Admittedly, Harper hadn't thought this through.

She trained her eyes on the wardrobe. When she'd smugly suggested they share a bed, Harper hadn't imagined having to actually share the bed. Or the awkward changing into pajamas scenario. Or the bathroom situation. Did they brush their teeth together? Separately?

Was there a user manual for this sort of thing?

"Do you have a side?" Lawson asked.

He was sitting on the bed, yanking off his beat-up sneakers. They were covered in mud from today's activities, Harper noted, watching as Lawson placed them carefully near the door. She hadn't noticed before. And now Lawson was— he was—

Harper blinked.

Good lord.

He was stripping off his shirt.

"What?" she squeaked.

Lawson glanced over. "A side of the bed."

"Oh." Her cheeks were flaming. "Away from the door."

She waited for Lawson to smirk. To say something witty, probably along the lines of, "Ah, I see — that way the murderer gets me first, right?" But Lawson was busy folding his shirt, the muscles in his arms flexing in a way that was unfairly distracting.

She needed a breather.

ASAP.

"Right." Harper inched toward the bathroom, gesturing over her shoulder. "I'm just going to... er..."

She made a run for it, slamming the door shut.

She splashed her face with cold water. Twice. Then she took her time flossing and brushing her teeth, trying to slow her racing heartrate. By the time Harper was putting on her vanilla-scented moisturizer, she was feeling much better. And then she looked around the empty bathroom and groaned.

Shit.

She'd forgotten to bring her pajamas in with her.

But never mind, Harper thought, pushing open the door. She'd just change quickly while Lawson was in the bathroom. That was feasible, right?

Lawson looked up from a book. "You're done?"

"Yeah."

He closed it. "Brill."

Harper waited until Lawson was safely in the bathroom. Then she began stripping off her clothes with the urgency of someone that had just doused their jeans in kerosene and struck a match. She located her flannel pajama shorts with ease. Which only left her top.

Harper paused.

Glanced around the room.

Where the hell was her top?

She flung her suitcase on to the bed, mentally cursing her past self. This is what she got for not unpacking earlier. She rummaged through cocktail dresses and towering heels, desperate for a flash of soft, faded grey cotton.

"Oh, come on," Harper growled, shoving aside a lumpy jumper. "Come on, come on—"

The door flew open.

Harper let out a little shriek, desperately trying to shield her chest. Lawson made a noise of surprise. He slapped a hand over his eyes, stumbling back toward the bathroom. It would have been funny, Harper thought, if she wasn't so utterly mortified.

"Fuck!" Lawson spun around. "Sorry. I didn't see anything."

"You didn't think to knock?"

"No." Lawson tilted his head upwards, as if beseeching a higher power. "But in retrospect, I really should've done."

Harper couldn't help it; she snorted.

Laughter bubbled up in her. Hysterical. The dizzying, breathless kind. She couldn't stop it from coming, and then Harper was laughing so hard that her ribs ached with it. Lawson's shoulders were tense.

"Harper?" he asked.

"The look—" She wheezed. "On your face—"

"Are you laughing or crying right now?" His voice was tight.

"Both." She wiped at her eyes. "One second."

Harper rummaged through her suitcase, still chuckling to herself. The grey t-shirt was nowhere to be found, but she managed to find a white cotton dress that could double as a nightgown. She tugged it on, then — after a moment's consideration — ditched the shorts.

"Okay," Harper said. "You can look."

Lawson turned. Slowly, this time. "This is really weird, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

He ran a hand through his dark hair. "You think I'd be used to it, sharing a dorm for all those years." Lawson's smile turned mischievous. "You look much better naked than Alisdair, though."

Harper crossed her arms. "I thought you didn't see anything."

He shrugged. "I lied."

"So you looked."

"Not on purpose," Lawson protested, and he must have seen the skepticism on her face because his smile grew. "Okay, maybe a little on purpose."

Harper rolled her eyes, climbing into bed. Whisky warmed her stomach, a heavy, delicious heat. She frowned as Lawson placed his glasses gingerly on the nightstand. She hadn't expected Lawson to be so gentle with things. But maybe that was the magic of Lawson Hale, she thought; everyone felt they knew him, and nobody actually did.

Lawson flopped down on the bed, switching off the light.

Harper turned over to face the wall, squeezing her eyes shut. She could hear the rustle of bedsheets. The gunshot noise of his breathing. Warmth seeped across the bed, unnaturally distracting — or maybe her senses were just on overdrive.

Lawson's voice was rough with sleep. "Good night, Ohio."

"Night," she whispered.

Harper closed her eyes. She wouldn't be sleeping tonight.

Not one bit.

Something gave a bang.

Harper shot up, her heart slamming in her chest. Rain lashed the windowpane, beating at it with insistent fists. Wind howled around the old stone building. Slowly, objects in the room drifted into focus: an old boudoir; an oval mirror; fresh pink flowers.

Right.

She was at the manor.

Harper slumped back against the headboard, trying to calm her racing pulse. Miraculously, she must have actually fallen asleep last night; the bed was toasty from their body heat, and she could feel pillow creases on her cheek.

Someone whimpered.

She turned. Lawson was tangled up in the bedsheets, his dark hair like a splash of ink against the sheets. Shattered glass glittered on the floor, a sea of miniature stars; Lawson must have knocked over a cup, she realized; that's what woke her up.

"Lawson?" Harper whispered.

He drew in a shuddering breath, his face contorting. His gaze darted beneath his eyelids, a seeking, restless thing. Harper nibbled her lip. Did she wake him?

"Lawson." She touched his arm. "It's me. You're okay."

He made a low noise in his throat, something raw and guttural, and Harper shivered, withdrawing her hand. His skin was fever hot. She thought of Lawson's face that day on the bridge, his obvious reluctance to have her witnessing his worst fear. He wouldn't want Harper to see him like this.

With that in mind, she slipped from the bed.

Harper found a dustpan in a linen closet, and she made quick work of the glass, sweeping it into a bin. When it became clear that Lawson was still in the grip of a nightmare, Harper hesitated. Then she sighed, tiptoeing from the room.

To the library, then.

She found the room with relative ease. Embers glowed in the grate, watching her with hungry eyes, and a single lamp illuminated a porcelain tea set. They must have accidentally left a light on. She crossed to the bookshelf, running her fingers over the dusty spines.

Sylvia Plath? No. Too depressing.

Mary Elizabeth Braddon?

Shakespeare?

Harper paused at a thin green volume. Emblazoned in gold across the spine were the words "Songs of Innocence and Experience." She picked up the book, staring down at its cloth front cover. She hated poetry.

And yet.

Hadn't Lawson quoted Blake the other day?

And it had illustrations, Harper noted. She was a sucker for pretty illustrations.

Harper lowered herself into Lawson's abandoned armchair, curling her legs beneath her. She had made it about halfway through the book when she found the poem that Lawson had quoted on the bridge: The Clod and the Pebble. She scanned the lines.

"Love seeketh not itself to please,

Nor for itself hath any care,

But for another gives its ease,

And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."

So sung a little Clod of Clay

Trodden with the cattle's feet,

But a Pebble of the brook

Warbled out these metres meet:

"Love seeketh only self to please,

To bind another to its delight,

Joys in another's loss of ease,

And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite."

Harper closed the book, a lump swelling in her throat. There were three stanzas. But Lawson had only shared the last one, hadn't he? She didn't know much about poetry, but Harper knew enough to hazard a guess as to why.

The first stanza was a celebration of love. A joyous, selfless view of it. But the last stanza — Lawson's favourite stanza — was a condemnation of it.

Harper reshelved the book. She tiptoed back down the corridor, ignoring the oil portraits that watched her with curious eyes. She wondered what she must look like to them: a ghostly figure dressed in white, gliding barefoot on silent stone.

When she arrived at the room, Lawson was lying on his back, his breath rising and falling in waves. His cheeks were flushed with sleep, his dark hair messy. Harper resisted the urge to smooth it away from his face. Something fierce and protective rose in her. Something wholly unfamiliar.

Oh, Lawson, she thought. Who hurt you?

Harper woke to darkness.

For a bizarre moment, she thought it was still nighttime, but no; the clock on the nightstand said 8 o'clock. It was the storm, Harper realized, rubbing blearily at her eyes. The clouds outside were the colour of stewed winter plums, crowding out any sunlight.

She glanced sideways.

Lawson's side of the bed was empty.

Harper blinked. She hadn't expected him to be an early riser, but then again, Lawson Hale was full of surprises. Maybe he was the type of person that drank wheatgrass juice and did morning sun salutations. The thought made her smile.

Anyway, she'd done it.

She'd spent a whole night in the same bed as Lawson, and nothing had happened. Relief swept through her, so fast and striking that she was almost dizzy with it. She never had to do it again. Not ever.

"Harper?" a voice called. "Are you awake?"

She sat up. "Yup."

"Are you decent?" Lawson asked.

His voice was calm. Unruffled. Still, Harper felt her cheeks warm as her mind went through all the different scenarios in which she wasn't decent. She was horrified to find that several sounded appealing.

"Also yes," Harper called.

The door opened. Lawson appeared, already showered and in jeans, holding two white mugs. He passed the second one to Harper.

"Oat flat white," Lawson said. "With a shot of hazelnut." He must have seen the surprise on her face because he smiled. "I do pay attention sometimes, you know."

"Thanks."

"Right." Lawson sat at the foot of the bed, his face unusually serious. "Do you want the good news or the bad news first?"

Harper's heart sunk. "How bad is the bad news?"

"Bad."

She took a sip of coffee. "Good news, then."

"I repaired the marquee," Lawson said. "And I spoke with the caterers; they can do the wedding cake, if we can't manage to find anything else."

"You're a star."

"So I've been told."

"Seriously," Harper said, lowering the coffee. "Thank-you." She had the sudden urge to lean over and squeeze his arm, which she didn't. Obviously. "What's the bad news?"

Lawson glanced at the door. "Are you sure you don't want breakfast first?"

"Lawson." Harper frowned. "Just say it."

"Right." He cleared his throat. "The rain is getting worse."

"Okay."

"So the power's out," Lawson continued slowly. "And the Wi-Fi."

She gave him an odd look. "Is that all?"

"No," Lawson said, rubbing at his jaw. "The storm knocked over a tree, and the bridge is out. Nobody will be able to get in or out for a few days. I'm sorry, Harper." He looked almost sheepish. "We're stuck here."

Hello lovely readers,

Well, well, well — looks like Harper and Lawson are going to be spending some more time together ;)

Question of the Day: since it's (almost) Valentine's Day, who's your favourite fictional couple? My vote goes to Julian x Emma (Cassandra Clare) or Elide x Lorcan (Sarah J Maas), although an honourable mention goes to Jane Austen's Emma x Knightley!

Affectionately,

J.K.

p.s. I haven't had the chance to read your comments on the last chapter yet (the struggles of doing a Master's degree and internship at the same time lol) but I'm looking forward to reading them tomorrow!! They're always the highlight of my week :)