Page 43 of The Mysterious Billionaire
I slow the car and pull up next to the cottage. “I know.”
He doesn’t say anything else. He unbuckles his seat belt, then opens the door as I turn off the engine and gets out.
I do the same, and I walk around the car to stand beside him. We’re at the top of a relatively flat piece of landscape, surrounded by fields dotted with sheep. Behind us,the mountains continue to rise to stunning peaks. In front of us, the valley falls away, giving us a breathtaking view all the way to Lake Wanaka, which glimmers in the distance.
The sky is amazing, vast and heavy with dark clouds that promise to unleash their contents on us very soon.
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “That is truly stunning.”
Pleasure fills me. “I’m so glad you like it.”
He turns his gaze to me. “You look so happy.”
“I am happy. This is my happy place.” I walk back to the car. “Come on. Let’s get the stuff into the cottage.”
I open the back of the Land Rover, lift out the cool box that Bill put in there for us, and carry it over to the cottage. It’s made of local stone with a corrugated iron roof, slightly rusted at the edges. A chimney reveals the promise of a log fire for when the temperature drops at night.
I unlock the door and go inside. It’s open plan because it’s so small, with the wood-burning stove in the center of the opposite wall, next to a stack of firewood—good old Bill. The single sofa faces the stove, covered with a couple of bright-colored wool throws. The kitchen consists of an old wooden bench topped with shelves full of mismatched cups and plates. The cupboard beside it contains mainly tins and dried food with a long shelf life. There’s also a kettle, a toaster, a combi oven, and a bar fridge.
The bathroom is functional rather than fancy, with a temperamental hot water system that makes shower time fast and fun.
As I place the box on the kitchen counter and Caesar comes in with our cases, I look around and see the place through his eyes. It’s a small, practical, and well-loved hideaway. Old jackets hang on the hooks by the door. An old acoustic guitar leans against the wall. Notebooks and pens are clustered on the smalltable. Some of my favorite books that I’ve read over and over take up most of a shelf, while a jar of wildflowers sits on the windowsill—donated by Bill’s wife, no doubt.
“Not quite the Hilton,” I say.
“Mmm.” A non-committal grunt. He stands the cases against the wall and checks the place out, sticking his head in the bathroom, then in the bedroom.
He comes back out and stares at me. “There’s only one bed.”
“I know. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“You’re kidding me?”
I glance at him and lift an eyebrow. “I’ve done it before. It’s relatively comfortable.” I open the cool box and take out a couple of packets of biscuits. “Can you put these in the cupboard?”
He follows my instructions, looking at the groceries on the shelves as he slots the biscuits in.
“Sorry there’s no caviar,” I say sarcastically.
“That’s okay, we’ll just order room service.”
That makes us both laugh. I open the bar fridge and squash the milk, bacon, eggs, and cheese in there, then put the cool box to one side.
“Oh…” At the bottom of the cupboard, he’s discovered a half-full bottle of Glenlivet. “Wow. Nice.”
“There’s a bottle of red wine at the back, too. Although I probably won’t have any. It makes my migraine worse.”
“Of course.” He puts the whisky back.
“I don’t mind if you have a drink,” I point out.
“Nah, I can do without. As long as there’s chocolate.”
“Oh, there’s chocolate. Look at the back of that shelf.”
He moves something aside, then laughs. There are about ten big bars of Whittaker’s Dark Ghana chocolate in a stack. “Seventy-two percent cocoa solids. Jesus. That’s dark enough to swallow all the light in the room.”
“I like dark chocolate.”
