Chapter 5
Chapter Five
“ Y ou know how most castles come with their very own ghost? Well, mine comes with its very own Grinch.” I shake my head as I think back to yesterday’s encounter with Patrick Walsh. Our dislike of each other is mutual. There’s no other way to put it, and yet the only image my mind can conjure is stunning gray eyes and a hard body that would probably have most women clutching at the sheets in the throes of passion.
“The Grinch? Really?” Mia laughs.
“I might actually be insulting the Grinch because that Patrick guy could give him a run for his money,” I mutter.
“He’s that bad, huh?”
“You have no idea,” I say. “The thing is I actually feel sorry for him. He must have done something to make his mother not want to leave the house to him; I just can’t think of anything that would be bad enough to warrant such a reaction. Parents should never disown their children, no matter what. That’s one relationship you can never mend. While Patrick maintains his mother didn’t disown him per se, he still must be shattered, hurt, which is probably the reason why he’s so hostile toward me.”
“Give me a second.” Her breathing comes labored down the line as she shifts the earpiece. I frown, wondering whether she’s been sent on another coffee run. Apparently it’s the intern’s huge responsibility to ensure her supervisors are properly caffeinated throughout the day.
“Are you okay, Mia?”
Silence, then, “Yes. Fine. Just a moment.” More labored breathing. Heels clicking. Something clatters to the ground, meaning she must have dropped something. The sugar? Cream? Who knows? I smile as I wait, patiently.
Seconds pass, then a rattle and a deep sigh. She’s plopped into her office chair. An instant later, she resumes the conversation, “Sorry for keeping you waiting. I’m back at the office now. Let’s hope the boss isn’t going to make me sit in another late-night conference today. My legs are killing me.”
“You’ve been sent to get so much coffee, you must have the legs of a marathon runner by now,” I joke.
“I know. Who needs spinning classes when you’re an intern, right?” She laughs. “Anyway, back to you. You were saying?”
“Hmm,” I mumble, as my thoughts go back to Patrick Walsh. “The thing is, photos are scattered all over the house and they look like such a happy family in all of them. I can’t wrap my mind around it. The guy’s a bit rude and rough around the edges, but that’s about it. I don’t understand why Roisin would not want her own son to have this house.”
“Whoa, Lori. Stop right there,” Mia says. “You don’t know these people; know nothing about their lives. You don’t know what goes on behind closed doors. People are complicated. They fall out all the time, and then end up making irrational decisions. You should know that better than anyone else. You should also know better than to get involved.”
I sigh. “I guess you’re right.”
“I am. I always am,” she says. “Even if he’s grumpy and insufferable, the house sounds dreamy. Enjoy it while you can, before you’re back in New York, stuck in some boring job and stuffy office with a lousy view of the opposite building’s wall. In the three months I’ve been here, the only two things I’ve learned are everyone’s name and coffee preferences. By the time the year’s over, I’ll be more qualified to get a job as a barista than an advertising executive. I would do anything to be in your position right now. In fact, I don’t even know why I’m here. London’s a great place, don’t get me wrong. But after seeing everything there is to see—twice—I’m slowly starting to realize this internship isn’t worth the hassle. I could have learned more from watching YouTube.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could give you a hug.”
“It’s fine.” She sighs. “So, what are you going to do about him?”
“Him?” It takes me a moment to realize the topic’s switched back to my predicament, which wouldn’t really be one if it weren’t for Patrick Walsh. “Nothing, I guess. I’ll just let the lawyer deal with everything. In the end, it will all sort itself out the way things always do, one way or another.”
“Sounds like something I would do.”
“Yes, well, I guess I have no choice.” A loud thud draws my attention. I frown and get up from the bed. “Mia, can we talk later? There’s something I need to check on.”
I don’t catch her answer before I hang up and walk over to the window to peer at the commotion outside.
Someone’s switched on some music, the noise blaring from the speakers, the bass so loud I wouldn’t be surprised to find the door shaking on its hinges. At least twenty people have gathered in small groups and are now strolling past the guesthouse, carrying things.
Pushing the curtains aside, I crane my neck to get a better look.
Is that a painting? A candleholder? A box with?—
“Is that food?” I mumble. It looks like the entire contents of a fridge.
WTF?
Two teenagers appear on the other side of the window, their hands pressed against the smooth glass as they stare at me. The food’s instantly forgotten. I wouldn’t usually worry about anyone’s offspring, but I remember that I’m the owner of the grounds now. If anything happens to them, it will be on me. I’m not going to have my ass sued for all it’s worth and then some barely a day into this whole inheritance affair.
“What’s going on, for crying out loud?” I grab a jacket from the back of a nearby chair, throw it on, and then storm out the door to see what this is all about.
“Hey,” I yell at a dark-haired guy standing in the driveway. He seems slightly familiar. Only when he turns do I realize it’s Patrick. His smile instantly dies, probably the same way my frown turns into a scowl. We do seem to have a few things in common, like our mutual dislike and that each brings out the worst in the other. “What is this? What are you doing?”
“Lori.” He jogs over and stops a few inches from me.
Too close for comfort.
Apparently, he not only grew under a rock and doesn’t know the definition of cordiality; he also has no regard for personal space.
“What’s the commotion?” I repeat.
“Oh, you mean my little gathering. Just some friends stopping by.” He laughs and waves at someone. I follow his line of vision to a busty brunette who is holding up what I previously assumed was a painting. Now I realize it’s a banner. I hold up a hand to shield my eyes against the glaring midday sun, and squint as I try to read the childish handwriting.
The letters are embossed with glitter that shimmers in the bright light, but the text is clear and easy to understand.
I want your baby, Paddy!
Like on cue, a group of women appear from around the corner. Some are holding up banners. Some are shrieking. Others are whistling.
I scan the text on the banners.
Marry me, Patrick!
Let me lick ? —
Heat instantly rushes to my face as the graphic details make me cringe.
Urgh. Nope!
I’m not even going to acknowledge I read that one. It needs to melt right off my brain because I have this weird feeling that if I let the image linger a little too long it will be forever etched into my brain.
“This isn’t a little gathering. It’s a madhouse,” I mutter as I look from the women to Patrick who’s just regarding me, amused, then back to the women.
For the life of me, I cannot make sense of what I’m seeing.
It looks like a scene from a typical eighties music video, minus the ghastly clothes and bad perm. If I didn’t know any better I’d say these were his fans. But that can’t be the case because it would imply Patrick is something like a celebrity. He doesn’t look like a celebrity, or does he?
Celebrities are very professional, put-together people who know how to market themselves and make people love them. Patrick Walsh definitely has the looks but he’s probably the opposite of every single point on my “definition of a celebrity”.
I shoot him a sideways glance, eyeing him up and down. His dark hair is a disheveled mop that looks like he just got out of the busty brunette’s bed and is ready to dive in for a second helping. The strong muscles in his broad shoulders and chest strain his shirt with every movement, which makes me think there’s probably a six-pack hidden under there. I certainly wouldn’t mind unbuttoning it to find out.
He’s sexy, all right.
Okay, make that smoking hot.
But a celebrity?
I snort and mumble, “Not in this lifetime.”
“What’s not in this lifetime?” His deep grumble jerks me out of my thoughts, and I jump.
“What?”
He smirks. “I think you were talking to yourself, mumbling something like ‘not in this lifetime’.”
I must have spoken out loud. Now he probably thinks I’m one of those weird people who talk to themselves, which isn’t really weird at all. Everyone does that every now and then, right?
Right?
But just to be sure he won’t try to trick me out of my inheritance by claiming I’m suffering from some mental illness, I say, “In-ear speakers.” I point at my ear and turn away quickly, fumbling with my hair so he can’t see there’s nothing there. “Can you not sneak up on me like that or tune into my conversations? They’re private.” Because my voice sounds a little thin and strangled, I glare at him for good measure so he gets just how much I dislike him.
“I wasn’t sneaking up on you or tuning into your conversations with yourself . I’ve been here for a good five minutes and thought you were talking to me . We literally just spoke, remember ?” His gaze pierces into me inquisitively and something sparkles in there. He’s probably making a mental note to ask his lawyer about the mental illness angle.
Oh, hell no! I’m not giving him solid grounds for getting rid of me.
Before I can think of a comeback Patrick smirks. “If you call this sneaking up on you, I’ll make sure to book an appointment a day in advance before we cross paths. I’ll need your phone number for that.”
I narrow my eyes on him. He thinks he’s so funny. It’s probably what he writes on his Tinder dating profile. Tall. Great, dark hair. A body that’s stepped out of your wildest dreams. Humor. If you tell yourself stuff like that all the time, you’re bound to start believing it.
It’s called affirmations.
Or all the female attention must have messed with his brain.
Okay, I admit the looks part is spot on, bordering on modest. But whatever he put on there about his personality, if anything at all, must be a lie.
I shoot a glare at the women on the driveway and something starts to nag at me. I bet they have only seen his Tinder side. Once they encounter the Grump, they’ll be running for the hills and taking their billboards or whatever those are with them.
“No need to get my number. Just send out a smoke signal. You look like you’re familiar with that, what with being the Neanderthal you are.” I grimace at my choice of words. Nope. Didn’t quite come across the way I wanted. It sounds a bit petty and insulting. I don’t usually go around insulting people, but there’s something about this guy that brings out the worst in me. I point at the commotion to change the subject. “So, care to tell me what this is all about?”
He shrugs, eyes glinting. “Some friends have decided to pop over. I thought I might let them stay for a day or two. A week, tops.”
“Friends?”
“ Very good friends.” Patrick raises his brows meaningfully and his eyes sparkle again.
They must be having a party. Or why else would he have so many people over?
My gaze sweeps over the suitcases lining up the driveway. There’s at least half a dozen of them, and the bus driver hasn’t finished unloading.
Something like a sense of foreboding settles in the pit of my stomach as I realize people don’t usually bring half the contents of their wardrobe to a party.
“Where are they staying?” I peer from the driver to the women who seem to have calmed down a little as they’re typing furiously on their phones and holding them up to take snapshots. That’s when I notice the huge guy with arms the size of my waist blocking the way between them and Patrick. For someone so huge, he certainly knows how to blend right in with his surroundings. I can’t believe I missed him.
Patrick leans into me and whispers in my ear, “That’s Hector. I wouldn’t mess with him if I were you. He eats a dozen raw eggs for breakfast.” Which certainly explains the circumference of his arms. But I can’t focus on Hector or why Patrick would share his friend’s breakfast habits with me. All I can think about is the guy’s hot breath on my earlobe and the tingle it’s sending down my spine, cutting off my air supply.
It’s been long, too long, since a man’s been this close to me, and it wasn’t even someone remotely of Patrick’s caliber in the looks department. I might not like him, but my hormones aren’t immune to a hot guy.
Taking a step back to put some much-needed distance between us, I force myself to focus on anything but Patrick and the way he seems way too comfortable with proximity. Hector seems like a good choice. He’s talking to the women. Even though I can’t make out the words, I can tell they’re monosyllabic but quite powerful in keeping them away from the object of their delusions.
Aka Patrick.
“You haven’t answered my question. Where is your harem staying?” I shoot him a sideways glance and instantly regret it. His eyes are on me, really taking me in.
A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “No need to worry about that. There’s plenty of room for everyone.”
I frown, trying to wrap my mind around what the hell he’s hinting at. That’s when the proverbial penny drops. “Oh, my goodness! Are you referring to my house?”
“Technically, it’s still mine. I can have anyone I want over. And I’m a very social person. Always have been. There’s never a dull day with me…or night, for that matter.” He winks and I fight the urge to roll my eyes at his insinuation. “You don’t like it, you know where the door is, love.”
Waves of anger begin to shoot through me, rendering me speechless for a moment or two. But that’s enough for Patrick to seize the opportunity to make his grand departure. He bows before me, like the world is his own personal stage, and heads down the driveway toward the main house.
The cheek!
I stare at his back. His white shirt does nothing to hide the long strings of muscles flexing beneath the thin fabric, stretching it to the max as he moves. There’s something about the way he walks—a confidence I’ve never seen in any man before, and it’s sexy as hell.
“It’s my house,” I yell after him, but my voice sounds weak and insecure. If he’s even heard me, he doesn’t bother to turn around and acknowledge it. The only reaction I’m getting is from the women who suddenly all turn to me with looks that betray both curiosity and something else.
Jealousy, I realize.
I rub my arms over the fabric of my top.
If looks could kill, I’d probably be six feet under right about now.
“Don’t worry, I don’t want him,” I yell at the women. “He and I are nothing. He’s a very rude person. Very rude . What woman in her right mind would want to date someone like that?”
A group of people start to head toward me and cameras begin to flash in my direction. I stare at them, caught off-guard. Why are they taking pictures of me?
“What’s your name again?” an older woman calls out.
“What’s your connection to Paddy?” another woman asks, her tone dripping ice picks—the Basic Instinct kind.
Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut because everyone’s attention seems to be on me now. I set my jaw and dash for the guesthouse before these basket cases can take any more photos.
After the disaster back home the last thing I want is attention. In fact, I’d rather avoid it like the plague.