Page 73 of The Next Chapter

‘Yes, fine, why do you ask?’ I try to get some of the sweat off my forehead. Styling it out as a yawn.

‘You just look like you did last night, you know when…’

He trails off. It’s all the confirmation I need that I equate weekly timetables with orgasms.

Noah’s leaning back against the kitchen worktop, his long legs crossed at the ankles. Distracting, very distracting.

‘Right, I’d better get to it. What’s on at the hotel today? No time like the present.’

‘It’s painting today.’

‘Brilliant,’ I lie. I hate painting. ‘Who doesn’t love painting? I think I’ll go and sign right up.’

I’m like Roadrunner, zipping around the cottage. Focusing on anything that isn’t Noah. While I zip, Noah says, ‘And if you’re free this weekend, I was thinking of checking out another hidden gem for the article.’

So far, Noah’s hidden gems have involved no small amount of physical pain. But standing in just his boxers like that, he could ask for a kidney and I’d cut it right out myself.

Plus, it’s part of the three-pronged plan.

‘Yes, excellent idea,’ I answer, aiming for businesslike as I attack last night’s risotto pan. What was I thinking, not leaving it to soak. The leftover risotto has basically welded itself to the bowl. It looks like cement.

The tap fits and spurts out water. Probably, we need a plumber.

‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Noah asks.

‘I was just thinking that risotto really is not worth the effort it takes to make.’ I chance a look at Noah. ‘And also, the plumbing in the hotel is shot.’ I’m being weird and I don’t want him to think that I didn’t have a good time last night.

‘Can I see you again later?’ he asks.

‘Yes, yes, it’ll be good to regroup after my painting day. I’ll take notes. We can mind map.’

I make it sound like a business transaction and Noah frowns. Don’t love that.

It’s just, I have no way of telling him that I can’t do this. I don’t want to get involved if there’s no future, and there isn’t. Plus, Noah… Well, he only likes the Isle of Skye version of me. The one who hikes up mountains and has wild flings with intense orgasms. Skye me has sugar in her coffee without even uttering the words ‘insulin resistance’. No wonder he wants to keep seeing me – he isn’t getting the real me at all.

I open my mouth to articulate all of that, it’s just that nothing comes out.

I want, so badly, to be the sort of person who is wanted by someone like Noah.

But it’s always been like this. Like there’s this vast chasm between the person that I am and the person that I want to be. And I’ve never, ever known how to cross that chasm.

‘Cool. I’ll… I’d better get off. I always write better in the mornings, so if I don’t do some work now, I never will.’

‘Me too. I’m sure my brain shuts down after lunch,’ I hear myself say. ‘My favourite time to write is in the mornings before anyone gets to the office,’ I tell him as he disappears into the bedroom.

‘Same,’ he calls back. I can hear him rustling around, putting his clothes on while I nurse my coffee close to my chest.

Noah reappears, dressed in last night’s clothes. Him walking back to his own cottage dressed like that feels illicit and thrilling all at the same time.

He kisses me and I momentarily forget all of the reasons why this really is a terrible idea.

* * *

Here are the reasons why I dislike art.

No, that’s not fair. I like art, as in, it’s nice to look at. I can feel things when I look at art. I’m not a monster. And Mum was super arty.

It’s just the practical application that I struggle with.