Sorry for the delay, but here is the next update! Now as many of you know, this story follows a "bulk" of the action that you find in the film, "Love Actually", but because there are so many different Downton characters, and because the storylines here don't follow 100% the storylines in the movie, there will be moments and scenes that have NO MATCH or similar relationship to scenes in the film...and one of those scenes in this chapter. But I felt it was needed, to help show the growth of one of those relationships. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

A special shout out to Peachdreamsandperseus, who mentioned how she was looking forward to a particular scene...well my dear, here it is! Thanks for reading and please leave a comment!


Chapter Seven

3 Weeks to Christmas (part I)

The studio lights illuminated with life, a sign overhead began flashing, and the crowd just beyond Sarah's shoulder immediately erupted with applause. She was standing just off to the side of the studio soundstage, looking onto the screen of a camera, while Thomas waved and smiled at the cheering crowd.

Fate had offered him a second chance. Or rather, it had offered her, a second chance.

After the debacle on the radio station, she was convinced Thomas' career was over, which in essence meant hers as well (who would want to hire Thomas Barrow's former manager?) but she was shocked to receive ten phone calls that night—TEN—from different radio stations, journalists, and even a few talk shows, wanting to interview "Bad Boy Barrow", hoping that perhaps he would say even more brutally honest, outrageous things…and possibly reveal more celebrity gossip like that of publically outing the Duke of Crowborough.

However, despite all the calls, Sarah wasn't sure if these people really knew what they were getting themselves into, making such requests. And she wanted to be extra careful when booking his next appearance. She knew he needed the exposure—after all, that was her job; find him the jobs, book them, get word out so the record would sell. Yet despite the "popularity" he was receiving for his on-air antics, she wanted to make sure he didn't become a joke. So she held off on the television appearances…until now.

Prior to him going out, she cornered him in his dressing room and made him promise over and over that he wouldn't talk about his sex life, or his many conquests, or say anything negative, at all, about the record. He groaned and rolled his eyes and squirmed like a toddler who wanted to be anywhere but where he was…but finally agreed, even going so far as to look into her eyes and sigh, "I promise, Miss O'Brien." She would just have to hope and pray he meant it.

"WELCOME BACK!" the hosts cried to the applauding crowd. Sarah bit her lip and watched the scene unfold before her. So far, Thomas was behaving…of course, so far, he hadn't had to say anything. He seemed perfectly content with waving and smiling and blowing the occasional kiss to an audience member. Sarah looked long and hard at the audience. Most of the crowd was made up of teenagers and young twenty-somethings. How many of them even knew who Thomas was? Granted, he wasn't as old as that Billy Mack (who somehow managed to make Mick Jagger look like a boyscout), but these audience members weren't in the same "demographic" that most of Thomas' fans were in (did he still have genuine fans? She would have to check-up on that).

"So, Thomas!" one of the hosts grinned. "We understand it's been a very busy time for you! New single, new record…and we understand that you just recently completed the music video?"

Thomas turned his attention away from the crowd and focused on the hosts before him. "Yes, and I understand that it will be making its world premiere…right here, today, on your show!"

Sarah breathed a sigh of relief. So far, so good; he was behaving himself, even mentioned the music video. Keep it up, my friend, keep it up!

"And we're looking forward to it!" the other host said with a smile. "Now…it's only three weeks till Christmas," he continued. "Do you think you have what it takes to make it to number one?"

"Well, that depends, Ant or Dec," Thomas sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "Who's my competition?"

The two hosts exchanged looks. Even Sarah couldn't help but groan. Still, the hosts managed to move pass the initial embarrassment of having their names misused, and continued with a professional manner. "Well, it looks like the big competition will actually be none other than One Direction."

Sarah winced as the decimal level of the screams from the studio audience went above that in which only dogs could hear.

Thomas, however, didn't look phased in the slightest.

"Ah yes, I saw them on the show last week…" he remarked, smiling every so often at the camera. "Hmmm…if memory serves, they weren't very nice about my record…"

Sarah bit her lip. Oh bollocks.

The hosts both laughed. "Little scamps," they joked, smiling at the camera before looking back at Thomas. Now was the moment everyone in Britain was waiting for—Thomas to say something outrageous just as he had done on the radio.

Instead, he looked directly in the camera, and said with the utmost confidence and politeness, "But they are very, very talented musicians."

Sarah stared at the screen, her eyes bulging and her mouth hanging open. Even the hosts looked shocked by this…show of decency.

"Um…yeah…" one of them mumbled, looking to the other for help on what to say next.

"SO!" the other host quickly intervened. "Thomas, as you know, we have a competition on this show, and we always ask our guests to bring something as a prize for the winner…"

"Ah yes!" Thomas smiled. "And I do have a prize, Ant or Dec," he went on, causing Sarah to groan again. Then her eyes flew open as realization dawned on her. Prize? WHAT PRIZE? She knew nothing about this—Thomas hadn't said anything to her about bringing a "prize" onto the show. She grabbed the screen with both hands and watched, as he reached into his jacket pocket…and pulled out…a marker?

"A personalized felt-tip pen, by yours truly!" Thomas grinned at the cameras, before turning and showing the audience what he held.

It seemed everyone wasn't quite sure what to make of this so-called "prize".

"Oh…" one of the hosts said, plastering a smile on his face. "That's um…that's great!"

Thomas, however, seemed to be clueless to everyone's reaction. "It is, Ant or Dec!" he grinned. "This is a brilliant prize, because there are so many things you can do with it! For example, you can pretend you're a talented musician from a British boy band…" he gestured towards a poster of One Direction. "And write fake autographs…OR…" he took the pen and began to draw moustaches…followed by long, dangling breasts…on the poster of the boy band. "…You can draw on glass with it, like this! In fact, you can even write on glass, too!"

Sarah watched in horror as Thomas continued to deface the picture. But it took an entirely new spin, when Thomas began to write in a giant "word bubble" above the boy band members, that they all had little—

"Um…we do have a lot of kids watching, Thomas…" one of the hosts interrupted.

"Oh Thomas…" Sarah groaned, smacking her head against the screen.

"OH!" Thomas turned back to the camera, his back to the now hysterically giggling audience who no doubt had seen on various screens all over the studio, what he was doing to the One Direction poster. "Yes, thank you Ant or Dec for that reminder…" he looked very serious then. "Kids…listen to your Uncle Thomas. Don't buy drugs."

Sarah lifted her head and stared at the screen, both disbelieving his sudden "responsible message" and dreading what was really behind it. The poor hosts were trying to cover their shock from what he had done with the One Direction poster, and now also putting on smiles for the camera, nodding their heads with Thomas' declaration. Oh those poor, simple-minded fools; they had no idea…

"Well, thank you, Th—"

"BECOME A POP STAR AND THEY'LL GIVE YOU THE DRUGS FOR FREE!"

A roar of laughter and cheering erupted all around them and one of the hosts (Ant or Dec) leapt in, announcing that they were going to a quick commercial break, before coming back and airing Thomas' music video. The bloody fool just kept on grinning and smiling and waving at the crowd and camera, while the hosts looked lost and unsure what to do next. Sarah meanwhile went back to smacking her head against the screen. With any luck…she would drive herself into a coma…and not wake up until Christmas was over.


Evelyn groaned as he ushered the last of the school children out of the gallery; for the past few weeks it had been the same thing day after day: kids coming into the gallery to sneak a peek at the naked photographs that lined the walls. His mother owned the gallery and she was the one who booked the artists, however he, for all intents and purposes, ran the place, and he had some serious questions about his mother's so-called taste in "art".

The sound of a mobile ringing began to echo around the now child-free space. He quickly rushed over to the information desk where he left it…and smiled as he recognized the number ringing. "Anthony!" he grinned. "So you're back? How was Barbados? I thought you would try to claim political asylum while out there."

The voice on the other end laughed heartily at Evelyn's joke. "It was tempting, I can't deny," Sir Anthony murmured. "Especially since I returned and was greeted by a completely different sort of 'asylum'," he muttered.

"They can't do anything without you," Evelyn sighed. "I know what that can feel like, sometimes."

"Indeed…or is it, 'I don't think they can do anything without me', when in truth, they all cheer once I'm out the door?"

"No, it's definitely the first."

The two men chuckled once again. The Strallen's and the Napier's had been neighbors and friends for many, many years. Evelyn's mother was in truth, best friends with Anthony's older sister. Anthony was a student at university when Evelyn was born, and yet despite the gap in their ages, the two became very good friends, especially after Evelyn's parents divorced when he was only eight years old. Yet he never saw Anthony as a "father" figure—more like a big brother. And it was Anthony who took young Evelyn fishing, taught him how to shoot, ride a horse, and all those other "country sports". Anthony also taught Evelyn how to drive a car, and even took him for his first drink down at the pub on the morning of his 18th birthday (even though Evelyn had already sampled some of the spirits in his mother's liquor cabinet before then). Evelyn had been extremely honored when Anthony asked him to be his best man, and despite his own personal…misgivings…he accepted the position, and stood proud and tall next to his friend.

If only it could be as simple as it had been in the past, he couldn't help but think.

"Oh! Edith is on the other line!"

Evelyn's smile immediately fell. "Oh…well…um…I'll let you answer her then, and talk to you later—"

"No, no, you misunderstand," Anthony explained. "She wishes to talk to you."

"What?" Evelyn practically choked. He began to fiddle with his tie—it suddenly felt very tight. And the room felt rather…uncomfortable. "Me? W-w-why?" he stammered.

"She has a question for you," Anthony simply explained. "I'll patch her through—"

"No, um…I mean, you don't need to do that, and besides, I have a massive crowd that just walked in—"

"Be nice," Anthony warned, half joke, half serious.

Evelyn winced at this. So his friend had noticed…

"Nice?" he tried to laugh. "I'm always nice! I don't know what you—"

"Evelyn?"

He thought for certain he had swallowed his tongue.

"Evelyn?" she repeated again. "Evelyn, are you there?"

He closed his eyes, summoned all the strength he had, and finally answered her. "Um…yeah, I'm here," he tried to sound cool and casual…and busy. He wanted her to think he needed to hang up soon.

"Oh, wonderful!" Edith sighed with relief. "I'm so glad to have the chance to speak with you!"

Really? He coughed and glanced once again at the empty gallery. "Well…that's very nice, but…I was just telling Anthony that a large crowd just walked in—"

"Oh don't worry, I won't keep you for long," Edith reassured. "I just had a quick question for you."

Quick question? "Alright…" he murmured. Why did he have a feeling this was going to lead to trouble?

"I was wondering if I could have a look at the video you made of the wedding?"

All the color from Evelyn's face began to drain. "Um…why?" He winced as soon as the words escaped his mouth. Brilliant, just brilliant. That would no doubt bring on more questions—and possibly bring Anthony's wrath, if his blushing bride told him about Evelyn's rudeness to her on the phone.

Indeed, Edith did sound taken aback, just a little. But she quickly overcame that and he could hear the smile she was putting on. "Well, I just would like to have a look at it! Before I show it to my parents, or my sister—I just would very much like to be the first." He heard a soft giggle from the other end, and he closed his eyes at the sound. "I mean, you can't blame a girl for wanting to see how she looked in her wedding dress, can you?"

He tried to chuckle back, but he just couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to laugh at all, wherever she was concerned. "Um…well, it's not finished," he tried to explain.

"Not finished?"

"Um, yeah…I…I need to edit it a little more."

"Oh! Oh don't worry about that, I don't mind seeing the 'director's cut'," she teased, giggling her musical laugh again.

"That's all very good, but considering who this video has been made for, I demand perfection."

"Oh I was only joking," Edith tried to reassure. "Look, how about I just pop over sometime this week? You can lend me the video, and I'll bring it back to you the next day, I promise, and that should hopefully give you plenty of time to continue editing—"

"This week?" he interrupted. "Um…no, sorry, I'm really busy this week. And next week too," he quickly added. "I…you'll just have to wait, I'm sorry."

He heard a pause on the other end; no doubt she was wondering why he sounded so strange. "Evelyn, I don't understand—"

"Look, I'm sorry, I really am, but it is quite busy here, so I'm going to have to go—I'll talk to Anthony later about when the video is ready, don't worry," and with that, he hung up. "Oh God…" he groaned, his head falling into his empty hands. Yes, he would get an earful from Anthony for that conversation, he had no doubt. But what else could he do? He was trying his hardest, honestly! He was doing the best that he could…but it all just seemed to be…hopeless.

The phone began ringing again. Evelyn groaned and despite his better judgment, picked it up to answer. "Look, Edith, I'm sorry I can't—"

"Who's Edith?"

Evelyn's eyes widened, and he quickly glanced at the number on the phone. "Sorry, Jane, I…um…just a…she's just a friend," he muttered, trying his best to regain his composure. "So, how can I help you?"


Anna looked even more depressed than before he had spoken to her about approaching Bates and asking him out. She was sitting at her desk, trying to rearrange her pens and pencils of all things, and kept miserably glancing up towards Bates' desk…where he sat, once again, on his mobile. Robert really needed to find out who it was that Bates was constantly talking to. He hadn't asked before because he didn't want to be one of "those" bosses, who felt the need to know every single detail of his employee's lives. However, there had been several complaints by other people in the office about Bates always being on the phone, and how much the annoying ringtone distracted them. Some of those very people were giving Bates the evil eye in that moment, and he quickly rose from his desk, muttering an "excuse me", before disappearing into the hallway just outside to continue his conversation.

Robert sighed and shook his head, before walking over to the coffee machine and refreshing his cup. He looked over at Anna, and noticed how her own head had perked up when Bates rose from his desk, before lowering again to her pencil jar, and depressingly continuing the rearrangement of her writing implements.

"So…" Robert murmured, quietly coming up to Anna's desk. "How um…how are you this morning?"

Anna lifted her eyes, but unlike previous moments, she didn't bother to put on a fake smile. "Lovely," she mumbled, which of course was the exact opposite of how she was.

Robert sighed again, and glanced down at her own empty mug. "Would you like a refresher?"

She shook her head. "No…" she mumbled.

Robert nodded. "Of course," he whispered. "Naturally, you want to wait until Bates—"

"It doesn't matter," Anna muttered, surprising Robert with how…bitter…she sounded. No matter what was happening in the world, Robert had always counted on Anna being the person who could find the "bright side" to any situation. While some may find that annoying, Robert found it…refreshing. And hopeful. But this was a side to Anna Robert was not used to seeing—in fact, he couldn't recall the last time Anna seemed so…wretched.

He looked around and noticed that few were paying attention to the two of them, then bent his head to whisper, "Did something happen?"

Anna looked up at him and thrust the pencil jar away, before leaning back in her chair and folding her arms across her chest. "More like 'nothing' happened," she grumbled. Now it was her turn to look around, and when she was satisfied, once again, that no one seemed to be looking, she whispered back, "I…I tried to talk to him; I tried to…to invite him…to join me for a drink after work," she explained.

Robert's eyes widened a bit at this revelation. He wasn't sure if Anna would take his advice about approaching Bates and expressing her feelings. After all, she had been in love with the man for nearly seven years and hadn't done anything. So to hear this now…he couldn't help but smile. "Really?" he asked, leaning closer and grinning like an idiot.

However that smile faded at the pained expression on her face. "Nothing happened," she repeated once again. "Nor will it ever."

Robert frowned at this. "Don't say that, Anna."

"It's true," she muttered, turning her face away. "I had just mustered up the courage to ask him, when his mobile rang. Someone else wanted him…and…and…and I realized then," she paused to quickly wipe something away from her face, "that he's far too good for me."

"Anna!" Robert gasped in shock.

"It's true, he is!" she retorted, and then turned and pointed a finger at him. "And don't you dare say anything to him!" she warned.

He stared at her, slightly affronted by her accusation. "Say anything?"

She rolled her eyes. "I know you, boss. I know that because the two of you are 'old friends', that you'll corner Mr. Bates and…and try to make him feel sorry for me…" she reached then for a magazine that was lying on her desk and rolled it up, before lifting it in a somewhat "threatening" gesture. "So you better not! Or else!"

Robert looked at the magazine she held…and took one of the envelopes he had collected from the company postbox, and raised it as if to counter her attack.

Anna stared at him, then her eyes danced to his envelope, before looking back at his face. He lifted the envelope even higher, fully prepared to defend himself.

…And Anna burst out laughing.

Robert couldn't help but chuckle too; it was good to hear Anna laugh. She deserved to be happy, truly.

Anna continued laughing, dropping her magazine and ignoring the looks that some people were now giving them. Robert laughed as well, and the two of them were so lost in the moment, that they didn't realize someone had approached them.

"What's so funny?"

Anna suddenly sat up straight and stared at the very man they had just been talking about. Her face was pale for a moment…and then began to darken to a bright red. Robert turned to face Bates and put on a pleasant smile. "Oh simply that…Anna told me the most wonderful joke."

"Oh, really?" Bates smiled and turned his gaze towards Anna. "I would like to hear it."

Anna's eyes widened and she turned to Robert for help. Robert, however, was already beginning to back away, leaving the two would-be lovebirds (he hoped) to themselves.

"So…what's the joke then?" he asked, smiling back at her.

"I…I um…" she looked so lost and unsure what to say. However, she was "saved by the bell" when a shrill and all-too-familiar ringtone suddenly filled the air.

"Oh God," Robert groaned, as Bates sighed, before apologizing to Anna and once again answering the phone…and retreating to hallway outside. Robert looked to Anna then, but she only shook her head, before forcing her attention back to her computer screen, and trying to once again resume whatever she had been working on. No wonder the poor woman thought it was hopeless! Really, who could it be that was calling Bates so much?

"We're all set!"

He turned to then to catch Jane's smiling face, and Robert suddenly felt his own skin heat up and darken a bright shade of red. "Set?"

She nodded her head. "I managed to book us the gallery; that one I told you about in Chelsea?"

"Oh! Oh yes, for the party," Robert smiled and swallowed the lump in his throat. "Excellent, excellent."

"I told you it wouldn't be any trouble," she grinned.

"That's right, you did, you did," he took a rather nervous sip of his coffee. "Well…I must say, Jane, I'm impressed."

She beamed at this. "Thank you, sir."

"I mean it; not many people could do what you did in the short amount of time given. And um…you were able to make all the arrangements for food and wine and such?"

She nodded her head. "And the invitations have all been sent and accounting already has the receipts; as I said sir, we're all set."

Robert smiled at this. Perhaps he could relax this Christmas? "Well…splendid! And um…remind me again, where did you hear about this gallery?"

"A friend I know runs it," she explained. "It's not pretentious like some of those places can be. Just a nice simple gallery…with plenty of dark corridors…"

Robert nearly choked on his coffee. "Oh?"

"Yes," she murmured, turning her chair to face him fully…and uncrossing her legs. "And the current exhibit they're showing is on the beauty of the human body…I think you would like it."

He stared at her, and once again felt the urge to loosen his tie and collar. "I um…well…that's wonderful…" he coughed. "I um…perhaps I should pop down there and have a look?"

His eyes widened…as she parted her legs just slightly.

"Oh you should," Jane purred. "You really, really should."

Was she…? With him…?

"I…I um…" Jane continued smiling that dazzling smile, and giggling that sweet, sleigh bell laugh. Robert didn't know what else to say…so he did what any man in a position like him would do—he lifted his coffee mug to hide his burning face, and took a great sip of the burning liquid as he retreated into his office. Oh God, if only it were as easy for his mind to escape her presence.


Three whole days had passed since she had met Mrs. Leech's nephew. Three days of blissful solitude—physically, speaking. That wasn't to say that Mr. Branson—Tom—as she remembered him telling her, wasn't in her thoughts. No, if truth be told, the handsome Irishman had been in her thoughts ever since she had met him, three days ago.

The piece of paper containing his mobile number seemed to be shouting at her, whenever she passed it. At one point she was tempted to rip the thing up and toss it into the still unfrozen pond just outside the cottage. But that would be taking this entire thing to even sillier heights. So instead, she did her best to ignore his note…and her thoughts…and concentrate completely on her writing. And it worked! At least for the first two nights. But by the end of the third day…and in the middle of the third night…Sybil knew she couldn't ignore the man any longer, especially when she was convinced the heating had somehow broken and she could start to see clouds of air escape her mouth from inside the cottage.

With a groan, she crawled out of bed, gasping as her cold feet touched the even colder floor, and limped into the kitchen where the number now resided, grabbing it and retreating back to the bed, diving under the covers with her mobile, and quickly dialed the numbers, while her teeth chattered.

It began ringing. Sybil bit her lip, wondering if this was a good idea. According to her alarm clock, it was half-three in the morning. No doubt she would be waking him from a sound sleep. Oh God, what if there was someone with him? What if he had a girlfriend? Or not even that, what if he, with his roguish good looks and charming smile, had picked some "pretty lass" up at the pub, and they were in the midst of "celebrating" the season, while she was ringing? What if he has a boyfriend? Ugh; Sybil was all for equal rights, but…what a waste!

I should hang up; this is ridiculous. I'll be fine; I'll just throw a jumper over my pajamas, put on some extra thick socks, and wrap every blanket the house has around me—

"Hello?" a sleepy voice answered.

Sybil gasped upon hearing the sound of his voice. "Oh! I…I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

She heard what sounded like shuffling—or rather, what sounded like he was trying to sit up in bed. "Miss Crawley?"

"Y-y-yes…" she stuttered, her teeth still chattering quite a bit. "I…f-forgive me, Mr. B-B-Branson."

"Are you alright? Forgive me, but you sound—"

"Well…it's f-f-f-funny t-that you m-m-mention that," she tried to joke. "Um…t-t-the heat, you see—"

"I'll be right there." And he hung up.

Sybil sat there for a moment, somewhat stunned by the conversation that had just taken place. And then a realization dawned on her. OH GOD, HE'S COMING OVER NOW? She threw the blankets off, and leapt out of the bed once again (or as best as one could, wearing a cast). Grabbing her crutches, she hobbled into the kitchen, scanning the mess she had left there. She immediately filled the sink with as much dish soap and hot water as she could (lukewarm at this point, thanks to the broken heat which was clearly beginning to affect the hot water supply) and pushed all the dirty dishes into it. She then limped around the living room, trying to tidy the table up where a million tea mugs seemed to have suddenly appeared, along with half a dozen empty crisp packets and sweet wrappers. She then rushed across the room to the now cold radiator, where several of her bras were hanging, and threw them, along with other clothing items that had been strewn across her bedroom floor, into a wash basket, then stuffed the basket quickly into the wardrobe.

TIME! She glanced at the clock; 3:37am. The village was ten minutes at most. "My hair!" she gasped, and hobbled into the bathroom, nearly shrieking at the Medusa-like sight that met her in the mirror. She grabbed a brush and quickly tried to tame the brown frizz that was her hair, while at the same time, taking her toothbrush and squeezing a hefty amount of toothpaste onto it, and stuffing that in her mouth. With one hand brushing her hair, the other tried to brush her teeth. Have I gone completely bonkers? She imagined a little feminist popping up on one shoulder, shaking a finger at her for getting so silly over a man coming over. Meanwhile, on her other shoulder, a little seductress in a tight red negligee chastised her for not putting on something more…alluring, for her soon-to-be-arriving-at-any-moment guest.

Just then, a knock was heard. Sybil spat the toothpaste out of her mouth and stiffened as it came again, followed by a concerned, "Miss Crawley?"

"Oh God…" she groaned, putting down her brush and looking at herself one last time in the mirror. Three days ago she had met Mr. Branson…and ironically…she was wearing the exact same outfit she had worn upon their first meeting. "Well…at least he's used to it," she grumbled to herself. She grabbed her crutches and hobbled towards the door.

Oh for heaven's sake! Mr. Branson was standing there, smiling at her when she opened door, and despite the fact that it was the middle of the night and she had woken him up—he looked just as handsome as he had when she had first met him three days ago. Life's not fair.

"Bloody hell, it is freezing!" he gasped upon stepping inside. "It may actually be warmer outside! How long has it been like this?" Sybil couldn't help but admit that the way he looked at her just then melted her heart, ever so slightly. When was the last time a man had looked at her with that sort of concern?

"Stop it right there!" the little feminist voice warned her.

"Not very long…" she answered, her arms moving to hug herself to keep some of the flannel's warmth locked to her body. "I only started to notice it earlier this evening."

Mr. Branson nodded his head. "I brought some tools that I keep in the car; I'll go have a look—" he paused as he noticed her standing there, shivering. "Why don't you get back into bed? I won't be very long…normally it just takes a few solid bangs with a wrench to get it working again," he joked.

"I have a better idea!" the little seductress challenged. "Why don't you invite him to join you in bed? That will definitely keep you warm! Then he can show you what else his wrench can bang—"

"Tea!" Sybil gasped, in her attempts to silence her thoughts from sinking deeper into wickedness. "I um…I think I'll make some tea," she turned to hide the rising pinkness of her cheeks. "Would you care for a cup, Mr. Branson?"

"Tom," he smiled. "And thank you, Miss Crawley; that would be very nice."

She blushed but returned the smile. "You're welcome…and please…call me Sybil."

As the kettle boiled, Mr. Branson—Tom, disappeared into a utility closet just beyond the kitchen's pantry, and she heard him rattle around with his tool box, muttering little things to himself, sometimes in English, other times in a language she could only assume was his native Irish, while pausing every so often to bang his wrench, just as he had said. Just when the kettle started to scream it's announcement that the water was ready, a loud clunking sound could be heard coming from the radiator…and then suddenly, a low whirring sound began to reverberate through all corners of the cottage…and a sigh of relief escaped Sybil's lungs as she felt the first breaths of warm air begin to puff forth into the atmosphere.

"That should do it!" Tom announced from the utility closet.

"Perfect timing!" Sybil answered, removing the kettle from the stove. "How do you take your tea?"

Tom emerged from the closet and Sybil felt her cheeks redden again as she realized that despite the chilly air around the cottage, he had removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves to just past his elbows…offering a rather..."revealing"…glimpse of his muscular biceps. "You don't happen to have Irish Breakfast by any chance?"

Sybil shook her head, ignoring the seductress' squeals at the sight of his muscles, and immediately began throwing open several cupboards above the kitchen sink. "Um…yes, I believe so," she blubbered. "I um…I believe there's a variety pack of Twinings up here; ah yes! Yes, and there's some Irish Breakfast."

"Great," he smiled, rolling his shirt sleeves down and covering his arms once more. She couldn't deny she was a little disappointed. "And no need to add anything to it; straight black for me—like my coffee, actually."

"Would you rather have coffee?"

"No, tea is perfect. I just need something strong enough to keep me awake on the drive back," he joked.

She bit her lip as she placed the tea bags in their respective cups. She decided to have Irish Breakfast as well. "I'm really sorry I woke you—"

"No, don't be," he assured. "I meant what I said when I gave you my number. I'm here to help no matter the time, day or night."

Had Larry ever been that attentive? "Now don't go and compare the two!" the feminist chastised. "You don't think it's fair when men do that with women, so don't you fall prey to that same trap!"

"Still…it was very kind of you," she murmured, handing him his cup. He smiled and took a sip, his face puckering slightly as the dark brew touched his tongue. Still, his smile never truly faded, and he took another sip, clearly appreciating the cup. She had never drunk black tea without at least a little milk. She was fascinated by the sight, and decided to test it, lifting her mug to her own lips and taking a sip.

She immediately began coughing.

Tom couldn't help but chuckle. "Are you alright?" he asked, leaning forward to pat her back.

"Good Lord!" she gasped, putting her mug down. "That's…that's very, very strong!"

He laughed and continued patting her back. "Yeah, my mam won't drink it without a few drops of milk, at least. My da drank his black, though, so I guess it's his fault that I do the same."

She blushed as she realized his hand was still on her back. He seemed to make the same realization and withdrew it, much to her disappointment. It felt nice…and warm…and soothing…

"So my aunt tells me you're a writer?"

She shook her head, quickly coming back to reality. "Hmm? Oh! Oh yes, I um…yes…novels, mainly."

Tom smiled at this and took another sip of his tea. "What sort, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Oh, I've dabbled in several genres," she admitted, blushing a little more.

"Sci-Fi/Fantasy?"

She laughed and shook her head. "No, no, not yet at least," she grinned. "Lately, I've been writing a lot of crime fiction."

"Ah, mystery writer," he grinned. "The next Agatha Christie?"

"Ha! I wish," she laughed with a shake of her head as she guiltily added some milk to her brew. "I've actually hit a bit of writer's block, to be honest. My publisher wants me to do something 'dramatic' and 'shocking' with my next book, but…I've hit a wall on what to do," she shrugged her shoulders. "I'm hoping this time away will help me figure all that out."

He nodded his head and took another sip. "I can relate…I've sort of hit a similar wall."

Sybil's eyes widened at this revelation. "Oh? You write too?"

He chuckled. "Don't get your hopes up; it's nowhere near as exciting as what you do. No, I'm actually working on my doctorate—history and politics," he explained. "I love both subjects so much, and hope one day to perhaps teach them to others, although I know my dissertation sounds duller than paint drying; I have no idea who would want to read it."

Sybil found herself leaning closer, her elbows resting on the kitchen counter and her chin resting atop her hands. "What's it about?"

He chuckled and looked down at the dark liquid in his cup. "The Rise of Socialism in Irish Politics and how it impacted the Irish fight for independence in the early part of the 20th century." Her eyes widened and he couldn't help but laugh. "See? I told you it was dull."

Sybil quickly shook her head. "No! No, it doesn't sound dull at all! It sounds…well, to be honest, it sounds a little intimidating! Just…I can't imagine what it must be like to tackle a subject like that! The research it must require…and the patience!"

He laughed but nodded his head. "Oh, you have no idea," he chuckled. "I've been working on it for four years now; I've joked with my family that when the time comes and I finish the damn thing, they'll have to wheel me across the stage to receive my degree."

It was impossible not to join in his laughter. He had such a wonderful, rich laugh…like a warm blanket that you just wanted to completely enfold you. "And I can think of some other ways he can enfold you…" the seductress teased.

"So…you're still working on it now, then?" she asked, ignoring the little wicked voice.

He nodded his head. "In some ways, I too am on a 'writer's retreat'," he smiled. "I bring my laptop up here whenever I come to stay. It is very peaceful, so I can understand the allure of this place."

She blushed then, and quickly looked down at her cup. And suddenly, before she realized what she was doing, the words tumbled out, "Perhaps…if you would like…I…I could maybe offer some insight, as an outsider…?"

What am I doing? She couldn't believe she had just said that! She was no expert on Irish history or politics! And while she had been very much involved with various progressive causes back in Britain, especially while she was a student, it was hardly the same!

"You'd be willing to read it?"

She looked up at him…and instead of seeing a questioning glance of uncertainty (after all, she was a stranger; they barely knew each other!) she saw flicker of…eagerness?

"You mean that? Really? You want to read my dissertation? Or what I have of it, I mean?"

She blushed, feeling rather humbled by his enthusiasm, but nodded her head. "It's the least I can do for all that you've done in braving the cold and saving me from freezing," she giggled, returning her gaze to her tea once more. But she did glance up and catch his warm, blue-green gaze as she murmured, quite honestly, "besides, it does sound rather fascinating—and I highly doubt it's duller than dry paint."

He chuckled and returned to sipping his tea. "We shall see; you may regret this, though," he teasingly warned.

A part of me already is, she found herself thinking. And it had nothing to do with whether or not she read his work. She realized then that she was allowing herself to…feel. And that despite the fact that both she and Tom Branson were complete strangers, she was already letting the charming Irishman into her heart—something which she wasn't sure had completely healed…or would ever heal.


To be continued...