Fateful Lightning: A New History of the Civil War & Reconstruction by Allen Guelzo (self help books to read TXT) 📕

dropped. By the time they walked back up the hill and along the towpath to Periwinkle’s mooring, Nia was wet and chilled.

***

Jack lay on one of the cosy chairs enjoying the stove’s warmth while Tom made dinner. Chicken was sautéing in a pan with shallots and a wine reduction sauce. Tom chopped mushrooms. Nia was showering and getting warm after the cold and damp walk. She dried herself in the bathroom, applied some subtle mascara and then slipped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel and moved quickly the few feet down the corridor to the bedroom cabin. She closed the door. She made sure the curtains were fully closed as she slipped out of the towel, stepped into lacey lavender panties and matching bra, and then dressed simply in jeans, a white designer T-shirt, and, as she was still cold, an Aran sweater. She checked herself in the cabin’s mirror, nodded to her reflection, then she moved down the narrow corridor from bathroom to kitchen. There, she asked whether she could help, secretly hoping Tom would say no. He suggested she open the bottle of wine, which was a chore she gladly embraced. A bottle of red was on the counter. She opened it with expert ease and poured two generous glasses and went over and hugged Tom.

“Music?” she asked.

“Try the iPad.”

She touched the tablet’s screen and found the music icon. She looked at Tom’s playlists and stopped at the one labelled ‘Phone Songs’. She turned to Tom who was stirring dinner in a large pan. It smelled lovely, she thought.

“You have a playlist of songs about phones?”

“Don’t we all?” Tom asked. “Try it, it’s brilliant.”

Nia shrugged and hit play. ELO’s ‘Telephone Line’ started.

“Classic,” said Tom.

“Clichéd,” said Nia. “But good.”

Tom added a few more coal briquettes to the lounge cabin’s stove. The cabin warmed sufficiently for Nia to pull off her sweater. She leaned against a kitchen cabinet and took a long draw on her wine. Dinner simmered.

“You know, I don’t know this part of Wales at all,” Nia said. “It’s lovely though isn’t it? The view from the bridge in the village, wow. And the hills, and that one with a castle on the top. I’m from the south, Cardiff way. Don’t get back very often but have even done some filming there. Did an episode of Dr Who in Cardiff once. It’s filmed there now.”

“I always liked Dr Who,” Tom attempted to interject.

“Kinda booming now, Welsh TV. Would have loved to have been able to be in some of the recent Welsh dramas,” Nia continued. “But I don’t speak Welsh. Have to speak Welsh as they film in both English and Welsh.” She laughed, “I’m babbling. I’ll stop.”

“No, don’t,” Tom said. “I like it. It’s like music.”

Nia laughed her loud throaty rasp. “No one has ever told me that my voice sounded like music before.”

“Then, nobody’s really listened to you before,” Tom said.

Tom opened another bottle of wine to have with dinner. The small table was set simply, and Tom quickly served the food. Nia took a tasting bite and was immediately impressed with Tom’s culinary skills. They ate and talked. Nia loved how the conversation flowed naturally. She felt free to be her authentic self, not worried about how she appeared, she enjoyed telling her stories or discussing opinions with this sweet man as he genuinely listened to her. It wasn’t the kind of listening, she knew, that a guy may have picked up from a GQ article on how to impress women, but real listening that reflected genuine interest. Nia liked his stories but noticed that he was still guarded about facets of his army career and experience. He was beginning to share more things with her, but she still felt he was only allowing her to peel back one layer of onion skin at a time. As he talked and as he listened, she was finding his charm almost irresistibly attractive. They finished the meal with coffee and whisky.

Nia excused herself and she made her way, a little unsteadily, to the bedroom cabin. She returned to the dining table holding what was obvious to Tom as an exquisitely wrapped book. “Please,” Nia began. “Open it.”

Tom took the book and unwrapped it. It was a first edition of Philip Hoare’s biography of Noel Coward. He noticed that there was a flyleaf inscription: “Tom, who attended Blithe Spirt and revived mine. Love always, Nia.”

“Wow, thanks,” Tom said. “It’s lovely.” He was touched by her inscription.

Nia put her empty glass down on the table and leant back in her chair.

“Time for bed?” she said raising an eyebrow coquettishly.

They quickly and haphazardly cleared the dinner service. Tom tucked Jack into her bed in the lounge cabin and closed the door to the rear cabin. Nia lay back on the bed and stretched her arms over her head. Her hair spilt around her on her pillow.

“Take my clothes off,” she said.

Tom found her self-confidence incredibly attractive.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. They were both tipsy. He climbed on the bed, straddled her, and gently eased her T-shirt over her breasts and then her head. He sat back on his haunches. Her breasts filled the lacy lavender bra lasciviously. He moved down and unfastened her jeans’ button, and unzipped her fly, she arched her back as he pulled the jeans over her bottom and hips, then down and off her legs.

“Another matching bra and panties,” Tom stated. “Damn it, woman, how many knickers do you have?”

Nia giggled and laid there on his narrow bed on his narrowboat. Tom thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever been with. She opened her eyes. What was he waiting for? He pulled his T-shirt over his head.

“I want to imagine you like this always,” Tom said. He slipped out of his jeans and