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Epic. Kelly Wilson
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“Sorry, madam, Talia and Darius really should mind their manners,” he said to Betty while looking intently at me. He began to walk in our direction and I became acutely aware of how completely breathtaking he was. I must have stopped breathing without realizing it, because as he got close to me he knelt down and whispered, “Breathe,” into my right ear. I gasped at the melodic tone of his English accent, and my gasp was enough to unconsciously start me breathing again.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” I replied.
“Do you think you can stand?”
“I-I’ll try.”
As soon as I tried to stand and put any weight onto my right ankle, a searing pain shot through my body. It was as if I was being poked in my ankle with hot daggers. My incredibly handsome hero seemed to wince in unison with me. Had I squeezed his arm too tightly when the pain hit?
“Well, it looks as though you may have sprained your ankle. May I check it?” As I nodded, he grasped my ankle and pressed gently. His hands were unnaturally cold, ice cold in fact, and moved delicately over my ankle as he investigated.
“Yes, it’s definitely a sprain rather than a break; I don’t feel any bones out of place that would indicate otherwise.”
Good-looking and possibly a doctor, I thought—-although he was much too young to be a doctor.
I looked down at my ankle and saw the swelling start. I groaned in disgust at my unpleasant looking injury.
“How much further do you have to go?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” I responded, turning to look at Betty.
“A few more blocks,” Betty replied. She looked at me with concern. “We’ll have to hail a hackney cab.”
Before I could respond, the man whose name I still did not know interjected.
“Please, madam, allow me to carry your granddaughter to your destination. It’s the least I can do to apologize for the rudeness of the company I keep.”
“My dear boy, I could not allow you to do that,” Betty said, ignoring the granddaughter remark.
“No trouble at all, it would be my pleasure,” and before I could object, Mr. Gorgeous tied his cravat tightly around my ankle to prevent it from swelling any further and proceeded to scoop me up into his arms effortlessly. I may not have weighed two hundred pounds, but I certainly was not light, yet here he was lifting me as though I were a mere bag of groceries.
“Shall we get going?” he inquired.
Betty beamed at the sight of me in the stranger’s arms.
“Yes, love, let’s,” and with that, Betty led the way.
We walked down a few side streets and away from the central throng of the market. I was actually secretly thrilled to be in the arms of this stranger, and the funny thing about it was that I felt attracted to him in a way that I had never been attracted to another man. As we, or rather he, walked, I was able to get a better look at him. With the aid of the bright moonlight, I noticed that his eyes were an incredible shade of blue, deep and inviting, and they shimmered like two sapphires in the glow of the moon. His hair was dark brown, and his skin seemed pale against the definition of his hair and eyes. His features were superbly chiselled and masculine. Beneath my grasp, his arms felt muscular and firm. I closed my eyes and drank in his scent. Vanilla and cinnamon. That could be why I was attracted to him; he reminded me of my favourite tea, chai spice…exotic, yet somehow familiar. As I opened my eyes, I noticed that he was peering intently at me, almost as if reading my soul. At that moment the attraction that I had felt earlier started to become unbearable. I felt an incredible urge to be alone with him, just the two of us, with no inhibitions. He possibly sensed what I was feeling for he strained away from me.
“We’re here,” Betty exclaimed.
I had to force myself to look away from him. In front of me was a brightly lit shop displaying a whimsical sign.
“Angelcakes,” I whispered.
“Yes, my dear girl, Angelcakes.”
It seemed an odd name for a bakery, and I made a mental note to ask Betty why she had named her establishment such a peculiar name, instead of something more fitting like Betty’s Baked Goods or perhaps Camden Bakery.
“You can put me down now, thank you. I should be able to manage.”
“No, I’m fine. I’ll see you to your flat.”
Betty smiled again at us, and proceeded to open the door at the side of the bake shop. There in front of us was the longest staircase I had ever seen, and I wondered whether Mr. Whoever was going to carry me up all those stairs.
“Honestly, I don’t want you to hurt yourself. I’m sure I can manage to hobble up these stairs,” I implored again. For an apparently rather sensitive man he didn’t seem to see how embarrassed I was becoming. My cheeks flushed, and he leaned in once more and whispered, “Relax and just breathe.”
He flashed the most mind-blowing smile and I would have fainted had I not been in his arms. I don’t know how long we had been standing at the bottom of the staircase, gazing at each other, but it must have been a long time because Betty had already ascended to the top. It seemed as though he was hesitating, waiting to be invited in.
“Will the two of you hurry up, please? I still need to get home myself. Come in, my dear boy,” Betty said edgily.
My saviour then eased his way over the threshold and proceeded to ascend the stairs. He did not take his eyes off me the whole way up. When we were at the top, Betty opened yet another door, revealing a beautifully decorated apartment. We followed Betty down a long entryway with big-beamed hardwood floors. The walls of the entryway were painted a delicate shade of blue-grey and decorated with embroidered pictures of flowers. A black and white photo of the London skyline hung above an antique rolltop stationery desk. A stainless steel umbrella rack sat beside the desk, and a framed “Home is where the heart is” sat front and centre on the desk. As we entered the main living space, I thought that I could not have picked a more fitting London apartment for myself. A huge bay window with a cushioned seat dominated the room. To our left was a very comfortable looking loveseat. There was no television, but a modest CD player stood on an antique crate beside the sofa. An odd nook was located to our right, with a double bed complemented by a nightstand and a lamp.
“Sit, Scotia, on the settee; you must be tired,” Betty remarked.
My hero walked me over to the small sofa. As he put me down, a feeling of disappointment welled up inside me.
“My dear boy, we don’t even know your name. I think it’s only fitting that we at least know who we should thank.” Betty’s voice abruptly halted my feeling, which was a good thing because I think I would have started to cry at the prospect of never seeing him again.
“Kellan.”
“Such an old name for a young chap like yourself.”
“Kellan,” I whispered. I liked the sound of his name. He must have liked the way I said it, because he smiled immediately as it rolled off my tongue.
“We should get some ice on that nasty looking ankle of yours,” Kellan announced and he walked into the kitchen. Opening the freezer, he took out a tray of ice cubes, then grabbed a little yellow tea towel that was hanging neatly from a stainless steel, daisy shaped towel hook above the sink and filled it with some ice cubes. He walked back over toward me and ever so gently placed the makeshift ice bag on my ankle. When he took off my shoe, his touch sent an electric current through my body. I gasped. Kellan must have thought that he had hurt me because his brows knit together with regret and he responded with a sincere apology.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No, not at all, though when you touched me, it was as though