Emma Europa

By Alleona Marie

"After the success of Emma's 6th psychological thriller novel, she impulsively signs a contract where she needs to write a romance story within three months. But Emma detests everything about romance; she knows nothing about romance. This prompts her to fly to England for a solo writing retreat, hoping to find inspiration for her story. Enters R

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ukiyoto Publishing
• Release date: Dec 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9789361729768

Book preview

Emma: The Willing Marionette

A

re you here for the lodging?" The deep voice reaches my ears, hurls me away from my soul-sucking mind, and then rams me right back to the ever-tragic reality.

I blink and blink, my sight refocusing on what's in front of me.

A man.

I tilt my head up, our eyes connect, and I can just imagine heaven and hell sighing. His pair of disarming ocean-blue eyes stares directly at me with undivided attention. Like I'm the only person in the entire universe worthy to gaze upon, like I'm a treasure—something important and valuable.

Are you? His warm breath dwindles near my forehead, the accent darting straight to my stomach, skillfully rearranging my organs without my permission.

No.

No?

I mean, yes. I clear my throat. I saw the post sign when I was passing by, I say, angling my head to my right and pointing my finger to where the faded Breakfast & Bed sign perches beside a teal-colored mailbox. I was wondering if there's an available room. Are you the owner? I ask, stepping back and allowing my eyes to do a full scan of his entirety. Warmth seeps in through me. Messy hair, no, sexy hair with subtle curls, bare feet, casual stance. He's wearing loose-fitting, cream-colored long sleeves with an alluring open neck.

I am. The porter, doorman, the page, that's me, he answers, smiling, dimples showing.

A laugh bubbles out of me. Of course, he's dimpled. God forbid this person came out of this world like a normal-looking, very average human instead of resembling an actual angel. God forbid indeed.

Is something amiss?

Yes. Treacherously amiss. But how am I going to justify it logically, or at least half-decently, to this man that I've never been this disoriented in my entire life just by someone's face until now? Aren't innkeepers supposed to be old, and stout, someone who has a questionable collection of framed animal skins. Not...this. Not a man with an ensemble of features people will be interested in reading about, someone a reader would spend hundreds of pages with, someone who looks straight out of a writer's dream.

I clear my throat again, Can I make one for now? A reservation, I mean.

He places his hand on the back of his neck, rubbing it back and forth. Look at that divine proportion. A golden ratio. He's so breathtaking, yet unpretentious, it's a wonder I'm still breathing. I'm so sorry, but you need to make a reservation first. We aren't—

We? I interject without a thought. My eyes trail down to his left hand. Is he married?

He looks at me with slightly squinted eyes, his mouth cracking a lopsided smile, —aren't accepting walk-ins at the moment. You need to book an online reservation first, he continues. His voice is so deep. Delinquently deep. Every time he speaks, my mouth slightly parts as if to swallow his words. This is madness.

Oh, right. Okay, I say, nodding and squaring my shoulder. Do you...

His eyes perk up, yes?

I press my lips tight. What am I trying to achieve here? He declined; ergo, I need to walk away. Only, my warped gut shackles my ankle in place—wanting something different.

If you want, there's another— his next words fade in the air as his hand darts up to his cheek. He wipes something off of his skin at the same time a raindrop graces my forehead.

Great.

He eyes the side pockets of my dress. I don't suppose you're carrying an umbrella inside those tiny pockets, innit? he says in a light tone.

I purse my lips and look to my left, gazing at the little cottages and cabins scattered across the village. I've passed a pub, a bakery right beside a post office, and this retro-looking cafe earlier. If I retrace my steps fast, I'll reach either of the three in two minutes. I can't save my clothes, but my cell phone will surely survive.

I turn to the man, open my mouth, then shut it again. I step away, ready to dash out, but a hand clamps around my wrist. I stiffen, my breathing ceases, and the world is now in slow motion.

He’s touching me. He’s touching my skin. Why is he touching me?

I stare at him as his fingers slowly start to slide down to my palm, and down, down, down the area connecting my palm with my fingers, until he's directly holding my hand. His ring finger skates between mine, then the rest follows; his and mine intertwining, caressing, like it's the most natural thing. How is it possible for his hand to fit perfectly with mine, as if we're designed to hold each other for the rest of our lives, when we're nothing but strangers?

I compose my face and raise my brow, what are you doing? I ask, trying to sound sharp despite my throbbing heart.

He wiggles our hands playfully and flashes me a crooked smile. Hurry.

What?

You’ll get soaked. He puts his other hand over my head, shielding me from the severing rain. He taps his feet. Drops of rain land on his lashes and he blinks them away.

And so? I look back at his mesmerizing eyes, and suddenly it feels like I just committed a crime for looking away. Great, now he has me acting so juvenile.

He shakes his head, still smiling, and not answering my question. Then he unceremoniously pulls me behind him, leading us forward with wide strides and hurried steps. His legs are so long that he devours the distance in just a few steps, while I struggle and lag behind him.

I blink at his back.

Oh, kidnapping on a broad day. Okay. Fun.

Then he stops, drops his hold, and opens the door. Welcome to The Oasis. Come in. He steps to his side, waves his hand toward the entryway, and motions for me to enter. After you.

But— My words fade into oblivion as my eyes devour my surroundings. I step further inside, my shoes clanking against the honey-colored hardwood floor. I put my palm up and shield my eyes. It's so...bright, so wide and open, the abundant light flow assaulting me from all angles. Assaulting my senses.

But it doesn't make sense. This place doesn't make sense. It's drizzling, and gray, and biting cold outside. But here... It's different. As if we're existing in a parallel dimension, an enclave—charged, toasty, and warm. Rustic, high roof—beamed ceilings and cedar shakes, floor-to-ceiling glass walls, vines snaking around the open oak shelves, easy-going textiles. A crowd of plants and flowers covers the entirety of the place like an indoor arboretum—earthy, comfortable, and whimsical.

Stay here until the rain stops, he says, closing the door behind him and then walking toward me.

He's just going to let a stranger in? What happened to the online reservation thing?

May I help you with anything? He ruffles his hair messily, dabbles of tiny rainwater splash around. His soft curls soften even more when wet, almost gone. He's disheveled. In an attractive way. You're a little wet. Towel? A change of clothes?

Already trying to get me naked? At least offer me some wine first, I say, straightening my damp dress sticking to my skin. I eye the vintage-looking, taupe couch. My feet are dying. Will he appreciate me messing up his couch?

He chuckles, flashing me a sunny smile. It's so pretty. I want to slash my retina with my bare hand.

River James.

Mr. James, I say, and the corner of his mouth tilts upward, his eyes sparkle, and his entire face brightens—so full of life.

He steps inside my bubble, bends forward, and locks his gaze with me. His mop of hair sweeps across his forehead. Just River, he says, and my breath hitches. My heart races really fast. Is this normal? I'm sure this is not normal. Can I hold this man accountable if this leads to heart disease? Fuck. I can't breathe. He's violating my personal space, my entire system, and my breathing ability has never been this bad.

And his name...

His name just became my favorite noun...

I clear my throat, easing my breathing back to an acceptable pace. I'm—

Truly beautiful, he says, his hooded eyes drinking me up unabashedly, then he shakes his head. Blimey. Did I say that out loud? He smiles flirtily, a glint in his eyes. The way he's looking at me, his entire body fully facing me, his attention aimed at me, it's making it hard to turn away. And he's really pretty to look at. But the eye contact is too much, my legs are turning mushy. This is deranged.

Emma Hepburn. I hold out my hand, and he immediately reaches for it. His grip is firm and soft and warm, all at once. The kind of hand you'd want to interlace yours with. It's so pale against my skin, and the mere physical contact burns me, almost painful. I want him to run his warm hand all over my perpetually cold body. Like not in a funny way. I bite the inside of my cheeks, dissuading the repulsive, ill urges away.

I’m losing my mind.

I lean closer, like I'm under a spell and his body is a strapping magnetic field luring me in. I squint at his left iris and gasp. It's speckled with a green tint in some parts of it, like the omniscient creator poetically spluttered them herself. My tongue pushes my right cheek as I recall what it's called having two different eye colors. I know the word but I can't remember it now.

Emma Hepburn, he says slowly, like his tongue is savoring it letter by letter, his eyes lingering on my mouth. I don't think you should consume wine this early. May I offer you tea?

I don't drink tea. Sure, I say, then I put distance between us. The last thing I want to happen right now is for my brain to start forming stanzas of poetry, even possibly a book longer than the Old Testament, just about his two-toned eyes alone.

He leads me further inside his threshold, toward a room caged in glass under the loft. He enters the room, it's the kitchen, and I trail behind him. My eyes sweep from left to right. The kitchen privileges woods, soothing tones of sea-foam, a dash of teal, bohemian, and of course, warmth. Shopping cloth bags hanging near the door, glass jars and containers with wooden lids, a tidy island, no plastic in sight. A kitchen with its own personality.

River pulls a wooden high chair positioned in front of a rectangular, teal double-tiered wooden table; a vase with fresh chamomile sits at the center. He pats the seat and motions for me to take it.

I plop myself down on the chair and my feet scream in commemoration. I lean back and fold my arms across my chest.

How do you like your tea?

I look up at him, tucking the corner of my mouth between my teeth. Hot? I say, and he chuckles. His laugh warms my belly and my cheeks. What's funny?

Nothing, he says in an amused tone, smiling.

I purse my lips. I don't drink tea, okay? My body reacts badly to caffeine. My body reacts badly to gluten, too. Honestly, it reacts badly to everything. Snob, I sneer, and the bastard actually grins.

He turns his back to me and pulls a white movable tray on the far left of the kitchen. Then he walks toward a wooden cabinet, retreating a Chinese porcelain teapot, matching two teacups and saucers, a spoon tray, sugar bowl, cake plates, a fancy tea caddy, a kettle, and then places them delicately on the tray. With the tray in tow, he glides to the opposite side of the table.

Is the queen visiting you?

Ha ha, he mutters flatly, covering the table with a pastel linen tablecloth and then arranging the Chinas, not glancing in my direction, completely immersed in what he's doing. The light dances in his hair, creating a halo-like shape. Every time he moves, the light seems to follow him, flirting with him, caressing his arms, his face, making his eyes shimmer. I stare at him, getting lost in the sight. So pretty. He looks like an angel, almost ethereal. Almost blinding. God, I want to immortalize this man through pages.

I swallow, darting my eyes away from him and taking the sight in front of me. Am I supposed to bow or something? This looks intense. What I call tea is splashing hot water over an unassuming tea bag. Very American. Very me.

River takes the seat across from me, the chair squeaking against the floor. He holds the kettle up, then pours it into the teapot. I'm going to take it as my life's duty to make you fall in love with tea, he says, swirling the teapot a little, and then pouring the used hot water into the extra bowl beside him. His movements are so dainty, like an art. I can't look away. He puts tea leaves into the pot infuser and then pours hot water on them. He puts the lid on the pot. Now we leave it to brew. So, where are you from?

You lured me inside your house to interrogate me?

Maybe, he says, winking. He lifts the teapot, then pours it delicately into the cups. The aroma of refreshing infusion with a slightly savory flavor dances around us. Should I take a guess?

What made you think I'm not from here?

He shrugs. It's a small village. Everyone knows everyone. And I'd be a total moron to miss someone like you.

I raise my eyebrow, someone what?

He brings his teacup to his mouth, never abandoning my eyes. He sips, and all I can focus on is the way his throat attractively moves every time he swallows and gulps. Beautiful. And remarkable.

I put my elbow on the table, the tips of my both hands touching together, and then I lean closer, abandoning all the table manners my mother made me painstakingly learn when I was a child. Yet you still rejected me.

He chuckles, deep and a little hoarse, then he mirrors my action and leans closer. I'm sorry about that.

Do you know any nearby hotel or inn? Preferably ones that aren't as painstakingly exclusive as yours, and don't require a reservation.

He smiles sheepishly. There's a new inn just a few kilometers away from here owned by a newlywed couple. Lovely couple, by the way. I was seconds away from referring them to you when the rain started pouring. They don't require a reservation and have far greater service than here. I'll give you their location later.

Hold on. You're driving away a prospective customer toward your competition? Shouldn't you be, I don't know, worrying about your own business first?

The Oasis no longer operates full time since last month.

Don't tell me it stopped operating full-time when they opened theirs?

He nods nonchalantly, and I grimace. We look out for each other as much as we can. We're all like a family here.

You must be rich.

I'm not. But I do have another job, he says. Are you here for a holiday?

You really think I'm not from here?

I don't think your sleek hair, black-on-black wardrobe, will help you blend in with the locals. You stand out too much.

The right corner of my mouth curves upward without humor. Too much?

He chuckles. Please don’t take things negatively. I didn't mean it in a bad way.

I'm not trying to blend in. With your...primitive town folks. I'm not planning on giving up my nationality to be the next Queen of England anytime soon either. But I also don't want to come off with an annoying, tourist-much-vibe. And only black clothes can aid it.

Are you here for a holiday or something?

"I'm here for the or something."

Come on.

Work.

At least try not to be so descriptive, he says in a teasing tone. What do you do for a living?

Let's see. Lie a lot? Manipulate people? Ruin lives? What if I don't have a job?

It's just a job. I’m not asking you to marry me.

You're not planning to?

He laughs, shaking his head. Your reluctance only makes me more curious. Got illegal business I should be aware of? It's also my duty to keep the village safe from bad people.

You're a policeman?

I'm a surgeon, he says, and it's my turn to laugh. What a twist of fate. A doctor. My eyes land on his sexy hair. That is definitely not the typical neat, doctor sort of way, hair. I'd say he looks more like a poet, artist-type of guy. You?

I write.

Like write, write? Novels and stuff?

Yup. Novels and stuff.

Anything I would know?

Nah, I say, shaking my head.

Try me.

I open my mouth and close it immediately. Is it a good idea or not? It is not. You don't strike me as someone who reads the genre I write.

What genre do you think I read?

Romance?

So it's not romance, he says, nodding to himself.

I don't like romance.

It shows, he says, flashing me a crooked smile. I roll my eyes. You're aware I can always look up your name, right? Technology has been extremely good for a decade or two now...

There's nothing in there, I say in a languid and confident tone. Even if he does find something, it's still fine. When the rain stops, there's no more reason for me to stay any longer. If he's lucky, he'll never see me again. He'll eventually forget everything we've talked about on this particular, rainy day.

He fishes out his cell phone from his pocket, then he hunches, fiddling with his screen. He looks up, stares directly at me, blinking. You write psychological thrillers and you're famous.

My fingers curl as my mouth twists in a grimace at the word famous. I write psychological thriller novels. I'm required to be here for the story I'm working on. Not here specifically. Just somewhere that's not my apartment. My agent suggested a change of scenery. New place, new ideas. Which is his polite way of indirectly saying that my stories are getting boring.

The number of sales stated here is the very opposite of getting boring.

It's about to plummet soon. People get tired easily when things remain the same. They might like my previous books, but if I produce another one with a difficult character, someone hard to relate with, my agent thinks it'll not make it. He said it's not suitable for the long run. Not be profitable. Not good for their business. To cut the story short, I need to write characters with more, what was his word again, ah, humanity. Vulnerability. I need intimacy. Romance.

And you think Bridgecombe will give you all of that?

I hope so.

Why Bridgecombe?

Why not Bridgecombe?

Good point, he says, looking at me with a wide and proud smile. When I was selecting the place I'll be staying for the next three months, my only parameters are far and quiet. I'd be indoors mostly throughout my stay, despite what my agent wants, and the outside situation doesn't really matter. Bridgecombe got it both: far from the metropolis and quiet to death. But what I wasn't expecting is me getting charmed by its unassuming but enticing bits and nooks. The narrow alleys, timbered houses, thatched roofs. It's a wonder tourists aren't flocking in here.

I have a proposal.

You said you're not planning to.

He rolls his eyes, one corner of his mouth curving into a half-smile. I can help you finish your work.

Do you ghostwrite every weekend? What a busy life you're leading, Mr. James.

Stay here.

I raise my eyebrow. What happened to perfect harmony among neighbors and looking out for each other? I ask, and he chuckles.

I'll be your muse, he says, and I look at him pointedly without uttering a word.

Interesting. But nah. I don't do muses. Muses are messy to deal with.

Live with me for a couple of months and I'll show you humanity, vulnerability, intimacy. A romance without the baggage you'll get when you're in an actual relationship.

I tilt my head sideways, cross my arms over my chest, and hold his gaze. I didn't peg you as an anti-romantic. Got issues with actual relationships?

Oh, I don't. I figured you do.

I bite my retort. Does he think he got me all figured out? He thinks he's that clever? Insolent. I place a smile and square my shoulders. What about my husband and our children? Can they stay, too?

Sure, he says with a hint of a simper playing on his lips, his dimples making an appearance once again. Charming. The more fetching and charming things get, the more suspicious one should be. And this man's charm is off the chart.

What makes you qualified for the job?

I have so much love to give. More than enough. Tons to spare. Good for him. The only downside to this is when either one of us falls in love while the other doesn't. Besides that, you have fifty percent succeeding at drawing something out of this arrangement. Informed consent. Spoken like a true doctor. Providing accurate and unbiased information and benefits, but also not forgetting to mention the risks. Impressive.

So, what do you think? Do you need more convincing? Because I can be really, really persuasive if I set my mind to it. He smiles and I hold my breath. There's something in the way he speaks, something in the way he carries himself, that makes me certain no one can resist him. This is bad. I'm not liking the effect he has on me. I can't have him thinking he can easily win me with his easy smiles.

What's in here for you, anyway? What's he trying to gain here? What's his motive?

You.

Liar. You don't even know me.

I'm trying to aid that.

Are you one of those people who think it's their duty to insert themselves into just about anything and everything under the sun?

Are you one of those people who makes an absolute opinion about other people without trying to know them well first? he says in a light tone, raising his brow. You don't have to turn everything negatively.

Really, what do you need from me?

"I have a roof over me, a job I love, and lovely people around me. I'm content with my life. Money is never a problem. A companionship either. But for the sake of arguments, what do you think I could possibly need