And she thanked the goddess that her mother insisted she start taking birth control at the age of eighteen (regardless that it was unneeded at the time).
She’d chosen a scent of peony with a hint of grapefruit and put in the dangled amethyst earrings one of her ex-boyfriend’s had given her.
And now she decided she was definitely hysterical because she was standing in her dining room wondering if she should light candles and put on music. She didn’t exactly have to strike a mood, the seduction was a given.
Bran sauntered in, his tail twitching, then stopped and looked up at her.
Sibyl looked down at her pet and (undoubtedly hysterically) could have sworn her cat was watching her with grave judgement in his yellow feline eyes.
“What are you looking at?” she snapped.
Bran flicked his tail once then sat down and blinked his eyes.
“Yes, well, it’s only two months. That’s it. He’s young, all right looking…” Bran blinked again, this time in disbelief. “Okay, he’s quite good-looking. He also has all of his teeth and –”
A knock sounded at the door and Sibyl emitted a frightened, muted scream.
Then she whispered, “Oh my goddess.”
And the immediate feeling flooded through her that her whole life was going to change, not just the next two months. This thought bubbled up and nearly exploded into panic. Luckily, Sibyl had just enough strength left to tamp it down.
Bran got up and wisely ran up the stairs.
Mallory, on the other hand, was already up the stairs and after a clamorous descent, he skidded on his paws at the bottom to take the sharp turn towards the door. In the process, he slid across the braided rugs covering the wide-planked floors, bunching them in huge messes. She saw him stop (because he crashed into the door) and then he barked loudly over and over again.
She took a deep breath then exhaled and in doing so expelled some of her panic and walked forward.
You can do this, you can do this, you can do this, she repeated to herself over and over again, using her feet to right the rugs that Mallory had dishevelled.
“Mallory, out of the way. Go sit in the living room,” she commanded when she made it to the door (or nearly, as Mallory was in the way).
Mallory ignored her command and backed up enough for the door to be opened but his big dog body stayed where it was, his tongue lolling, his tail wagging fiercely.
Sibyl took another breath, thinking what a cruel world it was that her dog, who hated men since she got him as a puppy, absolutely adored Colin Morgan.
She threw back the bolt and opened the door.
Colin was standing on the threshold looking unfairly handsome wearing a dark suit and an electric blue shirt that was unbuttoned at the neck.
You cannot do this, you cannot do this, you cannot do this, her brain (or was it her conscience?) unbidden, repeated over and over again.
“Come in,” she invited, ignoring her brain, stepping wide and pleased her voice held no tremor.
Colin entered and Mallory went berserk, snuffling his hand (the way he normally only did to Sibyl’s), his whole body vibrating with glee.
Sibyl stared out the door and considered the very pleasant idea of running into the night (or simply begging him to leave and never return, unless it was to ask her out on a real date again after promising him she’d accept) but instead she shook off these happy notions, now completely lost to her, and closed the door behind her.
Sealing her fate.
Colin was waiting for her patiently as she turned. He was also idly stroking Mallory’s soft, black-faced head while the dog sat next to him in contented silence.
And lastly, Colin was carrying a briefcase.
She felt her knees go weak.
She lifted her arm to motion him toward the dining table and followed him when he moved. He still said not a word as he placed the briefcase on the table and turned toward her.
She walked toward the briefcase.
She had no idea what to do. What was next? Should she say something?
Good goddess, how did women do this sort of thing for a living?
She felt like wringing her hands but put every amount of energy and attention into keeping them still and tremor-free.
Sibyl was so concentrated on this trying task, she didn’t hear him approach.
Then he was there, he was so close that she smelled his cedar-spiked cologne. He lifted his hands toward her head and she flinched.
His fingers found the two carefully placed clips that held her hair up (clips it took her twenty minutes to secure). He pulled them out and her hair tumbled around her shoulders.
She turned stunned eyes to his to see his were drilling intently into hers while his fingers ran through the hair on one side of her head then on the other, pulling its mass away from her face.
“You’ll not wear your hair up when you’re with me.” He voiced this demand smoothly, in a calm, even tone before he tossed the clips on her dining room table.
Her mouth dropped open and then she could do nothing but nod because, from that moment on (or at least for the next two months), his wish was her command.
He turned, flipped open the latches to the briefcase and inside there were carefully arranged twenty-pound notes. Just like in the movies.
Meg and Annie’s minibus.
Overwhelmed with relief, not lifting her eyes from the money and not realising how strange it would sound, she whispered a heartfelt, “Thank you.”
When she eventually looked at him, he was staring at her quizzically.
After a brief hesitation, he replied quietly, “You’re welcome.”
She reached out and slapped the top of the case down. She wanted to grab it and throw it into the night, find a deep lake and toss it into the middle, gather all the money and fling it into his face, screaming, “This is not really me!” and do everything to make him believe.
Instead, she just fastened the latches.
“It warms the heart that you don’t intend to count it,” Colin drawled.
She closed her eyes which were still trained on the case.
She just knew she’d forget something.
Then she squared her shoulders and turned to him without a word. He was watching her so closely and so intently it made her entire body quiver.
Then, suddenly, he asked, “Where’s your bedroom?”
“Um… what?” Her voice was scratchy, like she hadn’t spoken in a year.
“Bedroom?”
“It’s… my bedroom’s upstairs.”
He grabbed her hand and in three great strides he was at the foot of the stairs, dragging her behind him.
“Don’t you want a drink?” she asked in desperation, trailing after him, her feet having no choice but to move quickly, reading his intent and terrified of it but to her extreme unease, Colin made no response.