I was blown-away by the overwhelming support the first installment of this story received, so I do hope you enjoy the second. Writing these two in this modern setting is a new compulsion, and one I am enjoying immensely. Thank you for your reviews, private messages, and notes on tumblr. They were all read and cherished by this thankful writer.

To my partners in crime, miscreant rose and Cls2011, I send huge hugs and heaps of gratitude. To odiinsons, who prompted me to write this tale, I thank you for planting as seed that has sprouted into this. To KP, my dear, dear friend, thank you again for your constant support and great chats. To ladonnaingenua who offered fantastic edits/feedback, I thank you, dear one.

Downton Abbey and its characters are the property of Julian Fellowes, and I thank him for the privilege of being able to play with such incredible characters by picking them up, changing their clothes, and dropping them into new settings and scenarios. With that, I shall leave you to Chapter 2.


What in God's name had she been thinking?

Mary shakes her head at her own decision, trying to convince herself to simply pick up the phone and call a cab. What had possessed her to sit around a foreign apartment, nursing another cup of coffee on a sofa all too comfortable?

She skirts around the answer, knowing it won't do her any credit.

Yet she continues to sit, to sip her drink, to nuzzle into softened black leather that molds to her shape like a glove. It smells like his bed, she realizes—musky, earthy with a hint of spice that tickles something inside she would rather not identify. Warmth spreads through her like spiked cider, the smell of him more intoxicating than she should allow it to be. How tempting it is to trade in her hurt for a reckless dalliance with dark eyes, to numb her wounds in the arms of one she could simply refuse to let in.

A distraction, she tells herself. He would be nothing more than a temporary distraction.

But distractions can get out of hand, complicated, and her life is messy enough as it is. Wounds are still too raw to consider someone else, especially a stranger who lugged her into his flat just hours prior.

A stranger named Charles Blake.

Murky images of her time in the bar push on eye sockets still tender, and she remembers him staring down a faceless man she is certain had been taller than he. Why take such a risk, she wonders, for her—a woman he didn't know? God, he could have easily ended up with a broken nose, a blackened eye, and for what? To protect her honor when she had tossed what dignity she had left aside with an abandon that made her ill?

She pushes thoughts of yesterday aside with force, not recognizing herself in actions borne out of hot desperation. Had she really gone to his town home? On the day of his wedding?

Had she actually begged him to reconsider?

Her head swells at the thoughts of him, the man she always assumed would be hers, the one she was supposed to have married. Her stomach cramps as his face clarifies, the stupor on his features as she confessed her feelings cutting her with clean precision. He had moved on, had found someone who had made him happy, he told her. He wanted the same thing for her, and truly hoped she could find a man to love her in the manner that she deserved.

She remembers how the muscles in her face twitched as she fought to hold them steady, how her feet went numb as breathing became a conscious act of will. The trickle of hope she had harbored dried up at that moment, and she had backed away without a word, empty to the point of pain, cold in places she never knew existed.

Dear God, she is going to be sick.

She grabs the bucket Charles left her, dry heaving into its confines until her ribs are sore. Breath comes in snatches, then gulps, and she wipes away tears falling for more than one reason. Damn. She didn't want to do this.

Cries turn to sobs, and she drops the pail, clutching a pillow to her chest in lieu of arms to hold her. How empty her life has become, how bland her existence. Why had she ever given a man such power over her happiness?

She promises herself she will not make the same mistake again.

Her nose is running, her cheeks blotchy, and she stands to locate some tissue, trying to find her way around a place still unknown. The mess of her life is reflected in the state of her face, and she gazes into the eyes of a woman she no longer wants to be.

Where has she gone, the girl who relished a challenged, who loved a good argument? She has retreated into a shell of her own creation, one she believed to be stronger than reality had proven, its fragile nature rendering her more vulnerable than she had anticipated. Pain has left her limping, disappointment rendering her unsure.

Her legs tremble, fingers chilling as she continues to stare at her own inferiority. This is ridiculous. If he can move on, so can she.

Charles was right. She will get over this man who has left her in such a state. She has decided.

It is time.

The door clicks indicating his return, and she splashes water onto her face quickly, attempting to wipe away evidence of her misery. It is futile, she realizes, nearly laughing at her own absurdity as she remembers the state in which he found her last night. Surely this is preferable to being passed out cold in the car of a stranger.

Although, she observes wryly, she felt no pain when she had been unconscious. There is something to be said for that.

"Mary," Charles summons softly, making her breath catch for reasons unknown. "Are you alright?"

She rounds the corner, plastering a smile on her face as she rakes fingers though unruly hair.

"I'm fine," she lies, swallowing down a vile aftertaste that nearly makes her wretch again.

"No, you're not," he observes, giving her the look of an older brother who has caught her rifling through his things.

"Are you calling me a liar?" she questions, crossing arms in front of her protectively.

"No," he returns. "I'm calling you a bad liar."

Her stomach cinches.

"You're rather sure of yourself, aren't you?" she shoots back, not liking how well he reads her, uncomfortable by the fact that his opinion already matters.

"Hardly," he returns with a shrug. "But you're a mess, whether your pride will allow you to admit it or not. Now why don't you sit down and let me get you something to eat?"

"I don't appreciate being called a mess," she retorts, hating the fact his description is all too accurate.

"Well, you have improved since last night," he states. "I'll give you that."

Hot prickles tease their way up her neck.

"You've never been mistaken for Prince Charming, have you?" she observes, eliciting a deep chuckle that irritates her even further.

"No," he affirms with a grin. "I can't say that they have. I'm too much of a mess, myself." Hands slide into the pockets of his running pants, and he tosses her a look she can't quite interpret. "Now how about that breakfast?"

Her stomach churns, her need for food outweighing everything else.

"Nothing too adventurous," she insists. "I'm not certain I can handle it."

He grins, mussing his own hair in a gesture she somehow finds reassuring.

"I'll stick to scrambled eggs and toast," he assures her. "Unless something else sounds more appealing."

"No," she returns. "Eggs and toast sound fine."

He pads into the small kitchen, picking up the empty coffee post and holding it up in her direction accusatorily. She shrugs, making him shake his head again, only this time he laughs. The sound is infectious, spilling into her rib cage prompting her to giggle in spite of herself. He rinses out the carafe in preparation to brew reinforcements, and she sits on a stool, dangling her empty mug from a long finger in a wordless demand.

"You're not greedy, or anything," he observes, pouring more than the allotted amount of grounds into the basket.

"Horribly," she admits, begrudgingly enjoying the display of teeth that meet her confession. "And self-absorbed, snobbish, and, oh yes—I evidently don't have a heart." She sets down the ceramic cup, twirling her finger around its edge. "At least that's what most people who know me will tell you."

"Well, at least you're not aloof," he states, raising dark brows exaggeratedly in her direction.

"Give me few minutes," she sighs. "I'm certain I can easily conjure up that character trait, as well."

The smell of coffee warms her lungs, somewhat easing the residual ache in her head.

"As long as you stay away from brash, egotistical, and stubborn," he commands, taking a carton of eggs from the refrigerator. "I can't have you intruding on my list of accolades."

"I'm afraid I have the market cornered on stubborn," she muses. Was there no way to make the coffee brew faster?

"Then we could be in serious trouble," he smiles, pulling out a small whisk. "You know what they say about the meeting of two brick walls."

"No," she tosses back. "What do they say?"

He stops mid-stride, holding a small skillet in the air as he ponders.

"You know, I'm not sure," he admits ruefully. "But it can't be good."

She chuckles again, ignoring the half-hearted protest in her temples, staring at his hands as he whips the eggs into a froth.

"I suppose you're right," she expounds. "It might prove to be a complete catastrophe. Although two brick walls could construct quite a fortress, I suppose."

"I hadn't thought of it that way," he admits, the lines of his face creased in thought. "Sounds rather impenetrable."

"Penetration is not always desirable, you know," she observes, realizing her faux pas the moment it slips from her tongue. "I'm sorry—I didn't mean—"

"It's alright," he laughs, as amused by the blush staining her cheeks as he is by her comment. "We are both adults. At least, I hope we are."

"Sometimes I wonder," she breathes, rubbing her forehead as her past attempts to intrude.

He pours his concoction into the skillet, grabbing a wooden spoon as he studies her with blatant interest.

"Are you referring to me or to yourself?" he inquires, catching her off-guard. "When it comes to being childish."

"Me, of course," she answers promptly. "I'm the one sitting miserably hung-over while you are up getting your exercise and fixing breakfast."

"Signs of maturity, indeed," he returns, rolling his eyes in a gesture that makes her curious. "Believe me—I handled things with no more maturity than you when Freda walked out on me. Rejection is devastating. Anyone who tells you otherwise is not to be trusted."

"So are you to be trusted?"

Her question makes him pause yet again, and for a moment the air between them thickens.

"That's debatable," he returns slowly. "But I won't lie to you."

Her heart thuds against her throat.

"You make everything sound so final," she ponders softly, staring into her empty mug.

"She is engaged to the divorce lawyer," he states flatly. "And your ex is now married to someone else. It is final. The sooner you accept that, the better."

"I have accepted it," she insists as a surge of anger wells up from points unknown. "I just don't like it."

"You're not required to like it," he continues, unfazed by the flash of fire in her eyes. "Just don't let it control you."

"I control my own life, thank you," she huffs, sitting up taller, daring him to challenge her assertion.

"Do you?" he questions as he pops two pieces of bread into the toaster. "Do you really?"

Heat fuels her insides as frustration mixes with embarrassment to form a cocktail she is not yet willing to drink.

"God, you're infuriating," she asserts. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"My mother," he shrugs, taking two plates from a shelf. "Continually. Remind me to add that to my list of endorsements, if you don't mind."

"Don't forget to include pig-headed while you're at it," she throws back.

"I believe that is a synonym for stubborn," he muses. "But it is more colorful. My mother would approve."

Damn-he already adores the spark of ire in her gaze for which he is clearly the designated target. This is not good.

"Somehow I feel the need to console her right now," she observes, both irritated and amused by the smirk he is wearing.

"I'm sure she'd appreciate that," he retorts, scooping eggs onto dishes. "Shall I give you her number?"

"Yes. The sooner the better."

The toaster dings on cue, and he quickly fetches both slices, laying her plate before her in a gesture of truce that smells all too tempting.

"Bribing me with food?" she questions, unwillingly admiring dimples unleashed. "Sorry. The phone call to your mother is now inevitable."

"Perhaps I'll get off with a warning this time," he quips, tossing her a grin before he moves to sit beside her on the accompanying stool. "If she grounds me, I'll never let you hear the end of it."

"You forgot the coffee," she muses, containing a laugh as he rolls his eyes and gets up again.

"Glad to be of service, my lady," he teases, filling her mug just a bit too full as her eyes narrow in his direction.

The eggs are good, better than she will admit, and she devours them, her body absorbing the nourishment at a rate she can feel.

"When did you last eat?" he questions, making her fork pause on its journey to her mouth.

His inquiry hits home, and she searches her mind for an answer.

"Yesterday morning, I think," she admits sheepishly, remembering how unbalanced her stomach had been throughout the day.

"No wonder you were so drunk," he muses. "You had nothing left inside to fortify you."

The stark truth of his observation makes her shiver, and her fork clatters on to her plate.

"God, I'm sorry."

His apology is unexpected, the tenderness in his gaze unsettling at best.

"Here you are grieving, and I am doing nothing but goading you. I deserve to be grounded for this."

His self-reprobation triggers something inside, and she touches his arm unconsciously.

"You've already admitted to not being Prince Charming," she manages, unprepared for this gesture of kindness when her defenses are non-existent.

"I think I'd be lucky to earn the status of toad at the moment," he states, her touch rattling nerves he had prayed would remain forever dormant.

For a moment, she sees it. A cavern of vulnerability and loss just there in tilt of his head, peaking through the twitch of his mouth, shaded in the creases of his eyes.

"At least you haven't been downgraded to ogre," she offers, the texture of her voice commanding his attention as she removes her hand.

"Give me a few minutes," he shrugs. "That seems to be my designated role in life."

"I suppose that would make me the Ice Queen," she muses, her statement greeted by an unanticipated chuckle.

"I thought it was the Snow Queen?" he puts forth. "Or has my knowledge of children's literature failed me?"

"I left snow behind years ago," she asserts. "At least according to the men left frozen in my wake."

"Hmm," he returns. "Perhaps you need an ogre in your life. To serve as a body guard, I mean."

"For me, or for the men I encounter?" she inquires with a half-grin.

"I don't know," he admits. "You tell me."

"So ice doesn't intimidate you?"

"I told you earlier," he reminds her. "I like the cold. It stimulates me."

Her breath catches in her neck.

"How big is your club?" she dares, a sense of halting warmth beginning to skitter down her legs. "I ask strictly for defensive purposes, you understand."

"Strictly," he shoots back, pupils darkening as he picks up his mug. "And it's big enough for the job, I assure you. Even for dealings with an Ice Queen."

She feels heat in places she shouldn't.

"Bold words, indeed," she notes with a raised brow, crossing her legs. "I'm not sure if you're brave or just incredibly foolish,"

"Foolish, brash, and pig-headed," he insists, watching her too closely. "Ogre—remember?"

"And I thought you just needed a shower," she dares, laughing as he nearly spews out his coffee.

He coughs as hot liquid goes down the wrong pipe, and she finally pounds his back, unable to wipe the smile from her face as he stares at her incredulously.

"Do you always attempt to kill men who cook for you?" he questions, daring another small sip to soothe his throat.

"Only the ogres who apply to be my body guard," she shrugs. "A test of loyalty, you understand."

He shakes his head at her, more curious than he should be about what makes this woman tick.

"Perhaps I should build that fortress," he states partially to himself. "For my own protection."

Words meant in jest hit with a force she knows he never intended.

"I did warn you, you know," she reminds him with a tilt of her head. Eyes bat away any visible disturbance, and she takes him in, wondering just what the hell they were playing at.

"That you did," he acknowledges willingly. He then extends his mug towards her, and she raises hers in tandem.

"What are we toasting this time?"

"Being impenetrable," he states, creasing his brow towards hers. "Unless you have something better to offer."

Her hand shakes internally, and she wonders not for the first time exactly what she does have to offer anyone. Her stomach hollows as she stares inside herself.

The answer is too terrifying to consider.

"No," she answers, her voice dropping notably. "Nothing at all, I'm afraid."

Their mugs meet in a wordless contract, eyes locking in an unacknowledged challenge they both feel but immediately push aside.

"You may regret this, you know," she says, dropping her gaze as things are suddenly too personal.

His smirk returns, and he grazes fingers through dark hair, disheveling it further, making him disturbingly attractive.

"I have a feeling we both will," he admits, sealing their bargain with a wink and a sip. "Cheers."


Your feedback is most welcome! Have a lovely weekend. :)