Hello. You look lovely, Cora.” He flashes me a smile that could stop your heart for a second or two. He must be used to having this effect on women.

“Thank you. You too,” I say politely back. Lovely doesn’t begin to cover Eric. “Shall we?”

As I turn towards the street I see a very stylish black sports car parked in front of my little apartment. The car is so high end I am not sure what brand it is. It is sleek and low to the ground. Eric opens my door and I slide into the soft black leather seat. I have never been much of a car girl but this car is damn sexy.

Eric gets in next to me and puts the car in drive. As we pass my cousin’s pub I can’t help but think of what Maggie will say when she finds out I went to dinner with Lord Ashford. He shifts the car into gear as we pull away from Edgecombe.

“What kind of car is this?”

“It is an Aston Martin. It is a bit ostentatious for my liking. I usually take the Jag most places but seeing as how it is now in need of a little work, since I was a colossal git, I opted for this car. It is a lot of fun to drive,” Eric answers casually as he accelerates to prove his point.

“Isn’t an Aston Martin what James Bond drives?”

“Yes it is,” Eric responds with a slight laugh. “You are
really
American aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” I mumble, looking at my hands folded in my lap.

“No, don’t be. I mean that in a good way. It is refreshing, honestly.” He smiles at me and I feel my cheeks pink slightly.

He drives the same car as James Bond, a Jag, and who-knows-how-many-others. The only car I have driven since coming to England is my cousin’s work van. So far I like this one the best.

“Cora, while we are on the subject of driving, I need you to know something about last night.” His voice is now serious. I turn to face him as much as my seatbelt will allow. “I never do that. Drive when I am that tossed. Yesterday was historically a very bad day for me. I was drinking to forget and I didn’t realize how much until it was too late. I am very lucky you weren’t seriously hurt. It won’t happen again.”

I appreciate his apology but I am starting to think that this isn’t a date. I am pretty sure he just asked me out of guilt. I feel a little foolish.

“It is okay, really. We all make mistakes in life. We were both very lucky,” I say, trying to sound reassuring.

“So you are beautiful and kind. That is wonderful a combination. I still would like to do more to make up for my actions.” His voice is serious enough that I know he means what he says.

“So, where are we going?” My mood is slightly lifted at him calling me beautiful. I stare out the window at the passing landscape.

“To a restaurant that a friend owns. It is a few towns over so it will take a bit to get there.”

I turn back to look at him just in time to catch him staring at my hem line. As he quickly turns his head back to the road I feel my mood lift even more.

“So, Cora Allen, where are you from? You are obviously from America but where?”

“I grew up in a small town in Oregon, in the Pacific Northwest. It is really quiet. Kind of like Edgecombe but in the summer it gets pretty busy with tourists. What about you? Where are you from?”

“I was born and raised in London,” he says flatly. “Tell me more about you. What brought you to England? Do you plan on staying?”

“My aunt was sick and my cousin needed help with her care and the pub. I had visited here a few times and always liked it. I was also at a point where I was looking for a change. It seemed like the perfect opportunity so here I am. My aunt passed over nine months ago but I just can’t seem to find a reason to go back to America. I miss my friends and family but I just kind of want an opportunity to chase my dreams before I go back there.”

“So you do plan on going back?”

“I’m really not sure yet.”

“Did you like growing up there?”

“Yeah, for the most part I did. The only problem is it is a really little town. My dad was one of only eight police officers for the whole town. I knew all the cops and they knew me. You would be surprised how few parties you get invited to when you babysit for half the police force.”

Eric chuckles softly. I am amazed at how it makes my skin tingle. I am so relaxed with him. I have forgotten that he is Lord Ashford and I have been enjoying Eric.

We pull up to a small restaurant that I have driven by before. They serve high end Italian food. It is one of the nicest in the area and is known for its romantic atmosphere. It is the kind of restaurant made for dates. Since I haven’t had a date in a long time I have never been inside.

It is a small brick building with leaded windows and a burgundy awning. The door and walkway are lined with large white poinsettias left over from the holiday season. There are twinkling lights in the bushes under the windows and along the awning. The effect is welcoming and warm. We leave the car with the valet (who can’t hide his excitement about the Aston Martin) and walk into the foyer.

We are met by a hostess in her late thirties with dark brown hair and tanned skin. As soon as she sees Eric she beams at him brightly. As she leads us around the corner the dining room comes into full view. There are several tables, all set with white table cloths and soft glowing candles that echo the soft lighting from the crystal chandeliers overhead. And they are all empty. There is not another patron in the whole place. It is only seven thirty and there should still be some of the dinner crowd here.

“Um, where is everyone?”

“I thought it would be better if it was just us,” Eric concedes with a little scowl.

“Did you really rent the whole place just for us?” I admit in amazement. I have never known anyone to rent out an entire restaurant, or anywhere else really, just for dinner.

“Yes,” Eric says with a little chuckle and again it makes me tingle. “I tend to like my privacy and quite often pay for it.”

“So you do this often?”

“Not too often. Like I said, I do like my privacy and most of the people I associate with are the same way. This really isn’t that impressive. One of my mates rented out Stonehenge for a private party last month. That was a first for me.”

“Like
the
Stonehenge? Can you even do that?” Wow. I am way out of my element. Stonehenge is one of the great wonders of the world and he is friends with someone that rented it for a party.

“Yes,
the
Stonehenge for two whole days,” Eric smiles at my surprise. “I don’t know if I could. I don’t know anyone other than this lad that would try. My point is people that can afford to pay for privacy usually do.”

“Wow, I guess if you have enough money it really can buy you pretty much anything,” I say, still in a little shock.

“Not, anything” Eric declares solemnly. For just a moment I see a darkness flash across his face. It was as though someone turned down the usual flame in his eyes.

“So what is good here,” I say in hope of changing the subject.

“I hope you don’t mind I already planned out a menu with the chef,” he says, returning to his composed self.

“Oh, no, that is great. Thank you!” I am relieved to have the pressure of ordering off me. I always have a hard time knowing what to order on a date, if this even is a date. I think I am going to try to find out.

“So do you come here with your girlfriend often?” I hope that wasn’t too obvious but his smirk lets me know he understands my meaning.

“I do like to come here often but not with my girlfriend.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend to bring with me. Which is a good thing. I am quite sure one wouldn’t approve of me bringing someone as attractive as you are to dinner.” His charming smile and lovely accent make him complimenting me even more wonderful. I blush again slightly.

“Oh!” I know I sound too eager but I am so relieved.

“I do feel I should tell you though, I am not looking for a girlfriend. I am a very happy bachelor.”

“Oh, that is fine, honestly,” I agree, and I mean it. “I have no idea where my life is going right now. I do miss having someone to have fun with though.”

Just then a young man that couldn’t be more than eighteen walks up to the table with two glasses and a bottle of red wine. He shows Eric the bottle for his approval. Eric nods and the waiter pours wine into each glass and returns to the kitchen.

“To two people having fun together,” he says as he lifts his glass. I lift my own glass in response. We gently clink them together and I can’t help but smile at him. It’s as if having the night defined has lifted all the pressure off me. I feel like I can really relax for the first time all night.

The young waiter returns with our first course. It is a small antipasto platter with some cheeses, meats, olives, and sliced bread. Eric digs right in and I follow suit. The cheese is a little strong for me but everything else is delightful.

“So Eric, what do you do for a living?”

“I am a Lord,” he says with that wonderful chuckle.

“Oh, that is a job?”

This time he laughs outright and I feel my cheeks grow hot.

“You are so very cute and American. Yes, it is kind of a job. Some other men in position enjoy being part of the House of Lords, but it was never something I was interested in. Instead, I spend most of my time managing my estates as well as my mother’s estates and my sister in general. I have other investments that I am responsible for as well as a rather large project I am head of.”

Mercifully, the waiter shows up again to take our plates and serve the next course. I take a bite of my green salad with light vinaigrette. I feel like a dumbass. One day I will have to learn to think before I speak.

“So Cora, what do you do for a living?” he says in an obviously mocking tone.

“Um, I work at my cousin’s pub. But you already know that,” I answer sounding slightly hurt. I don’t like being mocked.

“I am sorry,” he apologizes, picking up on my tone. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I can be a bit of an arse sometimes. What I meant was what do you
want
to do for a living?”

“It is alright,” I shrug. “I am not really sure what I want to do.”

“Oh come on. Everyone has a dream job. Everyone has something they would love to do with their life.” He leans back in his chair as our waiter delivers our main course; it is a lovely grilled salmon with pasta in a lemon sauce.

“Well, I have always wanted to travel. That was part of why I moved to England. I knew it would be easier to see Europe this way. So far I have only been to France and Portugal but I hope to go to Italy soon.”

“Why France and Portugal? I mean France is pretty common for a holiday but Portugal is a little different,” he says, raising his eyebrows at me.

“Well France was close and I have always wanted to go to the Louvre. Portugal is kind of a little embarrassing,” I admit, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear. “In one of my favorite movies ever there is the most romantic scene. It takes place in a little restaurant where this English guy learned Portuguese in like a month just to tell this girl he loves her and wants to marry her. When he gets there he finds out she has learned English just in case she ever sees him again. As stupid as this sounds, it made me interested in the country so I went there.”

“Really?” His eyebrows climb even higher towards his hairline.

“Yes, really. What can I say, I am a romantic. It was really lovely.”

“Okay, then why is Italy next?”

“Well the art obviously. I feel my life wouldn’t be complete if I never get to see the Sistine Chapel or David. I love Michelangelo.”

“Oh, well then I guess that makes you beautiful, kind, and smart,” he says with one of his heart stopping smiles. “So traveling is your dream?”

“Well, I love the idea of traveling all the time but I guess there is one thing I would like to do more.” Eric motions for me to continue. I am nervous. I have never told anyone my real dream.

“I used to read a lot about India. It is such an interesting country but there are large parts of it where people don’t have clean drinking water. That is just insane to me. Lots of people are dying every day there from lack of clean water. How can people in this century not have something as basic as clean water? I would love to start a foundation that brought the tools for people to have clean water or work with another charity that already does. It could literally change everything for these people.”