An Unexpected Kind of Love by Hayden Stone

Chapter Fourteen

We fuck right off on Friday morning, as Blake’s filming breaks before their last push before wrapping, all the way up to the Lake District. It’s an expanse of a palette of greens and sweeping skies and brooding clouds over mountains, a respite from the heat island of London and a break finally in the relentless heat wave of the last week.

But first, there’s the getting-there part. We pick up a hire car and we set off on the motorway north, fueled with plenty of vegan snacks and a buffet of crisps by way of cultural introduction. A couple of times I white-knuckle it on the oh shit handle as he gets used to right-hand driving, but luckily he’s a quick study. At any rate, he’s a confident driver, like everything else he does.

We’ve got enough clothes for a couple of nights, along with my dad’s guitar. Knowing my dad, he probably wouldn’t have wanted me sitting around getting too precious about it. Last night, I did my best to condition my old hiking boots, which are more or less in shambles and past ready for retirement. They’re from the days when Eli and I would take off to the South Downs or further afield for a change of scene. From the times I would stomp through tall grasses for the perfect shot or during frosty mornings or with fog rolling through broad pastures.

We have a holiday cottage, a private getaway as promised. Blake at least lets me pay for petrol and the snack buffet. To compensate, there’s also plenty of veggie crisps, dried seeds, mixed nuts, and wasabi peas that I picked up from the organic grocer’s while Blake picked up the car. We stop to collect the keys to our cottage after hours cooped up in the car.

When we pull into the gravel lot by the low stone cottage, the afternoon threatens rain. It’s a relief after the scorching few days. Out here, I feel like I can finally draw in a deep breath, even with the adrenaline of this rural idyllic escape with Blake. It’s uncharted territory, just him and me, away from film sets and damaged bookshops, and the ghosts that chase me.

He parks and we step out into a fine mist.

Blake outstretches his arms broadly, smiling with his eyes closed. “Oh, this is perfect.”

I can’t help a grin at how blissed out he is. I tug on the hood of my light jacket. “This is the normal weather in my country. I’m glad it’s finally delivering.”

He returns the grin and comes close to draw me into his arms, into a deep kiss. There’s no one around, just rain and grazing sheep off in the distance, and the rustle of leaves in the light breeze from the nearby trees. A bird sings, and there’s a stillness and peace I haven’t felt in a very long time. The sort of peace that doesn’t exist in the heart of London.

Blake catches my face between his hands, gazing affectionately at me. “We made it.”

“We did,” I confirm, and greedily I steal another kiss. It’s him and me and Cumbria is all ours this afternoon, without another human in sight. It’s perfect. And then I smother a yawn and he laughs.

“Am I boring you already?”

“Oh no. It’s just I’m not used to long car rides. Long anything, really.”

“Really? I might have something for you that you’d be interested in,” Blake teases, pressing into me with promise. “Well, we can have a nap and a lazy night.”

So we go in and check out the quaint cottage from an era gone by, all traditional furniture and paisley print cushions and matching curtains. There’s a working hearth with fire, if it gets cool enough later. A small kitchenette is off to the side, with the all-important kettle. Being me, I’ve brought along a selection of tea in my pack. A bowl of fresh fruit sits on the counter along with a welcome note. It’s all quite perfect and Blake draws me down on a proper bed. And we make out till we finally give in to the drowsy, lazy afternoon and fall asleep to the patter of rain, held in each other’s arms.

The evening passes quietly, with us holed up in the cottage, and both of us getting an actual decent night’s sleep with the cooler temperatures. For me, the cottage also means the luxury of a real bed.

Today, the sky brightens. We put on our hillwalking gear and off we go tromping about through farmer’s fields and windswept paths and along green tracks. We come across few people along the way, eventually rewarded with vistas over villages and expanses of lakes. Our reward at the end of it when the next squall rolls in is putting our feet up in a local pub and drying off.

We kick off the mud from our boots and hole up in a corner together, in a mix of locals and other hillwalkers. Everyone is happy to be dry inside.

After I return to Blake with two ales, we reward ourselves for our efforts and clink glasses.

“Not a bad way to spend a day,” Blake says, still smiling from our adventure.

“Not bad,” I agree, and I could happily spend a lot of days tromping about with Blake outdoors. We both brought our cameras and enjoyed some photography along the way.

“I’ve got the bean of the day for you.” Light-hearted, I smile affectionately at Blake, unexpected brain chemicals making me happy, almost giddy. See, I can do new tricks.

“Bean of the day!” Blake beams over his ale, looking a bit like a mountain man today in his thermal top and five o’clock shadow, a bandana around his neck and sunglasses on his head. “You’ve got my attention.”

“I’ve got a clue.” I give him an intent look. “It’s white.”

“Ooh, let me guess: navy bean, broad bean, the actual white bean.”

I make a face at him, wrinkling my nose. “That’s cheating. There’s no such thing as an actual white bean. Cop-out.”

“There really is such a thing,” he assures me with an irreverent sparkle in his eye. Was there a time when I was Blakeless, without any bean banter in my life?

“Another clue.”

“I’m all ears.”

“It’s got a black bit.”

“Oh! Black-eyed bean.” Blake looks at me, triumphant. “Easy.”

I gawp. “Seriously? How did you guess that so fast?”

“I know my beans, remember? Runner-up would be the pinto bean, but those have brown spots on them.”

Harrumphing, I sip my ale to nurse the abject loss of stumping Blake over beans. Really, I ought to know better than go head-to-head with a vegan over legumes, but sometimes I go a bit off the rails.

“They’re one of my favorites.” Blake looks at me hopefully. “Great in soups.”

“Yeah?” I give him a skeptical look.

“Delicious, in fact. I’ll make it for you sometime.”

I blink. “You’d cook for me?”

“Of course I would. I love cooking.”

“Imagine.” It’s hard to imagine, actually. But seeing as Blake has a handle on things, from beans to DIY, why should cooking come as a surprise? Somehow, I’ve generally failed to adult appropriately. The idea of being taken care of by him, though, sends a ripple up my spine. Even if it’s bean-related care.

“Well, I didn’t see a ton of vegan options on the menu,” I tell him. “But there’s green salad and chips, if that’s all right. Maybe they can make a sandwich with veg instead. I don’t know how well cut out country pubs are for vegans.”

“Don’t worry, I’m very adaptable.” He grins.

I feel my face growing hot. “Good to keep in mind for future reference. What else should I know about you?”

“Oh, you think there’s more to know?” Blake teases.

“Could be,” I drawl back. “Who knows what else you’ve got.”

“Ideas. Loads of ideas.”

“Ideas about what?” I peer at him, smiling.

“Not just filthy ideas.” Blake’s grin warms me. “Even practical ones.”

“Go on. I’m intrigued.”

“For your shop, even.”

Now he has my attention. “What sort of ideas?”

“Well, you said it’s struggling. If you want, I can help you come up with a plan to turn things around.”

“This isn’t a snake oil salesman trick?” I smile, but even my hope is tempered against the current reality of the shop.

“Oh no. I’m fresh out of that. I’m actually qualified to help.”

I laugh. Blake looks so earnest. “Tell me more.”

“I’m a marketing major. But I never used it. But I’ve taken business courses too. I can help you come up with a business plan. Like, a short-term plan helping toward a long-term plan. You know, one-year plan versus five-year plan. We can look at your publicity and marketing, online sales, things like that.”

I just stare at him. Blake’s talking some other language. Things I should probably know about, but frankly, don’t.

He grins. “See? I’m totally the guy you need.”

“Holy shit, Blake.”

Blake laughs with delight. “Really, I’ll help if you let me. And you?”

“I definitely don’t have a marketing degree. Obviously.”

“What did you study?” he asks.

“Two guesses and the first two don’t count.”

“I’m gonna go with English?”

“Literature,” I agree. “Predictable me. Surprise, surprise.”

“Hardly. But I know you love books. When did you finish?”

I cough and glance away. “I, er, didn’t.”

Blake looks surprised. “You didn’t? You love everything to do with books from what I can tell.”

“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to finish. Just…well, life happened instead. I needed to work, to help my mum after my dad died. So, I stopped going.” I hold his gaze, feeling a familiar heat in my face whenever the subject of uni comes up. Which inevitably makes me think of my dad. And thinking of my dad usually makes me sad. I carefully steer my thoughts away from him. There’s a time and a place to feel his loss, but today isn’t such a day.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make things awkward. Ask me anything.” He squeezes my hand.

“So why didn’t you use your marketing degree?”

“Acting,” Blake says simply. “Instead of getting a real job, I worked odd jobs after graduation, because that works best around auditions and parts and moving around the country all of the time for roles. I’d already landed a few small parts by the time I finished college. My dad thinks I’ve made a mess of my future. Joke’s on him—I can wait tables anywhere now.”

“Sounds like a useful degree, at least,” I say wryly. “Strangely, the world isn’t clamoring for lit grads. At least your degree will always be there if you ever want to work in marketing. If I had actually taken any business training, I’d probably be a lot better off than I am now.”

“The world is making poor choices, and there’s plenty enough people with business degrees,” says Blake firmly, glancing at me. “We need more readers and artists and creatives. They’re the real visionaries. The rest is just capitalism. And if you really want, you can still take business classes.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a visionary.”

“I would,” he says cheerfully. “From what I can tell, you have lots of talents.”

“Rumors.”

We grin at each other. Feeling buoyed, it’s easy to feel optimistic about the future with Blake’s encouragement. With Blake. Like we’ll have unlimited time to figure everything out.

Like America isn’t next week. But America’s out of mind now. Instead we dine and tease and joke the evening away.

When we’re back at the stone cottage, seated together in front of the fire, we take turns playing on the old guitar. Of course Blake’s brilliant. How could he not be? The way he looks at me as he sings undoes me and my worries.

And after the liquid silk of his voice, his unwavering gaze, Blake sets the guitar down. A sultry moment hangs between us. In the twilight, his eyes are deep blue, his mouth slightly parted. The way he savors me is my undoing. It’s amazing how quickly he’s become so important to me.

I reach over to brush his lips teasingly with my fingers. He nips, holding my finger between his teeth a moment till release.

“Naughty,” I drawl, sliding my hand along his jaw, safely out of teeth range, savoring the shudder that ripples through him. Shifting, I slide onto his lap to straddle him and wrap my arms around his neck. He’s already stiff. I can feel that. Like I’m already hard too.

Blake’s fingers grip my arse.

When I brush my lips against his, he shudders in my arms.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he murmurs between our teasing kisses, slightly breathless, “seeing more of your talents.”

“Is that right?” My mouth travels to his jaw and throat as I work to unbutton his shirt. He returns the favor with clumsy fingers. Under my hands and kisses, his chest rises and falls with his quickening breath. I lick a path along his collarbone and he moans.

Like I needed more encouragement, unwrapping this gift of a man. Of course, I pause for a moment to admire his well-built physique. He gasps when I tweak his nipple, slide my hand down to tease him through his jeans.

With a growl and in one fluid motion, Blake scoops me up in his arms. Wrapping my legs around him, it’s my turn for uneven breathing as he places me on my back on the sofa. Urgently, he yanks open my shirt. A button skitters across the hardwood floor while I make short work of unfastening his belt and fly.

“God.” Blake’s gasping hard.

“It’s Aubrey. Aubs if you’re cheeky.”

I kiss him hard as he slides his hands against my ribs, and then I’m helping him with my belt and jeans. Once I’m free, he hauls off my boxers and jeans with some effort, frowning.

“Fucking skinny jeans.”

I grin at him, how focused and urgent he is—and so incredibly hot.

The rain drums against the window as he pauses just long enough to go over to his suitcase for a condom and lube. It’s a great opportunity to admire him, mussed dark hair, flushed face, rigid cock reaching to the sky.

“C’mere,” I demand. And in a moment, he’s back in my arms, and we’re caught tangled together on the sofa, the rub of his cock against my arse. Lube-slick, he presses in, burying his face against my neck and shoulder with a shudder.

“Oh— Blake—”

I’m begging and urgent and feral. Our kisses are fierce. My cock strains and…fuck. Just, fuck.

“You’re so hot.” Blake’s arms are powerful and his mouth blazes on mine. And as the summer storm thunders overhead, there’s no one around to hear our cries. There’s Blake and there’s me, and our urgency while he rides me.

“I want you.” Grasping at him, it’s the last coherent thing I say.

Blake mutters nonsense against my ear. His stubble’s rough on the side of my face. And I don’t care, because I don’t ever want him to stop.

And when I can’t take it any longer, the amazing feeling of him inside me, I make desperate, incoherent noises as his hand works my cock. Arching, I spurt messily all over us. We’re pressed together, sticky with cum and sweat. Then he comes, bucking against me, holding my wrist roughly with his other hand.

He thrusts a sharp rhythm of my heartbeat, of the beat we make together. And eventually, Blake sags against me, his face still pressed against my neck. And we are left quiet and reverent. He’s trembling, from effort or emotion, I don’t know, but it’s fucking hot and I wrap my arms and legs tighter around him.

At last, he lifts his head. His face is soft by the firelight. He kisses me reverently, like I’m to be cherished. And I do the same. And we forget about the world beyond the cottage, or the ocean between our homes. Because all that matters right now is that we’re together, far away from the frenetic energy of London, where time’s suspended. Out here in Cumbria, it’s just us, together.

Sometime in the dead of night, there’s a ringing by my head. On the bedside table, my phone comes to life, incessantly bright and buzzing. I should have shut the stupid thing off before we went to bed.

But then a thought comes to me through my disorientation. I’m not in my bed. There’s a man beside me. Blake—and not a Grindr offering. Or my ex.

I groan sleepily, determined to ignore the phone, but what if it’s something important?

What if it’s Mum, and something’s happened? Or even Gemma? A cold fear grips me and gives me a sharp kick to wakefulness.

I reach for the phone and answer in a half-alert state, sleep still thick on my tongue while my brain scrambles to make sense of what’s happening. “H’llo?”

“Aubrey?”

And it’s Eli.

Why is Eli calling at 3:00 a.m.? My stomach knots with dread.

Even in that one word—my name—I know him so well that I know he’s out of sorts, all jangled, and something’s wrong.

“It’s me,” I say. “Just give me a sec.”

I sit up and push hair out of my eyes. Through the slightly open door of the bedroom, we left the cabinet lights on in the kitchen as a nightlight in an unfamiliar space. Not wanting to disturb Blake more than I have already, I find shorts and a hoodie in the dark and head out into the chill air away from the heat of Blake and our bed.

Along the way, I pause to dress and try to wake up a little.

“Right, you’ve got me now.” I gulp, bracing myself. Something’s definitely wrong for him to call at this hour. It’s not his style. It would make more sense for Mum to call, but obviously it’s not her. Ryan, maybe? “What’s happened?”

A nervous laugh. Have I ever heard Eli get nervous before? Probably it’s genetically impossible for him.

“Eli?”

There’s silence and a sigh. “Me and Ryan had a fight.”

I blink. “No one’s dead?”

“Jesus. No. Why would you—”

“Because it’s three in the fucking morning, that’s why,” I retort, pacing the length of the cottage, passing by the kettle, pausing long enough to fill it and turn it on. “No sane person calls another at this hour unless it’s an emergency. Or you’re really, really drunk.”

“Well, it’s an emergency to me,” says Eli, wavering. Emotion is all caught up thick in his throat. “I didn’t realize the time. I had a few drinks and…I didn’t know who else to call.”

I groan, shaking my head. “Where’s Ryan? Can’t you spend this time working things out with him and I can go back to bed? Because, honestly, you lost the right to call me at stupid o’clock a long time ago.”

Awkward silence drops like a lead weight.

“I deserved that,” Eli says. “Sorry. To answer your question, Ryan’s home. I’ve come to the office.”

“Your other home.” At the kitchen counter, I fidget with the tea mug I’ve pulled out. What sort of tea is good for 3:00 a.m. drama when I should be sleeping? I have a peppermint tea sachet in the small tin I brought and set that out for when the kettle’s ready.

“I guess.”

“Soo…” I prod at Eli as best I can over the line. “You called me to announce that you had a fight with Ryan. And what can I do about that? What did you fight over? Also, can’t we have this conversation in daylight hours, like normal people?”

Fuck knows who’s normal these days, or what that even looks like. But five past three is, at the very least, an antisocial hour ripe for kicking. He should have the decency to be at least a little embarrassed by the hour, but nope.

Eli’s swallow is audible on the line. “Like I said, I didn’t know who to call. And you’re always good at listening, Aubs.”

Part of me bristles at the nickname he has for me, an intimacy he doesn’t deserve. Not now. Not after leaving me. Another part of me is flailing madly in the dark, desperate to hear more. What is wrong with me? There’s a strange vindication and satisfaction in knowing things are going pear-shaped for Eli. There’s another part of me that hates that he’s hurting.

“You still there?” he asks.

“I was…thinking.” A quick cover. “Tell me about this fight.”

“I don’t know. We were grousing a bit at each other all evening. You know, one of those nights where everything goes wrong. It’s all trivial stuff, but it added up. We went to the restaurant where I had made a reservation. They had no record of it. Then they didn’t have space for Ryan’s wheelchair so we had to wait quite a while for a table. Ryan wanted to leave, I wanted to stay. So I try to make it up to him by ordering food: the wrong meal comes for me, they forget his order. The waiter spills our wine—”

I can’t quite help but laugh as I pour the water over the tea to steep. “Jesus, Eli, did you take him to the most shit restaurant London has to offer?”

“Hey. It had excellent reviews.” He’s defensive.

“I could be petty and say that I’m happy you had a shitty time.”

“I know you’re hurt—”

“You have no fucking clue what I am, actually,” I say coolly. “So how did you get to the fighting part?”

“Then we had to get home, and the taxi was difficult about his wheelchair and that’s when we had a terrible row in the street. And he said I wanted an able-bodied boyfriend and not him and his inconveniences, which is definitely not true, but then we kept fighting. And then things got really heated.”

I sigh, the momentary joy for his misery going just as suddenly as it came. I feel bad for Ryan, who faces enough shit already, and it does sound like an epically crap night out. “What were you actually fighting about?”

“Aside from each of us saying the other’s impossible to please?” Eli swallows again. A gulp of liquid, I think. Hopefully water and not booze.

“Don’t fuck me around more than you already have.”

Silence. Then—

“We fought about you, Aubrey.”

“Me?” It takes a long moment. “What the actual fuck?”

“Ryan’s convinced he’s living in your shadow. That I’m comparing him to you. And it’s not the same, it isn’t. No two relationships are the same, of course. I know that. But…maybe he was a little bit right.”

I rub my face wearily. Hot tears spring to my eyes, and I white-knuckle grip the edge of the counter. “So then you fucking call me? That’s fucked, Eli. You know it is.”

“I didn’t know what to do.”

“I don’t know. It’s definitely not my problem. Go for a run? Do yoga? Work things out with Ryan?” I say pointedly. “And stop being an arse.”

He’s quiet. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. It’s totally unfair of me to call and dump on you like this, in the middle of the night—”

“Damn right.” I sip my tea through my tears. My voice, thankfully, doesn’t give away anything. Not till one small snuffle as I sit quiet on the line, taking refuge by the embers of the evening fire. “I probably should go. I’ve got stuff to do.”

“At three in the morning?” Eli asks blankly. “You starting new shop hours? Or is it because of the filming?”

“Well…” Indirectly, I suppose. The filming led me to Blake. Unavoidable Blake, who I kept crashing into, like some sort of gravitational osmosis that I couldn’t escape. I’m far from one to believe in fate. More like forced proximity due to the small patch of turf between my shop and their filming setup.

And part of me bristles at the fact Eli thinks I just sit around in some sort of void, waiting for his call. Like I don’t have anything else in my life. Or anyone. Like that afternoon in the shop when he stopped by and saw the bouquet.

“I’m out of town,” I confess, emotion caught in my throat this time.

“Fuck, and I’m going on. Sorry. But—” I can hear Eli’s frown over the line. “Why are you out of town?”

“Mini-break,” I say simply. “You might’ve heard of them?”

Eli had delighted in out-of-town trips. Usually, I had to work Saturdays, which is how Gemma came to be hired as the weekend help, so we could occasionally get away. Then, maddeningly, by the time we broke up, I had come to rely on her to let me make the odd weekday errands and have the occasional weekend off, back when the shop was doing a little better.

Back when I was with Eli, and I had places to go.

And again I feel a wave of irritation that he thinks I wouldn’t want to go anywhere on my own. “You don’t think I like taking a break now and again?”

“I’m sure you do, but”—there’s a long pause—“you don’t really have the spare money, do you?”

“Fuck you, Eli,” I snap at last, irritation reaching a flashpoint. God, he knows how to provoke me, and clearly he wants to fight with everyone tonight. “I’m out of town because I have a life that exists beyond you. Hard to imagine I’m not sat alone in my bedsit forever, I know. I’m not in some vacuum, waiting for your call. I need to go now and get back to bed. I suggest you go home and do the same.”

“Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t have rung; it was a mistake.”

“Obviously.”

More awkward silence. We exchange some agonizingly awkward goodbyes and hang up.

I wipe my eyes on the cuff of my oversize hoodie. Stupid arsehole. Focusing on my tea instead, it’s grounding, some familiar comfort, though I’m hundreds of miles from home, with a man that I’m only starting to know. A man who doesn’t have the weight of history like Eli does, for better or for worse. Eli, who knows what buttons to push, how to play me till I’m wound like a top careening wildly.

Fuck, I really hope Blake didn’t hear any of that. Once the tea’s finished, I slink back to bed. If he’s awake, he shows no sign of stirring, and so I curl up around him.

Sleep doesn’t come for ages and I’m left far too alone with the agony of my Eli-related thoughts.