#and on a lesser note being guilt ridden when I’m unable to meet with people because I’m trying to be productive but then I’m unable to be

[the-golden-dragoness]

Not crying and being guilt ridden again :))))))

[j-j-ehlby-writes]

Meet Me at the Chalet || day two.

Eventual pairing: Tom Hiddleston x OFC (Jenessee Borosi)

Word count: ~2.1k

Summary (I suck at these): Jenessee goes on a solo vacation after the release of her first novel. She got a little more than she bargained for when she gets snowed in with her biggest celebrity crush.

Warnings:  So much freaking fluff, swearing but blink and you’ll miss it, depressing thoughts (future chapter), mental breakdown (future chapter), Tom being Tom

night one. || day one. || day two. || day three. ||

“Stop eating the carrot! We need a nose!” I scolded Tom, shaping the mound in front of me. He took another bite to spite me before stuffing it into the head of our snowman.

This morning, Tom was in a pleasant mood. He decided to knock on my door, get on his knees and sing “Do You Want to Build a Snowman?” The laughter that erupted from me would have awoken everybody had there been anyone else here. He was just so cute. He had all of his winter gear on, including a knitted hat with a poof ball on top, his black pea coat, snow boots, and gore-tex gloves. He looked so cozy and warm and just so darn cute, I couldn’t say no. We gathered supplies for dressing our specimen before finally stepping outside. The snow was perfect for snowman making and there was plenty of it.

“I can’t help it,” He whines. “We really should have eaten something before we came out here.”

“Oh yeah? And whose fault is that? Mr. ‘We have to go outside now!’” I mocked him as he was while I was getting ready. He was so pushy! I was under the impression he was a “patient” man. Apparently that is completely disregarded when it comes to making a snowman.

“Can you blame me for being excited? I haven’t built a snowman since I was a child! I didn’t want to miss the perfect opportunity.”

Despite my eye roll, I couldn’t condemn him for it. I also haven’t done this for quite some time which is why I was all for it when he asked and didn’t fight him when he rushed me. Thankfully I packed gloves, a hat, and warm enough boots to withstand the cold just in case.

Whack!

Something hard hit me in the middle of the back. I turn and gape at this mischievous man who was tossing a ball of snow between both hands. A smirk plastered on his face as he watched me through his eyelashes over the top of his glasses. He was doing his best to channel Loki in this moment. Embracing the God of Mischief must be second nature for him after playing him for so long. I can only imagine what he does to get into a character that is a complete 180° from who he really is.

“Did you just throw a snowball at me?” I incredulously asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically at him. If he wants to start a war, he will lose. I played softball for six years and can throw a mean ball. He will regret this.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “So what if I did?” In a second he went from mischievous to playful. The glint in his eyes sparkled in the bright light.

“Then you would be starting a war you are guaranteed to lose.”

Snowballs of all shapes and sizes flew and smashed when they came into contact with body parts, laughter and screeches filled the air, dusts of snow were kicked up as we ran from the other, dodging what was thrown at the other. It was loosely tossed in the other’s face and shoved down the other’s back. It was all fun and games until someone was pelted in the face so hard that glasses went flying off.

Tom fell to the ground instantly, disorienting him enough to lose his footing. I, on the other hand, folded over in laughter with my knees nearly giving out on me. I made my way over to him, trying so hard to breathe through it, but I ended up collapsing in front of him, finally giving into my weak knees. We lay in the snow, cackling at the other, basking in the moment. The second we would stop laughing, we would start back up again. Embarrassingly enough, a few snorts came from my nose to which ignited more hearty laughter from both parties. Tears fell from both our eyes, nearly freezing against our cheeks.

Several minutes passed, the laughter had died down. Silence having filled the air now as we both lay still on our backs, staring up at the gray sky, minuscule snowflakes dusting our faces.

“Hey Jen?” He broke the silence. I hummed back. “You win.”

I sighed in contentment. “I told you I would.”

He chuckles at my smug response before finally peeling himself off the ground. When he leaned down to give me a helping hand, I noticed a red streak just on the edge of his eyebrow.

“Oh my God, you’re bleeding!” His hand flew up to his cut, flinching when he came in contact with it. I started apologizing profusely, adding “I wanted to win, but not like that.”

We retreated inside finding a first aid kit behind the front counter. Being guilt-ridden, I insisted on patching him up, not taking no for an answer. He sat on the couch while I stood behind it so I could assess the damage. Once the blood was cleaned off, it turns out it wasn’t too bad. A piece of ice must have just scraped him.  Easy enough, right?

Wrong. Fixing him was easy, but I quickly found myself losing focus, getting lost in his handsome face, admiring the little details that not a lot of people get the chance to see. Oh how badly I wanted to trace the scar on his forehead that he received a few years ago from running into a stage door. The only imperfection I see in site. I took note of his jealousy-inducing eyelashes any woman would pay big bucks for. Knowing they shield his swoon-worthy blue eyes makes them treasured by many. His ginger lock that beg for fingers to run through them have hints of blond that no one would see unless in the sunlight or up close. My curiosity to see how soft they are nearly takes over my sense of reason.

Thank God he closed his eyes so he can’t see my ogling.

“Will I live?” He asked looking up at me after I finished.

“I think the odds are in your favor.” I patted his shoulder signaling he could get up if he so chooses. “Although, it might leave a gnarly scar, but hey, at least you’ll have a new story to tell.”

“I don’t know which story is more embarrassing: running into a door or getting hit in the face with a snowball.” He chuckled, shaking his head at himself.

“Oh now I’ve got to hear this story.” I plopped myself on the couch, eagerly awaiting him to continue. We were both laughing in no time at all as he animatedly told the story, also going into his lesser known scar stories. We eventually relocated to the kitchen, both of us starving for some sustenance. After he finished his stories, we moved onto mine. They weren’t nearly as entertaining, but he listened with the same enthusiasm as I had his.

It was then I realized just how easy it was to talk to him. He is quite literally the easiest person to talk to. I feel like I could talk to him about anything and everything. I could tell my deepest and darkest secret without any fear of judgment from him. I could tell him all of my fears and insecurities, and he would be there to tell me “it’ll all be okay,” that I’m not crazy for having such thoughts. He would be the shoulder I could cry on if I need it… I could trust him.

Dear God, that’s scary. Trust does not come easy for me. I’ve been burned by so many people I have put my trust in before that I just don’t trust anyone new in my life. Only a few select people get that luxury. My heart wants to add Tom to that short list, but my head is arguing with it, being the voice of reason. If nothing comes from this week, I’ll always be thankful to him for showing me I can let someone in and it’ll all be okay in the end…

Later that night when we had said goodnight, I received a call from one of my best friends.

“So how’s vacation? Still pissed you went without me.” I chuckled at her bitterness. If she could have gotten off work, she would have been here with me, experiencing all that is Tom. a.k.a. #1 on her list. We’ve talked implicitly and explicitly about what we would do if we ever had Tom as our own. When I eventually tell her, she will flip.

“Well,” I started, trying to come up with the best way to explain it all without giving away the most important detail. “The solitude I wanted has been compromised.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say the only alone time I’ve had is at night.” I was hoping by being extremely vague that by some miracle she would get it. She knew of my plans to lock myself in my room from the second I got here to the second I left. She was looking forward to the same thing if she were to come along.

“Who have you been spending the days with?” She asked, catching on.

“His name is Will.” I knew just by giving those small details, she would understand.

“And you’re just telling me this now? What’s he like?” She fired a million other questions to which I stayed silent.

“I can’t say much, but just know he’s the best person I’ve ever met and I will give you full details when I get home.” After she made me promise at least ten times to tell her everything the second I get back, she was satisfied and we ended the conversation at that.

She is going to kill me when I tell her the truth.

I shrugged at the thought. At least I’ll die knowing I had met the most amazing man there ever was or ever will be.

Lying on my bed after gathering my supplies, I tried to get back to my piece, re-reading it to return to the mindset. I stare at my words in my familiar scribble unable to come up with what to do next. The worst part about being a writer is writer’s block. Not being able to do what you want or being able to put to paper what you have in your head is beyond frustrating. It’s comparable to a doctor not being able to help a patient or a mechanic not being able to find the problem with a car. Not being able to do your job is both annoying and infuriating. It is especially when the reason I came here was to get inspired, and possibly start something new. I did begin something, thanks to Tom’s suggestion, but haven’t been able to get back to it since I stopped last night. Despite him saying he believed in me, I just couldn’t think of anything to write. No matter how many times I would re-read it all, nothing came to me. Nothing.

The only thing that did occupy my mind was him and the way he looked at me just outside my door. Such intensity and curiosity, I had to stop myself from launching at him. Every fiber of my being wanted to latch my lips to his, to feel them capture mine like I’ve seen his do with multiple co-stars. Would they be strong or like pillows? How would his beard feel against my face? Would he moan or sigh as they connected? Or would he pull away before that would even happen? Would he say I was being inappropriate and apologize for making me think otherwise?

Whatever the outcome might have been, it didn’t occur. Dwelling on the past helps no one. I need to get a grip and channel my frustration into writing.

Doing so actually helped me continue, my pen flying across the pages well into the wee hours of the morning. Getting lost in a story is my favorite part of creating. It’s only a hope that the reader gets just as lost. The next thing I knew the sun was peeking through the curtains and the smell of coffee invaded my nostrils from downstairs.

Wow. I haven’t pulled an all-nighter like this since college… I am not going to be any fun today.

I left off on a cliffhanger to inspire me when I return to it later. I had fully planned on just sliding everything to one side of the bed and crashing, but then I smelled bacon.

day three...

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