Page 24

Vivienne

Avery Scottish "fuck" is what wakes me from what has to be the deepest sleep of my entire life. By the time I bolt upright in bed, confused about where I am, who I am, and why my mouth tastes like I swirled whiskey last night—not to mention the dull pain in my thumb—Lachlan's massive form is already retreating, the heavy stone door to my room slamming shut behind him as his boots thud across the wooden floors. A heartbeat later, I look down and realize my tits are full out.

"Well, shit," I say, annoyed as I can be.

I wanted to start today on a new page, and then Lachlan had to barge in and see me naked and ruin my grand plan to win him over. We've probably broken all the unspoken rules that the damn book wouldn't tell me last night by sleeping naked, or leaving my door unlocked, or not getting up at the crack of dawn.

Fuck, I think to myself, and there is a very Scottish burr to the word in my head now.

Shivering, I pull the sheets tight around my shoulders, then frown as I realize I have nothing to wear today except for my disgusting, dirty clothes. My backpack, still covered in cobwebs and dirt, sits on the ground next to the bathroom. And as far as I can remember, I haven't packed anything in it besides my research, my laptop, my favorite notebook, my ballpoint pen, and a few protein bars. Now, of course, there's a half-drunk bottle of wine in there somewhere. The thought of opening that up makes me sick to my stomach, so I quickly discard the idea of trying to wear a protein bar wrapper as clothing today.

I would have asked Lachlan about it if he'd stayed long enough to help me. But no, the asshole had to come in and see me naked, and then swear at me to wake me up and flounce right back out.

"I'm the one he should be trying to make feel better, not the other way around. I didn't ask for any of this," I rant.

A sleepy hoot takes me by surprise, and I look up to see my wooden owl friend, his burnished brown head tucked under one strangely feathered wing.

"Forgot you were there," I tell him.

He doesn't respond, other than giving his feathers a little fluff as I finally pull myself out of bed on sheer willpower and spite alone.

"Spite's gotten me everywhere, I don't expect it will stop now," I tell the owl. If he hears me, he makes no sign of it, just continues slumbering sweetly.

"I don't suppose you've got any clothes here in my size, do you?" I say to the house. "Maybe you could make me something out of wood if you don't have anything fabric. Hell, maybe I'll pull a Sound of Music and make myself a dress out of that duvet."

My mouth scrunches to the side as I consider that plan and quickly dismiss it. I've never been a seamstress, never had the patience and math skills it would take to cut out my own pattern from scratch, and I've read enough women's history to know that that type of work is extremely labor-intensive and not at all easy, as someone would have you believe.

I sigh and wriggle my toes, resigned to wearing the sheet like a toga, when a panel in the wall creaks open next to the fireplace and the stained-glass window.

"Huh," I say, furrowing my brow as I look at the stained-glass window. I don't remember it being a bear last night. I'm not sure that I could make out what it was anyway, though, so I shrug and decide I have bigger problems than the bear window that I don't remember, and tiptoe over on the strangely warm floor to examine the door that's popped open.

"Closet," I say, delighted at this turn of events. "Oh," I say as I walk deeper in. "It better not take me to Narnia or any shit," I say loudly.

But I'm delighted. There's an entire wardrobe of things for me to wear in here. Some of them are so far beyond any use that I could ever imagine—beaded gowns and velvet dresses and fur-trimmed coats.

"These better be vegan fur," I tell the closet. "I'm not into animal cruelty."

The closet doesn't answer. Neither does the house. And the smell of cedar grows stronger as I get further in.

"I need something to wear that's not formal wear," I say, eyeing the racks upon racks of cocktail dresses and beautifully embroidered gowns warily. "I need something I can wear today in front of Lachlan."

My word cuts off as a rack swivels into view, all hanging with lace and silk and not nearly as much fabric as the gowns.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I say out loud to the empty closet. "It's lingerie!" I exclaim, fingering one. "I can't wear this. Are you out of⁠—"

Frowning, I shake my head and start to turn around. I notice all the gowns and chiffons and silks and fabrics I don't even know the name of have disappeared, replaced by a wide swath of navy blue and deep oxblood red garments.

"I really just want jeans and something comfy," I mutter, brushing my hair back.

I don't have a clue what happened to the towel I wrapped my head last night, and I'm sure my hair looks absolutely insane. I snort to myself. Maybe that's what pissed Lachlan off or scared him—an absolute crow's nest of hair on my head.

I sift through the racks, bewildered and astounded by the sheer amount of clothes that are all in my size and all look to be beautifully made. At the very least, they're not the cheap polyester I'm used to. Natural fibers.

"A girl could get used to this," I say, finally landing on a pair of comfortable-looking jeans and a red sweater.

I slip on a camisole, delighted to find underwear that fits too, and forgo the drawers full of wired bras in favor of one of the lacy options. And a minute later, I'm out the door.

"I'm gonna miss you," I tell the little wooden owl. "Can I have a different friend to take with me, though, if you're going to sleep?" I frown as a pounding picks up in my temple, that damn dehydration headache back in force.