Pure Fluff.
Happy Valentine's Day.
Once again thank you and lots of hugs to Got Tea for her never-ending help, encouragement and the beta.
The moment her car is parked by the pavement outside his house Grace reaches out, turning the key in the ignition before almost falling back in the seat, resting her head heavily against the headrest.
Closing her eyes, she tries hard to let go of all her frustration and stress at the completely hellish and very tough week that has just ended. Her head is aching, her eyes are burning, and she's extremely cold, too. She's so tired she can't even think, let along find the energy to get out of her car and walk the few steps up to the front door of his house, so she concentrates for the moment on gaining command over her breathing; forcing herself to inhale and exhale, every breath slow and controlled.
The house seems dark, meaning he probably isn't at home, but she knows there'll be warmth; warmth enough to heat her up again. Warmth, and something that'll make her relax and provide her with a feeling of security. She needs that. She really, really needs it, but she simply can't pull herself together enough to get up.
There is something else, too. Something she should remember about today, but right now she's way too tired for any kind of brain activity – her mind is totally blank. She needs to take care, she knows, or she'll fall asleep right here in her car. The unappealing thought makes her shake her head slightly just to keep awake.
It's been an extremely a tough week, a week that seemed as though it would never end. At the request of the Home Office she's been working in Manchester since Monday, and only a combination of hard work from both her and the rest of the team involved in the investigation and a stroke of good luck made it possible to crack the horribly brutal case of a double child murder by noon today, allowing for her to return to London.
Eager to reach home before the weekend's start, she didn't even call him before she left, not expecting to be caught for hours in an endless queue due to roadworks and a car crash blocking the road, and without any kind of signal on her phone. But she's back now and that's all that matters.
She can't remember when she last had some food; she should be starving but doesn't feel it. She's completely indifferent – really doesn't care. Both in her body and mind. All she wants is to close her eyes and drift away, but that means moving. It requires strength... a thing she doesn't seem to possess at the moment. But the air around her is getting icy, creeping in under her coat now that the engine is turned off. Her fingers and legs are getting numb and she knows she needs to pull herself together. A cold car is not the right place to fall asleep.
Sighing deeply, she pulls the key from the ignition, reaches for her handbag on the seat beside her, opens the door and quickly steps out. The cold February wind immediately sweeps around her body, makes her shiver and quicken her steps towards the house.
The moment she stands before the heavy front door, keys in hand, fumbling for the right key, she's hit by a wonderful feeling of being home, something she never thought she would ever feel in this big house; this, the home where he lived so many years with his ex-wife. Every trace of Mary is gone now, though, the rooms spacious and airy; cosy in a certain way even clearly having being occupied for years by a single, very masculine man. But then, she muses, nowadays most rooms show evidence of her own more-or-less daily presence, too.
A new sensation of comfort hits her once the door is ajar. The very scent of him engulfs her. Heavily. Comfort and security... but it's so much more than that. Too many impressions bombard all of her senses and her tired brain simply can't manage to analyse them all. It makes her dizzy, throws her off balance even. Way too many unexpected impressions wrap her up as she steps inside, crossing the threshold.
It's so overwhelming. But it's wonderful. Nothing less.
Her eyes. Nose, ears. Skin. All picking up signs relating to him. Even with closed eyes, she's sure he's there. Simply knows it. It's in the air somehow. The air she's breathing in.
Again, she has the feeling of having forgotten something, but nothing, absolutely nothing comes to mind and she shrugs. Nothing to do about it, she's too tired now.
Fire.
Apparently, though, her mind can't stop working. The first word that comes to her is fire. Open fire. She doesn't know where the idea comes from – the particular heat that surrounds her or the aroma of burning wood, maybe – but she has absolutely no doubt that there is a fire burning in the fireplace in the living room.
Opening her eyes, she turns, closing the door behind her, adjusting her sight to the semi-darkness in the hall. Through the partly-open door leading to the room next to the hall fall beams of red-golden light, flickering through the dimness, reflecting in the surface of the big mirror in the hall, sending shadows around the room in some very interesting patterns.
It's a sure indicator of his presence, but a fire on a workday – even on a Friday – is so unexpected. Normally, it costs her lots of words to persuade him to light a fire and most of the time she only succeeds on a cold Saturday or Sunday.
Stepping further into the hall, pausing for a brief moment and allowing herself time to reflect on the multiple impressions infiltrating her mind, she closes her eyes again. Tense muscles start relaxing and her tiredness begins to vanish into the air, almost evaporating. She opens all her other senses, immediately feeling her mouth start to water, making her realise just how hungry she has become.
Garlic... rosemary... food... dinner... delicious dinner! All words popping into her head next. The smell is so good – she can almost taste the words.
Resolutely opening her eyes, she walks directly towards the door at the back of the hall, unfastening the buttons of her coat on her way. As she gets near the door, her ears catch a faint sound. Singing? The sound is almost inaudible but no mistake is possible. Notes from a deep, warm baritone are flowing from the kitchen. Peter Boyd is singing. Not just any singing, either, and, listening carefully, she realises it's an old romantic ballade from her youth. Not his style, but one she plays from time to time when she's tired or stressed and in need of a cheer-up. It makes her smile, a big grin spreading across her face. He's up to something. She's certain he is, but what? And why? Again, something is nagging her, something she should know or be aware of...
Reaching for the handle, gently pressing it down, she opens the door, taking care not to make any noise. Then, leaning against the door frame, she takes him in as he bends down, taking a critical view of the contents of the oven. Shirt sleeves rolled up and the three top buttons of the shirt left open, there's also the usual lock of hair hanging down his forehead and... oh dear... he's wearing an apron, too. A giggle escapes her.
"Oh, there you are – right on time," he remarks, not looking at her, instead poking the meat before straightening, grabbing the potholders on the table to take out the dish. "Go take off your coat. Dinner is ready."
Nodding, he indicates he wants her to return to the hall before following him into the dining room. Reappearing quickly in the now empty kitchen after taking off coat and shoes, she goes straight through after him.
The sight that meets her completely overwhelms her. Stunned, she gazes at the beautifully dressed table. Tablecloth, serviettes, glasses, burning candles; a bouquet of roses placed beside her chair, and what looks like a perfect dinner is ready and on the table.
Boyd stands by the table, hands lightly resting on the back of a chair. "Madame," he murmurs, pulling out the chair for her, bowing vaguely, letting her know he wants her to sit.
Speechless, she obeys.
Gently pushing the chair under her, before transferring a hand to her neck, squeezing it lightly, he dips down, placing a tender kiss on her cheek before walking around to the opposite chair.
The moment he's seated, their gazes merge together.
Keeping eye contact, he reaches for the bottle of red on the table – Premier Cru, she notices – filling their glasses.
He lifts his glass in a salute, their eyes still linked, and as she reads all sorts of promises for the coming evening in their depths, at last she remembers what it was she'd forgotten. Giving her one of his boyish smiles – the kind that always turns her knees to jelly – he remarks, "Welcome home, Grace, and Happy Valentine's Day."