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The cabin is smaller than you imagined when you looked at the online pictures but you’ve been dreaming of this escape for weeks and you won’t be deterred by its cosiness . You arrived late last night and while being underwhelmed by the space, you were simultaneously overwhelmed by the prospect of what’s to come, but in the quiet of the night, you came up with a plan and you don’t waste any time now following it through. Besides, it has everything you need. A toilet, a kettle, a bed, and most importantly, a desk. You place your laptop on it and a thrill buzzes through you. After all these years, you are going to finish your book right here. But first, your morning ritual. Same as back at home, you’ll water the plants, have a cup of tea in the window, and let the morning wash over you. It will be nice to have some familiarity in a new place.
You flip the kettle on. There’s no watering can so while you wait for it to boil, you fill your mug with water and walk around to the various plants occupying the space. Most of them are fake. Which in the daylight makes sense. The place is rented out year-round, they can’t rely on tenants to keep them alive. You make your tea and decide on a spot next to the front window. You draw the blinds open but before you can sit, you notice across the laneway your new neighbour in his front yard. Behind him, two women exit the house wearing what you suspect might have been last night’s attire. Long blonde hair flows behind them like honey unspooling off a dipper. You duck down with the hope he didn’t spot you and think you were spying. Then, you decide to actually spy and peer around the curtains. He gives one of the women a squeeze and the other he plants a slap on her bottom. Her giggle rings out in the quiet forest, wresting free birds from the tree branches above. He smirks and watches them leave before turning inside. It’s only when he retreats from the front gate, you realise he’s wearing nothing but a red t-shirt. His golden butt on full display sends red to your cheeks.
When the heat fades, you’re able to commit words to the page in an inspired frenzy and it’s late afternoon before your stomach grumbles to remind you to gather supplies. Thankfully, the host has left a guide to the local grocer and now you find yourself returning from Rabbit’s with a week’s worth of fresh home-grown produce. This is too much, you’d protested. Nonsense, Rabbit had insisted as he piled you up. He had enjoyed meeting a writer and hoped he might feature in your story now. You can barely hold onto it all as you stumble home. It’s impossible to see the tree branch that’s grown over the path until your foot collects it and you’re flung down. Vegetables sprawl out around you and your elbow plants firmly in a watermelon which in turn covers you in its sticky, red, innards.
‘A murder in the woods. Never seen that before.’ You startle at your neighbour’s voice, suddenly beside you as he bends down to help you up. The smell of wood and honey lingers in your nostrils after he pulls away from you when you’re steady.
‘Thank… you…’ You stutter out, taking in the mess on your clothes. Then you take him in. All of him. Still nude from the waist down.
‘Oh, bother!’ He picks up an eggplant and struggles to hide himself behind it. ‘I just came running when I saw you going over. I reckon you got at least two feet of air. It was impressive… but I wanted to make sure you were safe. You didn’t quite stick the landing.’
“I’m fine.’ You look away and start collecting your scattered zucchini to distract from the girth of his. It would definitely take home first at the Country Fair. He passes you the two sweet potatoes at his feet and when everything is collected, he looks down at the eggplant.
‘You can keep it.’ You cough out though you don’t think you’ve ever longed for baba ghanoush more than this moment.
‘I owe you one.’ He eyes the precarious stack in your arms. ‘Did you want a hand to your house?’
You shake your head. Without the melon, it’s easier to manage, and at least you can see now. Perhaps too well.
You leave the food on the bench and after a quick, cold shower, you dive straight back into your story. You are thankful for the distraction and soon the debacle of the afternoon slips away as you slip into your character’s thoughts. You contemplate going back to write that scene you’ve been dreading but decide against it. You can’t handle anymore embarrassment today and despite the double-shampoo, the smell of watermelon remains.
You’re about to start a new chapter when the doorbell rings. It’s not really your house so you settle on ignoring it, intent on typing out the sentence floating around your head before you lose it. A knock follows up the ring. There’s an insistence to it that forces you up with a sigh. You open it and find your neighbour. You note, with a dip of disappointment, he’s fully dressed.
‘An eggplant lasagne for my new neighbour.’ He holds out a dish covered with tinfoil. ‘I promise I didn’t use the same one.’ He gives a half grin.
You wave your hands without accepting the dish. ‘The eggplant washed would have been fine.’
‘I owe you dinner after what you’ve seen.’ He won’t meet your eyes, his focus is on the door frame, before a chuckle finally breaks free. ‘I hope it wasn’t traumatising. I’ve taken to wearing shorts since.’ He stretches out a leg to illustrate his point. If you didn’t already know what was underneath, the tight black shorts hugging his thighs wouldn’t leave much to the imagination. ‘Just in case there’s any more damsels in distress needing assistance.’
‘I was hardly in distress.’ Now it’s your turn to look away. Whether in offence or because the shorts were starting to stir something in you, you’re not sure, but the wooden door frame is fascinating.
‘The melon certainly was. I heard its cries for hours while the crows picked over what you left of it.’
You roll your eyes and take the lasagne dish with the hope of ending this conversation. You contemplate shutting the door in his face but his grin catches you. The smell of the dish is wafting up from a crack in the tinfoil. It smells divine. And there’s a heft to the dish. It’s more than a single serve. Maybe a break from writing wouldn’t hurt…
‘I’ll need my dish back when you’re done.’ He turns to leave. You press your lips together. You’re sure you should think better of this, but you can’t remember exactly what this is. Certainly not when you see the shorts from behind as he starts down the drive.
‘Would you like to come in?’ You call out and he’s jogging back up the last couple steps before you can finish the question.
‘I would love to. Fancy a glass?’ You only notice the bottle of wine he’s been holding when he slips past you into the kitchen.
Halfway through the lasagne, he introduces himself. ‘The name’s Win by the way.’
You pause, laugh. You’ve been so distracted by the tasty food and the tastier company you’d forgotten you’d invited a complete stranger in. ‘I’m Y/N’ you reply.
He raises his glass. ‘Well, Y/N, welcome to the Hundred Acre.’ A warmth spreads through you at the sound of your name on his lips. ‘What brings you here anyway?’
‘I’m finishing my book.’
He’s interest sparks and he tops up your glass. ‘What’s it about?’
‘It’s nothing…’ You’re not used to sharing the details.
‘Oh, come on, if you don’t tell me I’ll have to guess.’ He studies you. ‘It’s surely not a romance.’ There must be indignation in your eyes because he bursts out laughing. ‘You’re a romance writer?’
‘What’s so funny?’ You stack up the plates and move to clear them to hide the blush spreading up your neck.
‘I just wouldn’t have expected a romance writer to be so shy at the sight of an appendage.’
‘What would you know?’ You toss the dishes in the sink and turn back to him with your hands on your hips. ‘You have no idea the kind of filth I write.’ Except that’s not exactly true. You’ve avoided the raunchiest scene in your book for months, finding excuse after excuse for why the protagonist is interrupted before they even come close to the Big O.
‘Can I read it?’ He grins.
‘No.’
‘Are you sure you don’t need someone to verify the techniques you’ve utilised?’
Now you’re next to the sink, there’s no table between the two of you and you notice his shorts riding up. ‘I don’t need you for that.’ You force out and he pouts. You can’t look away. You could write whole paragraphs about the perfect shape of his lips. What it would like to kiss him right now. To run your hands through his sandy blonde hair. You bat away the intrusive thoughts but warmth flares though you. And annoyingly, like he knows, his eyes linger on you.
‘I should go.’ He says suddenly. You give a quick nod. ‘Or I could stay. It’s probably not advisable to drive home.’ It’s a joke, but nothing about this is advisable.
When you don’t protest, he stands and closes the distance between you. ‘You have a little bit of eggplant, right here.’ His paw brushes against your bottom lip. You think of the hunnies leaving his house this morning and remind yourself he’s a playboy. These are pre-rehearsed lines he’s used on a dozen different woman. But that scene you’ve been avoiding could benefit from a little more experience. This would purely be for research purposes. Write what you know after all, and the more you know can’t hurt right? You lean into him and he kisses you. He tastes like honey and you savour the sweetness. What happens on the retreat, can stay on the retreat. Unless, of course, it makes for a good story.