Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
I ’m only in the guesthouse a few minutes when I hear footsteps outside the door, followed by a loud thud, which I assume are the keys to the Walsh property dropping to the ground. A few seconds later, the truck’s engine roars to life and tires screech as he takes off. From the sound of it, Patrick is furious, but I don’t care.
Humming the melody to “It’s the final countdown”, I head outside to get the set of keys and find the package next to it together with a note that says something like:
“Not interested in your underwear unless you’re wearing it, in which case my door’s always open.”
I go over the note twice because Patrick’s scribbling is as hard to read as his pronunciation is hard to understand, and I’m not sure I got it right.
Yes, that’s what it says.
My cheeks catch fire. The guy is rude and a little chauvinist…and so freaking hot I wish I had the guts to take him up on his offer. I don’t know what it is about this man, but his mere presence keeps reminding me it’s really been too long. And who could be more suitable to help remove the cobwebs down there than the type of man you wouldn’t bring home to meet your mother?
I crumple the note in my hand, eager to get rid of it, but the picture of me turning up at the house, wearing nothing but the pearl thong, just won’t stop flashing before my eyes.
How would he react if I gave him exactly what he asked for?
The idea is tantalizing, definitely more taboo than anything I’ve ever done, and a little pull settles between my legs in response.
I shake my head, annoyed.
Not happening.
Not in a million years and certainly not with someone like him. Not only is he a stranger; he’s also the most infuriating person I’ve ever had to deal with, and I’ve barely scratched the surface of his ego.
To distract myself from the intrusive thoughts, I text Mia.
Me: Looks like it’s finder’s keepers after all.
I add a smiley emoji, then add some more for good measure, going overboard because my little victory is still burning bright inside me. And then I spend an hour packing up. To be honest, there isn’t that much to pack, but I take my time, enjoying the little victory like you savor a box of really expensive chocolate.
The sweet taste of success feels so good, almost as good as Patrick’s hands would probably feel on me.
Once I’m done, I make my way to the main house, putting a little bounce in my step. There are a couple of bedrooms to choose from, all identical, copycats of each other with their luxurious yet somehow muted décor and stunning views of the surrounding area. They’re guest rooms, I assume, designed to make any visitor feel comfortable.
Like home.
I smile at the thought as I realize this is slowly starting to feel a bit like home. What appeared intimidating at first is still opulent but no longer frightening. This is all mine, at least until I figure out what to do with the estate. Until then, I plan on enjoying my time here as much as I can.
I settle on a room on the second floor, mainly because it’s vast and bright, but it also comes with its own open fireplace and an en suite bathroom. Outside the small balcony is a rose bush climbing up a trellis, the sweet fragrance wafting in through the open door. I pull the curtains aside to let in as much of the heady scent as possible and go about filling the space with my meager belongings.
***
I spend the next couple of days familiarizing myself with some of the house. It is gorgeous, even more so than I thought. The kitchen is easily twice the size of my old apartment back in NYC, all white with polished marble countertops and huge glass doors that lead directly into the backyard. The housekeeper seems to be moving with the invisibility of a ghost because I haven’t heard or seen her yet. She must be real though, judging from the scent of roast beef and vegetables coming from the oven, and the fact that breakfast is waiting on the table every morning, and the fridge is never empty. A blueberry pie winks at me from a desert-serving tray. I don’t bother with dinner. As delicious as the roast beef smells, real food is overrated. But that pie is going down without much of a fight. It looks so buttery and delicious, it’s probably going to be sliding down my throat.
I don’t bother with a plate. What’s the point? The house is mine, and so is the pie. Grabbing a fork, I sit down at the huge mahogany table and just dive in, stuffing big chunks of the sweet delight into my mouth, moaning in the process. I must be in some sort of sugar ecstasy because I only hear the visitor when he clears his throat, startling me.
The fork drops on the plate, sending crumbs of pastry across the table. I jump up and press a hand over my chest.
“You startled me.” I laugh nervously, relieved it’s my lawyer, and proceed to wipe a hand over my mouth to remove any remnants of food. I don’t bother with my hair. That’s a lost cause.
“Sorry for startling you. I tried to knock but no one answered.” Duncan’s expression is one of amusement as he looks from me to the dessert and then back to me. I don’t even want to know his opinion of me now. He probably thinks that where I come from plates and good manners have yet to be invented. A quick glimpse at the pie, and I can’t blame him. What’s left of it seems to have been savaged by ravenous bears.
Not my most glorious moment.
“Sorry about the mess.” With an embarrassed smile, I incline my head toward a chair, silently inviting him to sit.
“We all have that one vice.” He winks and takes me up on the offer, pushing his chair a little closer to me.
“Really? What is yours?” I scan him briefly. It can’t be pizza or any fast food. It probably isn’t pie either. Judging from his muscular physique he hasn’t had one of those in a while. He looks like he works out a bit, but probably not as much as Patrick.
Patrick.
I feel like pulling out my hair. Here I am, sitting with an attractive man who seems to tick quite a few boxes, and all I can think about is that one annoying person I wouldn’t mind kicking all the way to the moon.
I force my attention back on Duncan and realize he has said something. I’ve no idea what it is, and I can’t ask him to repeat it. He’d realize I wasn’t paying attention.
“My mother used to make it all the time,” Duncan continues, oblivious to the fact that I’ve no idea what he’s talking about. “I’ve outgrown it, but once in a while I have those moments when I have to drive fifty miles to the only bakery that gets them just right.”
“That’s—” Fascinating, I want to say but there’s nothing fascinating about his story or baked goods. I love cake and chocolate as much as any woman, but once I’ve scratched that itch it’s hardly fascinating stuff. “Wow. You don’t mind driving fifty miles to a bakery? I’d just raid the fridge and eat whatever’s in sight. You’re definitely not as bad as I am.”
“Judging from the condition of that pie, I guess not.” Smiling, he clears his throat, and the atmosphere suddenly changes. I can sense it’s serious before he’s even broached the subject. “Look, Lori. I have some bad news. I thought I would come over to tell you in person rather than over the phone.”
“Yes?”
He hesitates for a moment, as though to brace himself. “I don’t know how to say this as it’s a rather delicate matter.”
Just spill it out.
I bite my lip because patience isn’t my virtue.
“It’s about Patrick. Patrick Walsh,” he adds, probably assuming I have a Patrick living on every corner back home. My brows shoot up and I inch forward in the hope my encouraging body language will make him speak faster. Anything involving the irritating guy living in this house sounds a thousand times more interesting than whatever story Duncan’s just shared with me.
I just can’t help myself. My entire body’s on full alert.
“I remember who that is,” I say nonchalantly. “What about him?”
Duncan frowns. “The appointed judge has turned out to be a bit of a nightmare. Inheritances don’t feature highly on his priority list so getting the paperwork signed off might take a bit longer than anticipated. I know you expressed a wish to sell and get back to your old life as soon as possible, so I want you to know that we’re working on it.”
“I said that?”
He nods. “You did.”
I regard him for a moment, unable to remember when exactly I mentioned any concrete plans of selling to him. As far as I’m aware, I mentioned something along the lines of thinking about it. I wave my hand, suddenly not so eager to sell. At least not for a while. “It’s fine. I can imagine worse places to spend a few weeks or months. There’s been a change of plans anyway. I’ve decided to stay for a while. There’s no rush to get back home.”
In fact, the longer I can stay away, the better.
“Really? That’s great.” His smile seems a little clouded by surprise, though that could be just me imagining things. “What changed your mind?”
Patrick’s face flashes before my eyes.
“I got a job at a café.” I shrug at the way his face lights up with interest. “Nothing special, just a few hours to help me out financially.”
“That’s great.” He repeats and clears his throat again. “Look, Lori. There’s something else I need to tell you, particularly now that you seem to want to stay after all.”
I raise my brows.
He hesitates again, as though preparing his words. Given that he’s a lawyer and probably used to rehearsing his speech, his hesitation leads me to believe his bad news involves something or someone unpleasant.
“You can’t kick Patrick out.” He holds out a hand before I can say anything. “I know you told me he’s been a bit of a nuisance and you want him gone. But I’m afraid, as long as that judge hasn’t even looked at the paperwork let alone signed on it, we can’t force him to leave.”
I smirk.
Patrick again. It’s like he’s everywhere.
“But I thought you said the property’s mine.” I sound like a whining child, but I can’t have the guy around 24/7. That wouldn’t be good for my mental health…or panties. I can’t change my underwear every time I see him just because my body seems to show the infuriating reaction of getting a little worked up whenever I so much as see him.
Duncan nods slowly. “The property is yours, just not legally. From a legal perspective, it still belongs to the late Ms. Walsh’s rightful heir, which would be Patrick.”
Rightful.
There’s that word again.
“It’s all a minor technicality, a little loophole in the system, and only temporary, of course,” Duncan continues.
Grimacing, I peer at the open door, almost expecting the annoying guy to pop his head in and laugh in my face, his stunning eyes glinting with arrogance.
“I can’t stay in the same house with a stranger,” I mutter. The sugar high is long gone, and the buttery cake seems to have turned into heavy stones in my stomach. “Is there nothing you can do?”
“The firm has looked into it. There isn’t an angle we’ve left unchecked. Unfortunately, Patrick can stay, for the time being.” Duncan squeezes my hand over the table and shoots me a smile. I assume it’s supposed to offer some sort of reassurance, but it fails to have the desired effect. “I’ve known Patrick for a long time. He isn’t the most agreeable lad, but he’s no danger to you. Just ignore him and make the best use of your time here. Enjoy your stay, go sightseeing, make new friends.”
Duncan vouching for Patrick and assuring me of my safety isn’t going to ease my mind one bit. Patrick might not pose any danger in the sense that I could end up buried under the rosebushes, but he sure is dangerous to other parts of me. I’m mature enough to realize that I’m hugely attracted to him, and I have yet to find a way to get that attraction out of my system.
My brows shoot up. “Wait a second. Are you suggesting I share a house with him?”
Duncan shrugs. “I don’t see why not. The house is big enough to fit half the village. I bet he won’t even be around for most of the day.”
Living together?
That sounds like the worst idea ever. Not only do I not know Patrick Walsh; we also seem to be allergic to each other.
“Give it a try while I settle your matter,” Duncan says, sensing my reluctance. “Best-case scenario, it’s only for a few days. A few weeks tops.”
Worst-case scenario, the whole thing could take months. Months I don’t have.
But what other choice do I have?
“Fine.” I smile. “I can endure his presence for a week or two.”
“That’s settled then.” He stands up, signaling he’s heading off again. I feel a little disappointed, but not enough to ask him to stay a bit longer. “If you need anything, you have my number. You can call me anytime.” There’s something in his tone that makes me look up. Our eyes connect. I think I catch something like a glint in his gaze. Even though it’s too fleeting to tell for sure, the way he hovers in the doorway, a little too close for comfort, tells me there’s some interest there.
“Thanks.” I shoot him a faint smile and head down the hallway. I can feel his gaze on me, hesitating, questioning. While I feel flattered, it also makes me feel uncomfortable. Duncan is a nice, good-looking man, but I’m not keen on romantic entanglements at the moment, and particularly not when I don’t even know where I’ll be in a few weeks’ time. For all I know, the house could be sold by then and I’ll be back in New York, ready to face the mess I’ve been running from.
Oh, whom am I kidding?
This isn’t about me leaving.
“Lori?”
I look up to meet Duncan’s gaze. He smiles, the thin skin around his eyes crinkling a little, and I realize he must have asked a question and he’s waiting for an answer.
“I’m sorry I was?—”
“Miles away?” He smiles again. “Happens to me all the time.”
I seriously doubt that. He seems too professional, like he has his life together. I, on the other hand?—
“I said I’ll be out of the country for a few days but when I get back I’d love to show you around a little, given that you’re a foreigner and all that.” He winks. “No pressure or anything. Just good old Irish hospitality.”
“No pressure?” In spite of my decision to keep my distance, I find myself smiling. “That sounds great. Where would you like to start?”
He grimaces in mock concentration. “We could start with the local pub. You haven’t really been to Ireland if you hadn’t seen the inside of a pub. It’s life changing.”
“What makes you think I haven’t been yet?”
“You can’t have been otherwise your life would already be changed,” Duncan says.
I laugh. “That makes zero sense.”
“You’ll see what I’m talking about. Next week, Saturday.”
“Sure,” I find myself saying before I get a chance to change my mind.
“It’s a date, then. You’ll have fun, I promise.”
Our eyes connect and there’s something like a glint of amusement in his. He lingers for a moment longer, as though he can’t quite bring himself to leave just yet. And then his cell phone rings and that decision is taken out of his hand. “Sorry, this is important.”
He shoots me an apologetic smile and presses his phone to his ear, mouthing “Next weekend”, before he answers in what I assume is his business voice, “Matt, do you have an update for me?”
I watch him head down the gravel path, his broad shoulders straining his shirt as he heads for his car, a sporty something I would have expected Patrick to drive.
Argh!
“Patrick again!” I mumble at myself and close the door, as though the mere gesture could get rid of my roommate’s image flashing before my eyes.
Roommate.
The word sends a shiver through me. Unfortunately, it’s not even the bad kind and that sets off the alarm bells ringing at the back of my mind. I should be upset at the thought of spending a week or more in that guy’s proximity, but for some reason I’m not.
I actually look forward to seeing a little bit more of him than I have so far. Maybe he’ll drop the towel next time. Wouldn’t that be a sight?