Page 18 of Scandal
The scary tent instantly morphs into something cozy and quaint. There’s a trickling brook, and birds are singing. It’s basically a Disney movie. “That sounds nice.”
“It’s not.”
“Oh.”
We drive a bit longer, and finally, up ahead, I see it.
It’s…well,hm. It’s definitely historical. It’s the only favorable compliment I can think of at first glance.
It’s tough to see everything with only the headlights as my guide, but there appears to be a good amount of ivy covering the stone structure and the slate roof. Neither seems to be in great shape.
I guess he did warn me.
“There’s a garage in the back, but it’s basically a glorified tool shed and rather small. I’ll leave the car here for the night.”
“Okay.”
We both get out of the car, and Asher goes around to grab my luggage. I was so shocked to see him on the side of the road earlier that I hardly had time to really look at him.
As I walk toward the back of the SUV, I pause for a moment, and I’m struck by how much different he looks from the last time I saw him. He’s dressed the same—black jeans, boots, and a Henley—but everything seems to hang just a little looser.
Unlike Darius and my brother, Asher has the classic rock-and-roll physique. He’s tall, lean, and seriously cut. This isn’t my weird leftover crush talking. The man performs shirtless in front of thousands of people. It’s just a well-documented fact.
One that I may or may not have spent a decent amount of time studying.
Which is why I can tell he’s lost weight.
“So is it just…you here?” I ask, not really sure what answer I’m hoping to get from this awkward interrogation.
“Yes,” he responds, joining me on the gravel path, my luggage in tow. “Cormac, my private valet, stays at the main house, much to his dismay. He appears a few times a day to make sure I’m fed and watered.”
Clearly not that fed, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut.
Also, what the fuck? Private valet? Real people actually have those? I thought that was just something they made up on Downton Abbey.
“Well, I appreciate you allowing me to stay here.”
“You may have a change of heart when you see the place,” he says gruffly.
He steps up to the plain wooden door. There are no flowerpots or adornments. No welcome mats or signs.
I’m not even sure there’s a lock.
He opens the door by roughly slamming his elbow into it while turning the handle. It takes a few tries before the old-looking door finally gives in, and he stumbles inside.
How crazy is life that I just witnessed my teenage crush nearly break down a door in the middle of Scotland? Then I glance behind Asher and take in the cottage for the first time.
Oh, holy shit.
He wasn’t kidding.
There are no separate rooms, just an open space with a large fireplace centered on the back wall. A few chairs are scattered around a table, and there is a battered loveseat in front of the hearth.
“It’s…” I gulp, my eyes flicking to the bucket in the middle of the floor, catching water droplets from the roof. There’s a chill in the air that feels downright arctic, and don’t even get me started on the smell. “Nice.”
Asher snorts and sets my luggage down by the door. “No need to be polite, Merc. I know it’s shite. But it’s private.”
Or at least it was before I showed up.
