Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
When I arrive back at the cottage, I’m filthy, dehydrated, and exhausted. I strip off my work clothes and throw them into my enormous laundry pile, then walk naked out to the shower. I give the routine squeal as my body steps into the water, then quickly start washing.
The water is punishingly cold, though I know I’ll feel rejuvenated.
“Looking good!”
I yell with shock, then reach frantically for my towel. When I’m covered up, I step out and see Bradley standing on the veranda . He’s holding an apple in one hand, leaning against the frame.
“What the hell?”
His mouth hangs open for a moment, then he begins to laugh.
“That’s not funny!”
“Hold on, hold on.” He holds out his hand. “I was talking about the garden. The garden is looking good! Sorry, sorry. I can’t see into the shower, I swear. And I wouldn’t do that.” He looks distraught. “Look, I’ll give you a chance to get dressed.”
I walk up to the veranda and see he’s right—he couldn’t see into the shower. I point to the grass. “Wait outside.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As he wanders to the far end of the lawn, I go around the house to the front door, swearing to myself.
Did I just accuse my boss of being a pervert?
Good move, Brie. He’ll probably fire me just to avoid any future awkward interactions.
Not that we see each other very often. Bradley leaves early in the morning for his commute to the city, and must come home after dark, by which point I’m always in bed.
I quickly change into track pants and a hoodie. Even though it’s hot, I feel the need to cover up my bare skin.
“I didn’t mean anything,” he begins, as I go back.
“It’s OK. I’m sorry, I just wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“I should have known better. You’re out here basically on your own. The last thing you want is your boss to be some kind of sexual predator.”
I repress a smile. Bradley’s wearing a blue shirt tucked into black woolen suit pants, his hair parted to the side, and glasses balanced on the edge of his nose. He doesn’t look like a predator so much as a nerd who’d fumble a bra strap.
“Don’t laugh!”
“I’m not. I just don’t think of you that way.”
“No?” He takes off his glasses and frowns at me. “How do you think of me, then?”
Great—now I’ve offended him again. First, I tell him he’s a pervert; next, I tell him he’s got the sex appeal of limp spinach. “Sorry, I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Don’t let looks deceive you. I’m a poetry professor at a major university.
Fifty years ago, a man in my position would be seducing young women as a full-time job.
” He frowns at me, as if there’s the solution to a riddle buried in my features.
“That’s all gone, of course, with the booze and the long lunches.
I can’t say I’m disappointed. It all sounds a bit exhausting. ”
I can’t think of anything to say, so I just stand there and try to keep a smile on my face.
“They say you need to speak to at least fifteen people per day to stay sane,” he continues. “Did you know that?”
It’s a loaded question. While Grace technically works from home, she seems to spend all her time in the attic, and we’ve hardly exchanged a word the entire week.
“What do you mean?”
“I guess I’m just checking to see if you’re going to come at us with a chainsaw.” He glances into the trees towards the toilet. “Christ, speaking of which. I forgot to move those trees for you.”
“It’s OK,” I say, even though it’s been a massive pain in the ass. Literally, some mornings.
“Let me.”
While I stand on the veranda watching, he carefully unbuttons his shirt and pulls it off.
As he hands it to me, my eyes glance down to his abs—abs—and back up to his broad chest and shoulders.
There’s a six-inch scar just about his waist, which somehow makes the view even more attractive.
He catches my gaze, raises his eyebrows, and heads into the forest.
This is your boss, I remind myself. But it doesn’t stop me from watching intently as he manhandles two fallen trees out of the way. It only takes him a few minutes. When he gets back, there’s blood running down his arm.
“What happened?” I cry out.
“Just a scratch,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Bull.” I run inside and grab the first aid kit from under the sink. I take out an antiseptic, a Band-Aid, and a wad of cotton wool.
“Seriously, it’s nothing,” he says, as I dip the cotton wool in a cup of water. I touch the wound, and he winces.
“Easy, tiger.” I rest my free hand against his taut bicep, and he tenses as I clear away the wound.
“I’m very heroic, aren’t I?”
“Definitely my hero,” I mutter. “Saved me pulling spiderwebs from my hair every morning.”
“Not just a eunuch professor?”
“I never said you were a eunuch.”
“You were thinking it.”
I give a nervous laugh as I finish cleaning the blood away. What does Bradley want me to say? That I couldn’t stop staring? That I haven’t seen a man’s abs in the flesh since I was twenty-one? Neil never looked like this with his shirt off.
I hand him a cotton ball. “Hold this on the scratch.”
“Hey, you’re supposed to call it a wound. A gash. Make me feel tough.”
“You’re a very tough boy,” I say, searching for a Band-Aid. “And definitely not a eunuch.”
“I should hope not.”
At the sound of the voice behind me, I fumble the first-aid kit, and its contents spill across the grass. Grace is standing in the doorway, smiling. I wonder how much she heard. “Don’t you guys look cozy.”
“Sorry, I was just—”
“Nursing my shirtless husband back to health. I gathered that.”
“I was just unblocking her path to the WC,” Bradley explains. “Got a cut on my arm.”
“I see. And you didn’t think to get changed before coming down.” She’s looking at me, half-smiling, as if I’ve just made an admirably aggressive move in a game of chess. “You look like a wounded soldier. And you’re the good-hearted nurse. I feel like I’m in a romance novel.”
“Not everything’s a novel,” Bradley mutters.
“Oh, I know. Some things are poems. Some are paintings. Some are music.”
I finish covering the cut with antiseptic, press the Band-Aid onto his arm, then step away as if he’s made of explosives.
“Some of it is just real life, Grace.”
“I don’t believe that, Bradley,” she replies. The smile falters. “I came down to inform our helpmeet about tomorrow.”
“As was I.” He puts on his shirt and begins doing up the buttons. As he covers his abs, I wonder what would happen if I were to protest. Would they take it as a joke? Or would she murder me in my sleep? “Grace is having some friends over. We’re going to have cocktails. You’re welcome to join us.”
Grace is looking at me again, as if I’ve made another chess move.
“They are our friends, darling. And of course she is welcome.”
I flash her a smile. “I can’t wait.”