Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
“ Y our secret admirer sure knows what women want.” Mia’s appreciative tone echoes through the speaker as I slowly hover the cell phone camera over the contents of the package, lingering on the expensive white box. Inside is a high-end bottle of bubble bath and body oil bedded on a generous pile of dried rose petals. I might not be familiar with luxury items, but even I can tell this isn’t cheap.
I sway the cell phone screen back onto me. “I don’t have a secret admirer.”
“ Another gift box? Looks like a secret admirer to me,” my best friend says.
She might have a point but the idea doesn’t sit well with me. These days, I don’t like drawing attention to myself. If I could just become invisible to the whole world I would. Being invisible might sound boring to some, but it’s safe. Following my own advice would have saved me a lot of trouble barely a year ago.
“Who do you think it is?” Mia asks, drawing my attention back to her.
I shake my head, signaling I have no idea. And even if I had, I probably wouldn’t tell her. As much as I love her, she is a bad influence when it comes to men. She’s a sucker for romance. She wouldn’t see a hot guy’s bad intentions if they came biting her in her perky backside. She’s been in love more times than the number of pairs of shoes she owns, and she’s a shoe hoarder. Have a good-looking male cashier at our local Walmart so much as smile her way and she’s already planning her wedding.
“No idea at all?” she persists.
I hesitate. I do have a suspect. Apart from the Grump, aka Patrick, Duncan is the only other male person I know around here.
He seems to have the cushioned bank account to afford spending a fortune on useless, albeit nice, stuff like toiletries and lingerie. He also screams good taste. And didn’t he express his regret at not bringing a welcome gift? But I can’t mention that to Mia or she might start sending out wedding invitations behind my back. She calls it “being a hopeless romantic”. I call it being delusional. We always end up agreeing in the middle. She’s a hopeless yet delusional romantic.
“You just hesitated,” Mia says. “Spill or I’m taking the next ferry.”
I laugh. “Now there’s a threat if I ever heard one. What are you going to do if I don’t tell you? Come over and force me into binge-watching Netflix with you? Pour the whole bottle of massage oil over my head and massage me into oblivion? Oh, the terror!”
“No.” She draws out the word as she considers her options. “I wouldn’t do any of that. Now that you have a secret admirer, you can’t spend your nights watching television or you’ll end up looking like the living dead in the morning. You can’t walk around looking like you’re in dire need of a coffee drip. I’ll just find your admirer and instruct him to use that oil on you, right after he’s drawn you a hot bath and spread all those rose petals on that gorgeous four-poster bed?—”
“That’s it,” I cut her off before she can get to the juicy parts of her tirade. Mia isn’t afraid of going into graphic details. I always thought she’d make a great smut author. “Remember the bad reception I was telling you about due to a wobbly cell tower shaking in the wind?”
She frowns. “You never mentioned anything like that or I would remember.”
My poker face is so bad Mia would see right through my bluff and call me out on it so I hold the cell phone away from my face and switch off the camera. With my hand muffling the mouthpiece, I yell, “It’s happening right now. The weather’s so bad the tower’s shaking again. The ground’s rattling from the vibrations. I’ll call you later when it’s safe to talk.”
A pause, then, “You totally made that up. Don’t you dare hang up on me, Lori!”
I laugh again. “Of course I made it all up, but you still love me.” Staring at the bright sun spilling through the high bay window, I swipe over the screen to end the call and drop the cell phone next to the gift box. My good mood instantly evaporates as I realize I have to do something about my so-called secret admirer; talk to him, let him off gently. I’m just not a big fan of confrontations or dashing other people’s hopes. Besides, he is my lawyer and might not take well to rejection.
I can’t risk delaying the necessary paperwork and prolonging my stay just because my good-looking lawyer’s sent me a gift. Better say nothing for the time being. Best-case scenario, he’ll take my silence for a lack of interest and then pretend it never happened to save face.
“Not a word it is,” I mumble to myself.
It’s a day later and my legs are still hurting from my first shift at Sinead’s café. I gaze longingly at the bubble bath bottle before I put the lid back on and stash the box at the bottom of the drawer, then close it with a little more force than necessary as I make up my mind not to touch it. I’ll just find a convenience store and buy something cheap with the same soothing effect at a fragment of the price. My aching muscles won’t know the difference.
I’ll do that as soon as I can find the strength to walk down that hill.
The whir and strangled rattling of a dying engine carries over from the window. I don’t need to look outside to know it’s Patrick’s monstrosity of a truck. It’s beyond me why he’s driving something that should have been in a scrapyard five years ago. At least he owns a car; I don’t. As much as I hate the idea of asking him for a favor, I need a few things from the shops. And who better to take me there than the local grumpy guy who probably grew up here and knows where to find everything on my shopping list?
I slip into a pair of jeans and a snug shirt, then head down the stairs, wincing with every step. The weather looks balmy enough so I don’t bother to grab my jacket from the hall. Once I’ve stepped outside, a chilly gust of wind hits me and I realize sunshine in Ireland doesn’t necessarily equal shorts and a need for shades. The air’s so cold my face instantly goes numb. Wrapping my arms around myself to keep warm, I peer at the truck. No one’s inside. The guy moves fast, I’ll give him that.
I look around, frowning. Where the heck is he?
“Hey!” I yell because I don’t feel like searching the whole property only to find him sitting on the couch, engaged in yet another one of his hobbies that probably has its own fan following.
My voice is swallowed by the wind. Grimacing, I follow my intuition and go around the house, figuring if he entered the house we would have met in the hall.
I spy him in the backyard, crouching near some shrubs, doing who knows what. His back is turned to me so I yell, “Hey, you!”
He turns around and rises to his feet, stretching to his entire height, all 6’3” of it, his gaze settling on me with a frown. “My name’s Patrick.”
“I don’t care. It’s not like there’s any need for me to remember it.”
His brows shoot up and something like amusement flickers in his gaze, “Actually, there is.”
“Why?” I ask warily.
“Because you’ll need to know it when I make you scream my name.”
I stare at him, taking in the way something flickers in his expression. It takes a moment or two for the meaning of his words to sink in.
“You’ve got to be joking,” I say, my voice strangely hoarse.
“Am I though?” In spite of his lopsided grin, the expression in his stormy eyes is dead serious.
Something like heat rushes through me, pooling between my legs in that tugging sensation that tells me I must have lost my marbles. The guy’s sexual innuendos are so out of the blue and cheap I should feel disgusted. And they disgust me, obviously, but not as much as they turn me on. It’s clear the guy is a player, and probably a successful one at that.
Through the thin fabric of my top, my nipples stand on high alert, though I can’t tell whether it’s from the cold breeze or the way his gaze seems drawn to my chest. He’s staring at my breasts, sporting a hint of a smile, not caring that I am actually watching him doing it so blatantly. I cross my arms over my chest to cover the traitors, but only manage to push them farther up.
“Can I help you with anything?” Patrick asks.
Why does everything that comes out of his man’s mouth sound like an open invitation to join him in his bed? Or maybe it’s just my dirty imagination that’s running rampant around him, and I can’t even blame Mia for it because she’s not around to point out just how gorgeous the guy is.
Maybe the jet lag’s still messing with my hormones.
I clear my throat and turn around to gaze at the garden, at anything but him. Maybe that will keep me from turning into a lusty teenage girl before the end of the week. “Yes, you can. I need you to do me a favor.”
He shifts behind me, his proximity instantly sending my senses into overdrive. I can feel his hot breath on the nape of my neck as he says, “What’s that favor you need? Tell me and I’ll be more than happy to oblige. I like to take care of my roses almost as much as I like to take care of my woman.”
My breath catches in my throat.
His woman.
Singular.
Who is he actually talking about? And is he a one-woman guy after all? My curiosity’s killing me but I bite my lip to stop myself from asking. Patrick Walsh’s love life is none of my freaking business. He’s probably far from being a saint…or single. I don’t need to know the number of his conquests, past or present. What’s bothering me though is the way his mouth seems to hover inches from my skin, sending strong jolts of deliciousness through my body.
There’s an insinuation there, plain obvious in the way he seems to caress my body without so much as a single touch.
He likes to take care of his woman.
He can’t possibly be talking about me because I doubt he even remembers my last name. Is it possible that he might be scared I’ll actually get ownership of the house and in order to stay, he has to stay on my good side?
It’s conceivable but not very likely. I can’t imagine Patrick Walsh sucking up to anyone.
It’s probably just a ploy to get into my panties. He’s trying to see how far he can go, toy with me a little, make me drop my guard, and then swoop in and get rid of me.
That’s not happening. Not in a million years.
Two can play that game. His brazenness is no match for mine.
I take a step aside to put some much-needed distance between us, then turn to face him.
“I need you to take me shopping,” I say.
He glances at the watch around his wrist, like he needs to be somewhere soon. “When?”
“Now. And make sure you cancel all other appointments. It might take a while. After all, you take good care of your woman, or so you claim.” I narrow my eyes in challenge, waiting to see whether he’ll put me right by revealing who this mystery woman is.
It certainly can’t be me.
“I don’t claim things. I stick to my word,” Patrick proclaims with a glint of determination in his eyes. His arrogance is just as monumental as his pride. I can’t help but wonder whether it’s an Irish thing. “Get your handbag or fanny pack or whatever it is you carry while I get the truck ready. And don’t dawdle.”
Fanny pack? He must be messing with me again. The guy has a bit of a sense of humor, I’ll give him that.
“I’m happy to inform you that I do not ever dawdle.” I bounce back to the house. Maybe the whole temporary house sharing isn’t so bad after all. It does come with a few perks, like my own chauffeur now that I think I’ve figured out his soft spot.
His ego.
I’m giddy with excitement at the thought that I’ve just won one of our little battles. The feeling only lasts until Patrick calls after me, “And put a jacket on. We wouldn’t want the entire male population in the village having wet dreams about your hard nipples just because I have that effect on you.”
I’m glad my back’s turned to him and he can’t see my face catching fire.
He noticed. Argh!
“It’s not you; it’s the cold,” I yell.
“Whatever you say.” He laughs, the irritating noise vibrating through me long after I’m in my bedroom flicking through my wardrobe for something more suitable to wear. Preferably something that hides any signs of my attraction to him. Unfortunately, I didn’t think of packing an astronaut suit so a thick sweater will have to do.