Chương 45: Chapter 21.5: Wynnie’s Interlude

Was it just her? Maybe it was a trick of the eyes. Possibly, she'd had one too many of those delicious dessert wines. Or was there enough magic in the air for the stars to actually look brighter on the way home? Despite heavy legs tired from dancing, Wynnie felt a skip to her step. The whole evening was an enchanting ride. That initial nervous rush on arrival, and then everything that followed? Sublime. Oh, yeah, and the way he casually brushed aside Mel's attention? Jeepers!

She could just swoon if she weren't being held up. By his hand. She looked down at where their fingers intertwined. It had happened so naturally, she barely even noticed it at first. Her memory was fuzzy, but she vaguely recalled holding his hand as they threaded through the dancing crowd, holding on tight so they wouldn't get separated. And then it was so gosh-darn dark outside. So, practical beginnings.

Yet it struck her as one more agonizingly slow step to take toward crossing that just-friends boundary for good. It certainly felt like it. And judging by the way he kept stealing glances at her, he felt it, too.

"I had a really fun time tonight," he said. Yes! Golly gee whillikers, yes! Play it cool, Wynnie. She squeezed his hand.

"Me too." Nice. Well done.

"You know which way we're going, right?"

"Of course. There's only, like, ten streets in Seaport."

"Then weren't we supposed to turn back there?" Wynnie glanced over her shoulder. Oh, fiddlesticks! She'd been so caught up in the feeling of his warm hand engulfing hers that she'd completely forgotten to pay attention. And yet, as embarrassed as she was for cruising past the turn to the Breakwater Inn, she wasn't exactly mad about having a few extra minutes of a relaxing night stroll with the handsome stranger from another world. Besides, this was a rare treat for her.

It wasn't like she took many walks at night on her own. Not that Seaport was dangerous or anything. It was just lonely.

"Sorry. I'm so mortified." She turned to head back to the inn, but didn't get far. His hand still held hers, and he wasn't moving.

"Are you coming?"

"Why don't we take the scenic route? I think I've had one too many… as usual. I wouldn't mind a stroll by the docks to sober up a bit before we turn in." Wynnie could feel her smile light up like the moon. For as often as he quietly chided himself for drinking, she secretly loved it when he did. He got so loose with his words, and the way his eyes settled on her sent warm, fuzzy feelings from the tips of her toes up to her stomach. They took the long way, heading down toward the docks.

A fine mist of fog and salty ocean air settled over their clothes. The steady, heavy lapping sound of water against wood filled the air. The rhythm of it made her think back to their dancing.

"Do you think we'll ever have music like that in our bar?"

"It might be nice. Then again, it could be obnoxious, too."

"How so?" He shrugged.

"What if the songs get stuck in our heads? What if we have to listen to the same thing over and over until it makes us insane? I'd be afraid of a baby shark situation, you know?" She glanced into the dark water, searching for danger lurking beneath. Baby danger.

"No? I don't get it." He chuckled.

"Oh yeah. Duh. Just Earth things."

"Do you still miss it?" For several long seconds, he said nothing. The slow, scuffling sound of their footfalls on the pier sounded above the distant crashing of waves against rocks on far-off shores. She began to get nervous, afraid she'd said something wrong. He'd been holding up pretty well for a guy who died recently. Obviously, it'd been a shock at first. Maybe it was foolish of her to bring it up when he was in this intoxicated state.

"I mean, I think a part of me will always miss it." He paused again, clearly leaving a lot unsaid. He stopped walking, gazing out over the harbor, then to her.

"But I want you to know, Wynnie. If I were to suddenly wake up back on Earth again... I think I'd miss Seaport just as much."

"You like it that much here?"

"The place is fine. The company is the real treasure."

"Are you saying you'd miss me?" Oof. That stupid, reluctant smile of his. She practically had to remind herself to breathe.

"Every day."

"For the rest of your life?"

"Cross my heart, hope to die... and get reborn here again just to see you."

"Aw, sugarplums." It came out as a soft whimper. She couldn't help it.

"You're a real sweetheart when you drink, you know."

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry." He dropped her hand. Well, now she'd done it. Apparently, you could remind a guy that he'd died and he'd be fine, but remind him that he turns into a cinnamon pastry when he drinks, and that's when you were in trouble.

"I shouldn't have said that. I know you're trying to be different here, and here I am, bringing up all the things you wanted to leave behind. We can just go back to—""Wynnie." She looked up at him, trying to hide the regret sweating out of every pore. Abruptly, he stepped forward, wrapping her in a tight embrace. His size, his warmth, his unbridled, booze-fueled earnestness—it was nearly overwhelming. She could feel her body basically melting into his.

"Wynnie, don't apologize. You've given me purpose for the first time since I can remember." He squeezed tighter, and his beard scratched against her cheek. She realized belatedly that she was holding him, too. And it was a good thing. Her knees felt weak.

"I have?" Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

"You have. And I don't regret going out and having a few one bit tonight. I'm not sure I'd have been brave enough to dance otherwise. I wouldn't trade that for the world."

"Oh." His hug loosened, so she gripped him tighter for one last second before letting go. Drew brushed a strand of loose hair out of her face. Was he going to kiss her? Was this really happening!? Her cheeks grew hot, and her glasses fogged up so much that he became little more than a blurry outline. Fiddlesticks! Not now! Before she could remove her glasses to wipe them clean, his lips were on her… forehead. Just a quick, simple kiss. Then, he put his arm around her shoulder, protecting her from the cold.

"Did you just kiss my head?"

"I'm sober enough to head back to the inn. Not sober enough to, uh, kiss you anywhere else." It was too dark to see if he was blushing, but she could tell he was. His voice had changed, going a little higher and nervous.

"Unless you want to keep walking." Walking? She was nearly floating on air!

"No, we should probably turn in. Sleep might do us some good." If she could sleep. After tonight, she was pretty sure she'd be up until dawn, replaying every last second in her head.

Drew's room was dark and silent by the time Wynnie's heart slowed enough for her to consider getting ready for bed. She'd changed into her nightgown. The sheer fabric clung to her more tightly than she wished, and her reflection in the mirror looked back at her judgementally. Her hands went to her belly and pinched a few inches of softness. She could tell that it wasn't all from the dinner she'd just eaten, but it would do as an excuse for now.

Somehow, they just kept eating more, each dish more delicious than the last. It had been easy, too, what with all the drinks they'd had to help wash it down. And so what if she had a few extra inches around her midsection? It wasn't like Drew seemed to mind. And frankly, when she wasn't feeling self-conscious, neither did she. A bit of protection from the cool coastal climate was more than welcome, and she appreciated the extra cushion when she sat on her hard wooden chairs.

She caught Mirror-Wynnie smiling to herself. As she splashed cool water on her face to wash the day away, she talked to her reflection. It had become something of a habit over the last few years. With barely anyone else around to talk to, it was her only way to prevent herself from forgetting how to socialize. As usual, she started.

"Okay, Wynnie. How do you think that went?" Her mirror's smile widened.

"It went great! Did you see how he looked at you when you put on the dress?"

"Well, yeah. But the dress was so pretty. How could he not?"

"Oh, Wynnie. You silly goose. Do you think boys care at all what a dress looks like? Nope. He wasn't looking at the fabric—he was looking at you in it. The dress was just the wrapper over the real present underneath." She waved her hand dismissively at her reflection, batting aside her own argument. This other Wynnie sure had a lot of confidence for a girl who otherwise copied her every move. Wherever she got such ideas was beyond her.

Wynnie grabbed her toothbrush and dabbed on a bit of the strange paste made by an artisan in town. It was weird stuff, but she liked the minty flavor and tingly feeling. It kept everything fresh. And now that most folks in town used it as well, she didn't even feel self-conscious about it. Speaking around her toothbrush, her reflection kept going.

"But he did say it was a date, right? That has to mean something."

"Not exactly. And are you sure it's not just pity? I'm not exactly a catch. I'm all plump and frumpy, and I can't maintain a fire." Mirror Wynnie scoffed.

"Who told you that men care about making fires? That's just for showing off to other guys. It's like having big muscles, or a giant, honkin', dangling—""Wynnie! Language!" Her reflection stopped brushing.

"What? I was going to say sword." She put down her toothbrush, spat, and rinsed. Next, she picked her glasses off the shelf, wiped them clean, and perched them back over her freckled nose. She blinked at herself, finally back in focus. Deep down, she couldn't find anything actually objectionable about herself. A few extra pounds, sure. Glasses, yeah. And not everyone loved freckles. But she made it all work, she thought. Even the messy tangle of hair she swept back in a bun had a certain something.

Maybe mirror-her was onto something. Or maybe she was still tipsy and amorous. And definitely—not maybe—it was high time to turn in.

Wynnie woke with a gasp, blinking against the darkness. Her covers wrapped around her tightly, like an intimate hug. Figured. Perhaps that embrace would explain the dream. Although… it wasn't as though she hadn't been thinking about it already. After the night they'd had? And all the subtle signs? Her hand moved lower, hovering just above her heat. Humidity radiated off her. She didn't even need to touch herself to confirm. Yet, after what she'd just dreamed?

"Golly me. Wouldn't that just be the wildest?" Timidly, almost as though she didn't want to leave the memory of the dream behind, she peeled off her covers. Her legs swung out over the mattress, and she touched down on the cool floor with the balls of her feet. The aged wood creaked lightly beneath her weight. She closed her eyes, rubbing her temples lightly. Maybe she could massage the images back into her head if she pressed hard enough. Oh, sweet mother-of-pearl, if she could just relive the best parts!

There was that one—where Drew's hand caressed her jaw, and his thumb slipped into her mouth. She shivered. And there was that other flash, the one where she straddled him while he lay beneath her, his hips working. She liked that. And then there was that third part. She wasn't sure what to make of it. Mel showed up for some reason, and Wynnie simply sat back and watched as Drew, well… She shook her head to clear that image. Theoretically, it wasn't that she minded sharing.

Actually, just the idea of watching Drew with another woman still ignited a spark. There was something primal and compelling about a man who could handle more than one woman at a time. But not Mel. If she were going to watch him with another woman—share him—it would have to be the right person. Someone who would never betray her. Someone who always had her best interests at heart and was strong enough to believe in her convictions. It wasn't entirely about the sex, either.

Even if that was a big part of it, she was also drawn to the comfort of something like a family. Yet perhaps that was a bigger dream than what she'd just woken from. There were few people in town with both the looks and heart that fit the bill. Or maybe she just hadn't met them yet. She stood, padding across the room to open her door. It probably wasn't anywhere near time to wake, but she'd never get back to sleep if she didn't get a snack.

Something about waking up in the middle of the night always resulted in insomnia if she didn't grab a bite of something. Navigating mostly by feel, she made her way to the kitchen. Embers still glowed in the oven, and she opened it to allow the orange dim light to guide her way. A lightly glazed scone called to her from the pantry, and she let it warm on the hob. So often when she woke up this way, she had the stark feeling of loneliness. It was rare for her to have a guest.

Rarer still to have a friend she could count on. Living alone in a cold, smoky inn always felt like a punishment, as though the gods themselves wanted to see her suffer the same fate as the rest of her family. And for so long, the inn had felt like a burden. It was difficult to maintain. Every room felt unwelcoming and hostile, as though the building itself couldn't wait to spit everyone out—her included. The place was all she had, and it hated her.

Yet she clung to it—the only remnant of the life she could have had. The only piece of hope left to her name. A piece of driftwood she clung to, desperate to reach shore. She grabbed the scone off the hob. The added heat made it feel almost fresh-baked again, and the icing drizzled lightly, sticky on her fingers. Daintily, she took a bite. A kiss of lemon zest and vanilla met her lips. Hearty, cakey dough with a mild sourdough tang covered her palate. It was incredible.

Her only regret was that she had nobody to share it with. Drew was asleep, and she didn't want to wake him just for a bit of pastry. Although she suspected that if she did, he wouldn't mind one bit. He might even suggest they warm up another. Maybe a third. He was a bad influence on her. The man encouraged all of her tendencies toward indulgence. If she wanted a drink, he'd make sure she didn't have it alone. Same with a second helping of food. Same again for a good time in general.

Just having Drew at the Breakwater made the place feel less like an anchor and more like a sail. Now, her late-night trips to the kitchen no longer felt like eating for comfort in a cold and barren world. Instead, they were more like a secret indulgence. A celebration for everything they'd done. He made the Breakwater Inn feel lived in. With him, she could see a future that meant something. And by the gods, did she want to be in that future. By his side. On top of him.

And, as the image of him with another woman flashed back into her mind, she had to admit—occasionally, she just wanted to watch. That little pang of jealousy twined in her stomach. She took another bite of the scone to quiet it. Her eyes stung with the promise of sleep. Her hand stifled a yawn, then dropped the half-eaten scone onto a nearby counter. That could be a problem for morning-Wynnie, as would be stoking the stove and making coffee.

For now, she had dreams to get back to, even though she was far more excited for her waking life.