4. Chapter Four

Rose

I can't believe what I'm hearing. This man, with his foot-long beard and strange tale of being put to sleep by a magical amulet, claims I'm his true love.

It's insane, of course. I've only known him for an hour. While he seems kind and charming, I'm not in the market for a man—magical or otherwise. I came here to get away from people, not to hook up.

And yet, there's something about him that draws me in. Maybe it's the way he looks at me, his eyes filled with a mixture of wonder and recognition. Or maybe it's the way he made me laugh, despite the bizarre situation we've found ourselves in.

Whatever it is, my walls soften and I find myself enjoying his company rather than wishing he would leave.

"I imagine you're hungry. Would you like some tea and cookies? I don't have much else, I was planning to go shopping tomorrow." I stand to rummage in the cupboards to see if there's anything else I can offer the hundred-year-old man who's been sleeping under my roof since I moved in.

Rip rises abruptly from where he was sitting in a chair, "I'll light the fire in the stove," he offers helpfully.

He's going to light a fire? How gallant. And old-fashioned.

I laugh and gesture toward the small machine on the counter.

"We won't need to use the stove. This is a microwave," I explain.

He peers at the machine in fascination, like a curious toddler at an exotic zoo exhibit. He's so adorably baffled by it that I can't help but giggle at his delight.

He sticks his shaggy head in the small box, turning it this way and that as if he can figure out the baffling mechanism of microwaves heating matter.

After placing a cup of water in the machine, I push a few buttons and motion for him to watch the turntable spin. "It heats things up quickly."

"How does it work?"

"Who knows?" I shrug. "Who knows how electricity works, yet it powers everything we use."

"Electricity? I've heard of it." He nods knowingly.

I pull out my cellphone, which has capriciously decided to connect to the Wi-Fi, as opposed to when I thought I needed it to call the police an hour ago. A quick Google search tells me less than two percent of homes in the U.S. were electrified when he went to sleep.

I slip my phone into my pocket, tickled to realize Rip was too busy sticking his head in the microwave to notice the magic cellphone I own that has all the information in the history of the world inside its unassuming rose-gold case.

Unless I want his handsome head to explode, he's not getting a look at this bad boy for a couple of days.

When the microwave dings, I plop the tea bag in the water. As I hand him the cup, our fingers brush, sending an electric spark sizzling along my synapses. I quickly step back, suppressing a shiver from the unexpected impact of the innocent contact.

"Here you go," I say lightly, hoping he doesn't notice the blush stealing across my face.

I moved out here to the middle of nowhere to be alone. All of a sudden, I have a roommate. Granted, he's a tan, muscular, handsome one who was willing to stoke the fireplace to make hot water for tea. But he's an interloper, nonetheless.

Or am I the interloper? It appears he owned this house a hundred years ago and somehow was magically hidden away in the tiny secret room for all these years.

The realtor mentioned something about a problem with the title search years ago. I think she said it was back in the 1930s. At some point, the authorities must have seized this place for back taxes and sold it.

"Uh," I say, as we sit at the table, our mugs in our hands, "we should probably discuss the… sleeping arrangements."