Chapter 2: The King's Arms
The afternoon in the cottage had been a slow, quiet unfurling. Isabella had attempted to work, her laptop glowing on the kitchen table, but her focus kept dissolving into the memory of the night before—the weight of him, the scent of his skin, the low rumble of his voice in the dark. By five, she gave up. She took a long, steaming bath, the water scented with lavender salts she found in the cupboard, and let the heat soothe the pleasant ache in her muscles.
Selecting an outfit felt charged with a new significance.She wanted to look good.Not just presentable, but undeniable. In her suitcase, folded with care, was a dress she’d bought on a whim in L.A., a deep emerald green velvet that she’d never had the occasion to wear. It was short, hitting mid-thigh, with a plunging neckline that showcased the generous curve of her breasts. The fabric clung to her waist and hips before flaring slightly. She paired it with sheer black tights and her favorite heeled ankle boots, the ones that made her feel both elegant and a little dangerous. She took time with her makeup, a smoky eye and a bold red lip, and let her long brown hair fall in loose waves. Standing before the full-length mirror in the bedroom, she felt a surge of confidence.She looked amazing.Hot, even.It was a potent armor.
The walk to the King’s Arms was bracing. The snow had been pushed into filthy, crystalline banks lining the cobbled lane, and the night air was needle-sharp, clarifying. The village was a postcard under the indigo sky, thatched roofs and golden windows, smoke curling from chimneys. The pub itself glowed like a haven, its frosted windows beaded with condensation, warm light spilling onto the trodden snow outside.
She pushed the heavy oak door open just as the clock on the mantelpiece chimed eight. A wave of warmth, thick with the smells of woodsmoke, roasting meat, hops, and damp wool, enveloped her. The pub was half-full, a comfortable hum of conversation underscored by the crackle from a massive hearth. A few locals glanced up from their pints, their gazes lingering appreciatively on the newcomer, the Californian girl in the velvet dress that left little to the imagination.
Her eyes scanned the room, skipping over a group of older men playing dominoes, a young couple by the fire, a trio of women laughing at the bar.Then she saw him.
Robert was in a corner booth, partially shadowed, but his height and posture made him unmistakable.He was with two other men. One was around his age, sandy-haired and lean, wearing a waxed jacket open over a sweater. The other was younger, bigger, with a rugby player’s build and a cheerful, ruddy face. They were deep in conversation, pints of dark ale half-drunk before them.
Robert was mid-sentence, gesturing with a hand, when his gaze flickered toward the door. It caught on her, and his words died.His blue eyes widened slightly, then darkened, tracking her as she moved into the room. The change was subtle—a stillness settling over his broad shoulders, a slight parting of his lips. He didn’t smile, not yet.It was pure, arrested absorption.
His friends followed his line of sight.The sandy-haired one’s eyebrows shot up. The younger one let out a low, appreciative whistle, quickly stifled.
“Blimey, Rob,” the sandy-haired man murmured, leaning in. “Who’s that?”
Robert didn’t answer immediately, his eyes still fixed on Isabella as she navigated through the tables toward them. She felt the heat of his stare like a physical touch, a counterpoint to the curious glances of his friends.
“That,” Robert said finally, his voice low enough that Isabella only caught it as she reached the table, “is Isabella.”
He unfolded himself from the booth with that same fluid grace she remembered, towering over her even in her heels. Up close, she could see the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes, but they crinkled now with a genuine, warm smile that erased her last shred of nervousness.
“You made it,” he said. His gaze swept over her, a comprehensive, blisteringly honest assessment that missed nothing—the dress, the cleavage, the legs, the red lips. A faint, appreciative smile touched his mouth. “You look… you found the place alright.”
“The only place with lights on,” she said, smiling back.The tension from his initial stare melted into something warmer, more welcoming.
“These are my mates,” Robert said, gesturing. “This is Simon,”—the sandy-haired man nodded, a friendly, sharp-eyed smile on his face—“and this great lump is Kieran.” The bigger man grinned, raising a hand in a wave.
“Can I get you a drink?” Robert asked.“A glass of red wine would be great,” Isabella said.
“Sit, please,” Simon said, shifting along the booth.Isabella slid in opposite Robert, who had resumed his seat. The booth was snug; his knees brushed against hers under the small, round table. He didn’t move them away.As Robert went to the bar, Simon turned his friendly attention to her. “So, you’re the Californian house-swapper. Rob mentioned he’d, ah, run into you last night.” There was a twinkle in his eye that suggested he’d been given a heavily edited version of events.“Quite literally,” Isabella said, her playful humor surfacing. “He let himself in during the blizzard. I think I gave him a minor heart attack.”
Kieran chuckled.“Serves him right. Never could just knock like a normal person.”
Robert returned with a large glass of Malbec and a fresh pint for himself. He sat, his arm stretching along the back of the booth behind Isabella, not quite touching her shoulders, but the proximity was intimate, possessive. His thumb brushed absently against the velvet of her sleeve.
“We were just giving Kieran advice,” Simon said, picking up the thread. “He’s convinced his girlfriend’s new yoga instructor is trying to steal her with downward-facing dog.”
“It’s the eye contact during savasana, Simon!” Kieran protested good-naturedly. “It’s intense!”
The conversation flowed easily, shifting from Kieran’s romantic paranoia to Simon’s renovation woes with a barn outside Bath, to the latest political scandal making the papers. Robert was a quiet participant, more often listening than speaking, but his presence was a constant, grounding force. His leg remained pressed against Isabella’s under the table. Occasionally, his hand would drop from the back of the booth to rest lightly on her shoulder, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the velvet. Each touch was a tiny electric shock, a secret conversation beneath the surface of the pub banter.
He asked her thoughtful questions about her work, drawing out her passion for design in a way that made her feel fascinating. When Simon made a joke about American coffee being “dishwater,” Robert simply said, “She makes excellent coffee, actually,” and the way he said it, with such casual certainty, made her blush.
As the evening wore on, the pub slowly emptied.The domino players left.The couple by the fire departed. The hum of conversation dwindled to a murmur.Simon checked his watch.“Right. I’ve got the sitter till eleven.Time to relieve the troops.” He drained his pint. Kieran followed suit, groaning about an early training session.
There were handshakes and promises to “see you soon” directed at Isabella with genuine warmth.They filed out, leaving a ringing silence in their wake.
The booth felt cavernous now, and yet, with Robert still beside her, incredibly small. The fire had burned low, casting the room in deep, dancing shadows. The bartender began collecting glasses from distant tables, the clinking sounding unnaturally loud.Robert finished the last of his pint. He didn’t look at her, instead studying the patterns in the wood grain of the table. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was thick, potent, charged with everything unsaid from the night before and everything humming between them now.
“I’m glad you came,” he said quietly, his deep voice resonating in the quiet.“Me too. Your friends are nice.”
“They are. A bit relentless, but their hearts are in the right place.” He finally turned his head to look at her. In the dim light, his blue eyes were almost black, the intensity in them unmistakable. The playful host was gone, replaced by the man from the firelit cottage—focused, direct, and undeniably drawn to her.
His hand, which had been resting on her shoulder, slid down her arm, his fingers intertwining with hers on the tabletop. His touch was warm, firm.
“The village looks different in the daytime,” he said, his thumb stroking the back of her hand.“Quieter. Less… dramatic.”
“I’ll bet.”
Another moment of quiet, filled only by the crackling embers and the distant running of a tap behind the bar.
“My place,” he said, the words dropping into the silence like stones into a deep pool, “is about ten minutes from here. An old coach house they converted.” He paused, his eyes searching hers. “It’s got a better view of the High Street than Molly’s cottage.And the whisky selection is superior.” A faint, wry smile. “If you wanted to… see a bit more of the village.”
The invitation was clear, layered with the same straightforward boldness she had offered him the previous night. It wasn’t a demand, nor was it a vague suggestion. It was a clear path forward, offered with a patient confidence that left the choice entirely, beautifully, hers.Under the table, his knee pressed more firmly against hers. The memory of his body, the feel of his skin, the sound of his breath in her ear, rushed back with overwhelming clarity.The attraction was a live wire, taut and humming between them.
She held his gaze, seeing the quiet hope there, the desire held in careful check, the slight vulnerability he wouldn’t voice. She thought of returning alone to the dark, empty cottage, to the bed that still smelled of him.The comparison was laughable.
She turned her hand in his, lacing their fingers together properly. A slow smile spread across her face, mirroring the one that now dawned on his.
“Lead the way,” she said.