Okay. Now or never.

I knock once on the front door's wood paneling, peeking into the cabin through the stained glass panes.

Everything's a jewel-colored blur through the glass, but I can just make out the shapes of furniture in the hallway and a light at the end of the hall – probably a window or another door.

I wait a few seconds before knocking again, louder this time.

There's a sound like someone falling over something, followed by muttered cursing.

My heart skips a beat as the front door suddenly swings open.

Lyall is standing in front of me wearing nothing but his boxers and a pair of fluffy pink bunny slippers.

His reddish-brown hair is flat on one side and sticking out on the other, a cinnamon-colored bed head disaster that he still somehow manages to make look adorable. His eyes are half closed, and he flops sideways against the doorframe with a loud yawn.

"Sorry for de wait," he says in his thick Irish accent. "Dey said you'd be here at noon, not de crack o' dawn".

It's already after two, I think to myself. "I'm actually two hours late," I say, looking down at my feet automatically. "I'm Ashling. From the other night."

His warm brown eyes glitter as he cracks a grin. "I know who ye are," he says. "Come on in."

I follow him into the entrance hall, trying not to stare at his naked torso. He's not exactly built or buff, and he's not as tall as the other boys, but he has a great body, lean and toned like an athlete.

I notice he's a few inches taller than me. I've always imagined for some reason that he was the same height as me or shorter, but I guess I just assumed that because of his 'boy next door' image. I didn't manage to get a good look at him on the night of the concert, and I can't help noticing now that he's even cuter in real life than in photos.

Keeping my mind on the music today might be tricky.

The inside of the cabin is all honey-colored pine wood, stone and high vaulted ceilings. Several rooms branch off the entrance hall, and a wrought iron staircase spirals upstairs to a second level. The sun streams in through the stained glass windows, bathing the hall in patches of soft red and green and amber light.

Lyall leads me into a large open-plan room. At the far end, a glass chandelier hangs over a huge kitchen island with a granite counter, barstools, cupboards, a stove, a retro fridge, even a walk-in freezer. It all looks top of the range. A chef's paradise.

Someone must have spent a lot of money on this place.

The kitchen leads into a living room, complete with a stone fireplace and plush moss green sofas. The walls are covered in a mishmash of paintings in an odd assortment of frames – gilded gold, dark wood, bright shining copper.

The most amazing thing about the room however is the massive stained glass window that stretches from the floor to the ceiling directly opposite me. The level of detail is amazing – it looks like it's depicting an entire story in tiny glass panes, with sweeping grass plains and a forest surrounding rocky ocean cliffs. It reminds me of those tapestries hanging in medieval castles.

There’s something about it. It feels... familiar. Why?

"Bonny thing, innit?" Lyall says.

He walks over to the window, and traces the shining panes with his fingers.

"We've been tryin' ter figure out if it actually tells some sort of fairytale or somethin'," he says.

"So far we've got de sea maiden, here in de centre," he points at a golden-haired mermaid with a silver tail. "An' we think these are like, her suitors. Five boyfriends. Lucky lady."

He traces his finger around the figures standing in the forest. They are in a perfect semi-circle surrounding her, each facing inwards. An elegant figure in a dark cape; a man robed in white with feathered golden wings on his back; some sort of vagabond or possibly a pirate; a dragonfly-winged faery prince dressed in green; a knight in shining armor.

That's the Portland art scene for you. Someone definitely enjoys their magic mushrooms a bit too much.

"I'm not sure that they're courting her," I say, gazing at the figures. The scene looks ominous to me.

"They're all clustered around her. She can't escape. I think... I think they're trying to trap her. She's in danger."

I feel my cheeks flush as I realize what I just said, and how stupid it must sound.

But Lyall just nods his head thoughtfully. "Yeah, I guess yer could see it that way," he says. "Anyway, what part of de old country are ye from?"

"The old country?" I stammer.

"Eire. Ireland. Yer name's Ashlin'. It’s Irish," he says.

"Oh, yeah," I reply. "My dad's parents are from Belfast. And my mom's family's from Creeslough. My parents met in Oregon though."

"Irish on both sides den. Who'd a thought," he says. "Can I call yer Ash for short?"

I don't know how to answer. No one calls me Ash anymore.

I don't let them.

It's what everyone called me before the accident. After it all happened, I told mom and dad, and everyone I knew really, that I wanted to be called by my full name only.

Ash was the carefree girl who had a crush on Evan, whose best friend was Mia, whose biggest worries were math tests and what to wear on a Friday night. Ash was a girl living on the surface of a blissful, sun-soaked dream.

That girl is gone. I can never return to her.

Ash is dead. She disappeared that day on the bus along with all my classmates.

I'm Ashling now.

But there's no way I can explain that to Lyall. So I just nod.

"Ash it is den," he says with a wink. "Anyway, care for a cup of tea while we wait for de lazy bones te get up?"

I nod, and he gets to work pulling mugs and a pack of cookies out from a cupboard above the fridge, humming to himself as he heats water up on the stove.

I settle down on one of the barstools at the kitchen island, watching him work. He seems to have forgotten that he's shirtless, and I hope it stays that way. Not that I'm perving or anything. I'm just... appreciating.

I'm about to drink a cup of tea made for me by none other than Lyall Greene, world famous keyboardist for Fable. Dream. Come. True.

One moment I'm gazing at Lyall over the counter, the next moment my vision goes dark. There's a hand over my eyes, an arm snaking around my waist from behind, and cool lips brushing my ear with a whispering growl.

"Good morning, Cupcake. I knew you'd come."