Chapter 8: Who Are You?

“Get up and get out! Who are you and what are you doing in my bed?” She grabbed a pillow and hit him over the head.

“Your bed? Who are you to tell me to get out? This house belongs to my grandmother, including the bed. I know that I have a right to be here and have the key. So who are you?”

“Grandmother? Just get out. Now! I am renting the room from Beatrice,” she added with more pillow hits.

“Hey! Stop. It’s more my business than yours. Just let me get dressed and I’ll be out of here.”

“The sooner the better.” She tossed the pillow back on the bed.

“If you don’t believe me, just go downstairs and wake my grandmother just so you can have peace of mind, if you must. Or, you could take my word for it, let me leave, and sort everything out in the morning.”

He hopped about, putting on his pants, then slipped his hoodie over his head. It was not fast enough for Rachel. It also did not sit well with her that some man, no matter what relationship he supposedly had with Beatrice, had the key to her room. All she wanted to do was rest and she came home and had to deal with this mess.

His voice was angry and confused, but also somehow familiar, and with a surprising American lilt. “Help me find my other sock,” he grumbled, more awake than before, but still rude.

“Help you? What do you think this is? Who do you think I am? I’m neither your nanny or your maid. Find your own d*mn sock,” Rachel shouted back.

“You do realize, Miss,” he said calmly, trying to look around for it while addressing Rachel at the same time, “that the faster I find that sock, the faster I am out of here?”

“Grandmother?” Rachel wondered to herself, now enlisted in the search for the stranger’s sock. He could be lying. He could be a mad man. He could be here to rob, rape, and kill her. A million thoughts went through her head, none of them grounded in reality or experience.

“Prove yourself. Prove your identity,” she demanded.

“Ok... fine. I guess I have i.d. around here somewhere. Where’s my wallet?”

“Great,” she said sarcastically. “It seems like you’ve misplaced everything except for the key to my room.”

“It was my room before it was yours and I helped grandma convert it to a rentable space. But that’s not important. Just help me and I’ll be out of your hair, Miss.”

“You should not be making demands of me. You know that if you cannot prove your identity, I could call the cops and have you escorted out...”

“Go ahead and call the constables. They should have a good laugh at your expense. My grandma is on the community council and they know her and me and have since before I was born. You would be the one having to prove identity in the wee hours of the morning. I bet you wouldn’t like that too much, would you?”

“Look, I’m tired. I just want to go to bed. Can’t we find a way to coexist until you find all your stuff and leave?”

“Agreed,” he said, more relaxed and a little less abrupt than before.

They looked under the bed, the sheets, and everywhere on the floor and around the sparse furniture. As they searched together on this united sock search mission, she couldn’t get over how gorgeous he was. His thick, coiled, almost curly hair and cafe au lait complexion revealed that he might be biracial. His tall, muscular build, perfect for playing rugby or rowing crew, made him very easy on the eyes.

“Wait a minute,” his voice breaking up her reverie. “I think I found...something.”

It was a pair of her gray knit, patterned tights that must have slipped behind the dresser while she was unpacking and putting her things away.

“Those are mine,” she said, quickly moving to rescue them from him with a quick snatch.

For the first time she caught him almost cracking a smile.

“I’ll check the bathroom,” brushing past her abruptly. He must have just had a shower before she arrived. She could smell the scent of sandalwood, one of the guest soap selections, coming from him. She had not noticed it earlier. It was faint but powerfully enticing.

She was still tired from her shift and looked forward to sleeping herself. Obviously, the young man was having an effect on her, one week after being a runaway bride. No matter what she did or how she tried to find the sock and get him out of the room, she just could not place him, however. There was something about him and his voice that stuck with her.

“The plane,” she exclaimed. “We sat next to each other on the plane from the States.”

He was underwhelmed. “Ok? Any luck with the sock or the wallet?”

“Don’t you remember?” She obviously had not made an impact of any sort on him.

“Not really, but I travel a lot, so that is not saying much...now where did I take them off...are you sure you looked under the bed? I think I’ll check one more time.”

“Just think, all of this effort for a sock.”

“That sock has precious, sentimental value...just look for it, please.”

Once again Rachel had managed to get on his bad side. She promised herself not to say anything further and to just look for the sock, then be free of this man. Should she ask for his key? Or was that even within her rights or her role as one of his grandmother’s tenants?

“Here’s the wallet. I must have put it in my shoes. And I believe, yes, the sock is pushed down to the toe of the left shoe. Wonderful. Ok. Thanks for your help. Sorry about the inconvenience.” He put on his leather jacket and easily left her without so much as a goodbye.