Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
“ G ood news. My assistant’s finally got a hold of Judge Morris. He’s promised to look at the documents within a week, two tops, and schedule an appointment with me. The ball’s finally rolling. Don’t forget our plans for Saturday next week. I look forward to showing you the biggest attraction here.”
Duncan’s words keep echoing in my mind as I rush around Sinead’s café, selling freshly baked hot cross buns and other mouthwatering goods while keeping a vacant smile plastered to my face.
The ball’s finally rolling.
Does that mean I’ll be gone sooner than I thought?
I can’t dwell on that, not when I don’t know how I feel about it.
Luckily for me, it’s a busy day with customers hurrying in and out every few minutes so no one notices my tension.
People seem on edge today. No one’s keen on lingering more than necessary and the box of bestselling books I unpacked this morning stays untouched for the best part of the day.
“It’s the weather.” Sinead points at the window and the overcast sky outside, as though reading my mind. “It makes people want to stay at home, tucked in with a hot cuppa and a nice piece of cake. I can’t blame them; I’d do the same if I didn’t have a business to run. Storms around here can be quite nasty. We’ve even had roofs flying off houses. People don’t feel like immersing themselves in a good book when they have other things to worry about.” She catches my anxious glance and pats my hand reassuringly. “Oh, no. You’ll be fine. It’s not going to be so bad this time.”
I return her smile even though I’m not convinced she’s not playing it all down.
The heavy, dark clouds have been there for the last few days, since that kiss, to be more precise. If I were superstitious I’d say it’s a sign telling me that I made a complete fool of myself and I’m officially an idiot.
I have no other words to describe myself other than that my brain must have deserted me when I put myself in that situation in the first place. Patrick’s dislike of me has been evident on more than one occasion. The kiss meant nothing. He got caught up in the moment while I almost threw myself at him, reading too much into the whole situation.
It was just a kiss, Lori! Albeit an earth-shattering one.
As I greeted my lawyer, Patrick’s truck dashed past, and I haven’t seen him since. It’s been a few days. Yes, I’ve been counting, getting more irritated by the hour that he would so blatantly avoid me. It’s none of my business where he’s spending his time. I shouldn’t be keeping track of his comings and goings. He owes me no explanation just because we live in the same house and kissed once .
I know that and yet ? —
Seriously, where the heck is he?
And what did that kiss do to me that I literally cannot stop thinking about him? I also can’t stop wondering what he’s doing when he’s not around.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I barely notice when Sinead announces it’s closing time. She presses another goodie bag into my hands and ushers me out the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Did I miss something?
I press my hand against the doorframe before she can slam it in my face. “Wait, did you say tomorrow night?”
“You didn’t pick up on it?” she asks in disbelief. “There hasn’t been talk of anything else for a week. Half the village’s gathering at the Four Bell’s for our local talent competition. Actually, it’s not really a competition. We have the same winner every year so people mostly come for the free ale, but—” She shrugs her shoulders. “It’s always great to catch up with people. You should come. The food’s really good, and did I mention the ale’s free?”
A social gathering?
I open my mouth to tell her I’m not a fan of those but stop when I remember Duncan mentioning something about wanting to take me to the local pub on Saturday. I completely forgot to cancel that and my good manners forbid me to do it a day before the actual date. But given that the Four Bells is the only pub in the area and Duncan’s date coincides with the talent show the whole thing doesn’t sound like a date at all. There’s going to be plenty of other people present, so it’s definitely not the romantic setting I feared he might go for after sending me the gifts.
Besides, a talent show does sound like fun.
“I must have missed that,” I say. “That’s tomorrow? I’ll see you there.”
“Six p.m. sharp. Don’t bother to doll up. Most people will be too inebriated to notice,” Sinead says and closes the door in my face.
What feels like an eternity later, I’ve arrived home, kicked off my old pair of sneakers, and am ready for a nice, hot shower. After losing my job in Manhattan, I spent the last couple months working for minimum wage in various food establishments, but my legs can’t take the exertion of climbing up that steep hill once a day.
I step out of my clothes, kicking them into a tiny heap near the bathroom door, and step into the luxurious walk-in shower, eager to let the cascading waterfall massage all my knots and pains away. It took me a few attempts to figure out the modern high-tech panel but now I know exactly what I want. I press the button to choose the temperature and switch on the faucet, lifting my head and closing my eyes in eager anticipation.
A torrent of ice-cold water pours down, drenching me from head to toe. It feels like I’ve just stepped out of a Swedish sauna right into the freezing cold of the Antarctic. I let out a startled yelp and jump a step back, but the showerhead covers the entire shower space so there’s nowhere to hide from the tiny icicles raining down on me. By the time I find the right button to switch it off, my body is covered in goosebumps.
I don’t even think about reaching for the towel to dry myself. I just jump out of the shower and onto the tiled floor, leaving huge puddles all over the place as I return to the bedroom and the first warm thing I can get my hands on. I grab the bedspread and wrap it around my shivering body, then sit down on the edge of the bed. Water’s dripping from my wet hair, soaking the bedding, but I don’t care.
Something’s wrong.
Pulling my legs to my chest to warm up, I peer around me to take in the room, scanning every surface to figure out what’s rung my alarm bells. As far as I can tell, everything’s as I left it—everything but the stack of wood arranged next to the open fireplace.
It’s not there.
That’s when I realize the room’s freezing cold. Is the heating not working? It sure was this morning when I stepped out of my cozy bed and spent half an hour sitting in front of the window relaxing and enjoying the view while checking in with Mia. Compared to this, it felt like I was in the Bahamas and the only thing lacking was a Bahama Mama with a little umbrella to top it up.
Did someone forget to pay the bill? Come to think of it, wouldn’t that someone be me? Maybe there’s a switch somewhere and it only needs to be pressed or flipped and everything’s going to be cozy again.
Heaving a sigh filled with regret at leaving behind the comfort of my bedspread, I squeeze back into my work clothes and make my way downstairs to check for anything resembling a mechanical room, which I expect to find somewhere in the basement or maybe the garage. Obviously, that’s something I should have done upon my arrival but I didn’t think I would stay long enough to need to familiarize myself with the heating system.
I make it to the first floor when I hear noises coming from the kitchen. Given that Patrick’s truck wasn’t in the driveway and I didn’t hear a car pulling up, I can’t rule out the possibility of a home invasion. My heartbeat picks up in speed and cold sweat begins to trickle down my back as my mind goes through all the steps I would take back home.
Call 911.
That isn’t an option; what with Patrick mentioning the only local man of the law being a regular at the Four Bells after working hours and hence not available to take calls.
Don’t play the hero; usually they’re the first person to find their untimely demise.
That sounds like great advice. But running isn’t an option either because I would have to pass the kitchen on the way out. I could climb out a window but I’m not keen on killing myself either. In the end, it all comes down to taking matters into my own hands. I may not be an expert in kickboxing but I sure know how to swing a bat. So I grab a hold of the first heavy item I can spy—a silver candleholder that weighs more than my oversized, overpacked handbag—and tiptoe down the hall.
The door’s ajar and the noises carrying over sound like someone’s frying something. Sure enough the smell of toasted cheese is wafting over.
Is the burglar making himself a sandwich?
I push the door open and step inside, my gaze instantly settling on Patrick who’s busy placing a toasted sandwich onto a plate garnished with more salad than I usually eat in a year.
“Want some?” He crosses the kitchen in a few long strides and holds out the plate when his gaze lowers to the candleholder. “Were you going to rob your own place? Let me save you the trouble. It’s not worth more than a pint down at the pub. Now, the lion head, on the other hand—” He winks, meaningfully.
My heart flips at the way his eyes twinkle. He’s so stunning, for an instant I forget to breathe.
“Funny!” Smirking, I put the candleholder on a nearby counter and regard the sandwich. There’s so much salad on that plate, I actually feel healthier just by looking at it.
“Not your thing? Suit yourself.” He shrugs and tosses some lettuce into his mouth, chewing slowly.
“You plan on living past a hundred?” I sit down at the table to watch him eat. Even that’s fascinating about him, which annoys the hell out of me.
“Maybe. I can’t imagine anything more beautiful than growing old with the woman you love while raising a bunch of children and grandchildren.”
I stare at him for a long moment, unsure whether he’s joking, but his expression is serious, almost rueful. “You want to get married?” I ask.
“One day, when I find the right one, yes.” His gaze settles on me and a shadow crosses his face. “Why?”
“Nothing. I just—” I clear my throat and shrug, choosing to keep my thoughts to myself.
Clearly, Patrick isn’t someone who ever drops a subject. “Didn’t peg me for the marriage type?”
No, I didn’t.
He pushes his plate aside and sits back in his chair, waiting for my answer.
“Honestly, I don’t know you well enough to have you pegged down for any type.” Big lie. I hold his gaze in the hope he won’t see right through it. The truth is I saw “player” and “fuck boy” stamped across his forehead the moment his lady friends turned up in the driveway.
“Is that so?” He raises his brows.
I open my mouth to deny the obvious or apologize or say something , but no words make it out. A few moments of awkward silence seem to stretch into an hour.
Patrick breaks the ice first. “Two people whose lives are intertwined, sitting together outside every night to watch the night sky—I can’t imagine a scene more beautiful than that.”
I laugh.
His brows shoot up again and another shadow crosses his features. “What’s so funny about that?”
“Sorry, I’m just—” I clear my throat to regain my composure.
“Not the romantic type, I gather?”
I ponder his question for a moment. “I’m just your usual cynic, that’s all. I really don’t see the appeal in all that twosome nonsense.”
“Then you’ve never been in love.”
His statement hits a soft spot. I hesitate, unsure what to say to that. Have I ever been in love? I thought so on several occasions, mostly during my adolescent years. In retrospect, I realize they were little crushes based on as much substance and common ground as thin air.
But real love?
“I guess it never happened to me.” I smile and lift my legs to my chest, balancing my bare feet on the edge of the chair. His gaze instantly moves to my legs and lingers a little longer than necessary. Heat rushes up my neck and my heartbeat speeds up, beating frantically in my chest.
He makes me nervous, though I can’t tell whether it’s just pure, undiluted attraction or because there’s something about him that screams confidence and experience.
His gaze lifts to meet mine and something passes between us. It’s invisible and fleeting, but like an earthquake, it reverberates through me, leaving little cracks and crevices in its wake.
“You’re waiting out on a hero,” Patrick says.
I laugh awkwardly. “I wouldn’t say that. I’m not one to wait on anyone. Life’s too fleeting; there’s too much to do and see to spend the precious time we have in the waiting line.”
“It was a wordplay,” Patrick says. “Waiting out on a hero?”
I gawk at him, not getting the drift.
He shakes his head, incredulous. “Tina Turner? The famous singer? Doesn’t ring any bells?”
“The name sounds familiar but I can’t place it.”
“You really are clueless when it comes to music.” He laughs, but there’s something heavy about it, as though he can’t quite believe it.
“It’s not a big deal to me.” I shrug. “I just don’t like it and that’s that.”
“Who doesn’t like music? How is that even possible?”
The question makes me slightly defensive. Clearly, music means something to him, but I’m not going to pretend that I’m a different kind of person for a guy, not even for someone as good-looking as Patrick. “I’m sure plenty of people prefer the peace and quiet that come with no banging on or thrumming an instrument or a stranger’s yowling intruding in your thoughts.”
“I guess. Stranger things have happened.” He clears his throat, indicating an imminent change in subject. I’m glad he’s not trying to dig deeper. Most people aren’t interested, and he’s no exception to the rule. People usually take my dislike of music for what I make it out to be—a simple aversion to it. No one knows that, as a child, my father used to take me with him to every gig. No one knows I cherished those moments with him when that mutual love for music seemed to strengthen our bond to the point that he became something of a superhero to me.
That was before he decided to take off with a groupie ten years his junior, leaving my mother drowning in a mountain of debt while taking care of a little child and working every kind of an honest job she could get her hands on. Needless to say, his superhero image took a nosedive soon after and he became the enemy, together with all the things we used to love doing together.
The memory of my father’s betrayal brings me back to reality. I’m not here to make friends or share my bed with this guy. I’m here because I’ve inherited his house and need the money that comes with it.
“Back to why my hair’s dripping all this water onto the floor.” I straighten in my chair. If he can sense the sudden iciness in my tone, he doesn’t remark on it.
“Yes?”
“I can’t take a shower. There’s no warm water.”
“Hm.” He doesn’t seem surprised or worried. In fact, he shows no reaction at all. I narrow my eyes at him as my suspicious nature kicks in.
“You’re to blame for that, aren’t you?”
“Lori.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. His eyes focus on me and the determination I thought I saw before is back in place. “This is my family’s home. I grew up here. I’ve lived here most of my life. My mother must have lost her marbles leaving it to a complete stranger, and apparently the will’s bulletproof so there’s nothing I can do about it. But did you really think I’d make it easy on you? Go down without a fight?” His voice is calm and collected, but his rumbling Irish accent comes through stronger than before. Even though he doesn’t show it, I know he’s emotional about it. I can see it in his eyes. It’s emanating from him in long, invisible waves.
And who wouldn’t be under such circumstances?
I want to apologize but the words don’t make it past my lips, probably because his position is understandable, and so is his instant aversion to the stranger who’s about to take away something that should be his. I can’t agree with him by saying sorry and then continue to stake a claim to the estate.
“Look, Patrick. I—” I stop mid-sentence. I understand, I want to say, but what’s the point? It’s not like I can change anything. “So you just switched off the hot water? That’s mean and petty.”
He raises his brows. “Really? You call me mean and petty?”
“I didn’t ask your mother to leave all of this to me.” I point around me.
“Maybe. But you could have declined. You could have had the decency to pass on it and return it to the rightful heir. She and I were family. You aren’t.” The rumbling accent is so strong now, I’m having trouble understanding him.
Suddenly I feel faint, probably because his words ring painfully true. I’m not family. I didn’t earn any of this. And yet?—
“I can’t do that. I can’t just decline,” I whisper. “And please don’t ask me why not because I can’t tell you.”
He nods and heaves a sigh of resentment. Maybe he’s reached a state of acceptance, knowing there’s nothing he can do that could change the outcome of the situation.
I smile weakly and push up to my feet. “Thanks for the talk. And please just be reasonable and switch on the hot water. Taking cold showers isn’t my thing. I wouldn’t want to have to complain to Duncan about it.”
“Sit down.” His voice is sharp, leaving no room for discussion.
“What?” I stare at him, frozen to the spot. Did he just use that tone with me?
“I said sit down.” He leans over and points at the chair. I obey his request, though I don’t know why. “I agree that the whole hot water thing was petty, and I will switch it back on. However, given that you’re not going anywhere and I sure as hell won’t be packing my bags until that lawyer of yours specifically presents me with the paperwork that legally forces me out, I see no other option than to make a contract. We can share a house for a limited time. You state your conditions and I’ll state mine.”
I grimace. A contract? Just like the cold showers, those don’t feature highly on my favorites list.
He pauses until I’ve nodded that I understand, then gets up and disappears out of the kitchen for a minute, calling over his shoulder, “Don’t go anywhere.”
I want to call after him that he can’t tell me to stay put because I’m not a dog, meaning I don’t follow commands. But he’s already back with a pen and writing pad before I’ve even managed to open my mouth.
“I’ll start,” Patrick says.
I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of what he’s jotting down. His handwriting is surprisingly neat with a slight slant to it. I can make out single words but my angle renders it impossible to read the whole sentence. All I can see is the word CONTRACT at the top, followed by 1.
“We’re dividing the house in half so we can keep out of each other’s way for most of the time. You are not to enter any parts of my house,” he reads out loud.
“Sounds good to me. The less contact we have with each other, the better. In fact, let’s make it a priority not to see each other ever again. How about that?” I grab the pen out of his hand to write down: And you are not to enter any parts of my house, then stop mid-writing. “Wait a minute. Who gets the foyer?”
“That would be me.”
I narrow my eyes at his grin. He thinks he’s so clever. “If I’m not to enter your half of the house and the foyer belongs to you, then how am I supposed to enter and leave my bedroom?”
Crossing his arms over his broad chest, he regards me sheepishly. “How about jumping out the window? It’s not exactly high. You could also climb back up. There’s a rose rank right outside. It will probably hold your weight.” His gaze brushes over the front of me, seemingly unconvinced.
Does he think me fat?
Who cares anyway?
I don’t need the guy’s approval. In fact, I couldn’t care less if he finds me attractive or not when I don’t like him.
Nope.
Not. One. Bit.
I smirk. “Aren’t you hilarious? Must be the Irish wit in you.”
“No,” Patrick says. “It’s pure, undiluted sarcasm.”
My temper flares. I’ve always prided myself in not being an angry person, but damn, the guy really knows how to bring out the worst in me.
I shake my head slowly. “No, I think it’s called being a jerk.”
He laughs. “Or that. But let’s face it. You’re not going anywhere so what’s a man to do other than bring out the big guns?”
“Want to bet mine are bigger than yours?” I toss the notepad back at him. “Forget the darn contract. You want war? Fine. I’ll give you war. I’ll kick your butt so hard, you won’t be able to sit on it for the rest of the year.”
He peers at me, eyes wide with mock fear. I can tell he’s actually laughing his head off because there’s that sparkle in his eyes—the one that’s always there when he’s not taking me seriously.
“What are you going to do, love? Tell all those old ladies frequenting Sinead’s café so they can get out their knitting needles to knit me a horrid cardigan to scare me out of my house?”
I wink. “You bet I will. If I were you I’d be scared out of my freaking mind. They might look like an old bunch of ladies to you, but you never know who they were when they were young.”
“You forget I grew up here. I’ve known them my whole life, each and every one of them,” Patrick says coolly.
“Yes, but did you ever listen to their stories? The ones told in the men’s absence, behind closed doors, over a cup of tea and an insanely delicious piece of pie? I bet not since you’re not wearing a skirt. I, on the other hand, have because it comes with the job description. They could have been secret agents or”—I tap a finger against my lips in fake concentration—“the housewife who killed four husbands and buried them all in her backyard, right under the rosebushes.”
“Four husbands? That must be Harriet. She went through men like some people go through their underwear drawer.” He pauses, thinking. “Then again, as far as I know they’re all still alive.”
“My point is that they like me a lot and even offered their help.” I raise my brows meaningfully.
Patrick wavers before he asks, “Offered their help to do what?”
I shrug and smile. “As Shakespeare once said, mum’s the word.”
For a moment, I think I see something like concern in his eyes. Maybe he isn’t the tough guy he thinks he is. Maybe it’s all just pretense, and underneath he’s insecure and scared like everyone else out there.
“Under the rosebushes, you say?” He tosses his head back and laughs.
I stare at him as his laughter vibrates through me, rattling me in all the wrong places. A tingle gathers inside my abdomen and travels down, settling between my legs, which annoys the hell out of me. My nipples suddenly stand on full alert, like they’re ready and begging for his attention.
The traitors!
I narrow my eyes at him and cross my arms over my chest to hide the visible consequences of his effect on me. “What’s so funny?”
He shakes his head before he replies. “Your fictitious story and that you should mention Shakespeare. My picture of you is complete.”
“Which is?”
Damn! Why did I ask? I’m not even interested in what he thinks of me.
Nope. Nada. Not one bit.
“You were the unpopular kid who didn’t have real friends so you always had your nose stuck in a book, probably the ancient stuff where the men wore pantaloons and serenaded underneath windows at night, and the ladies hid their toothless smiles behind handkerchiefs and were chaperoned everywhere. That also explains why you know nothing about music. It’s unchartered territory for you, which is why you’re not keen on treading on it. You like to play it safe, stick to what you know.” He stops and cocks a brow. “Need I go on?”
Hot waves of annoyance begin to pour through me.
Did he just describe me as boring and safe?
Apart from the music, he’s not far off, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with his spot-on description of me. Yes, I loved old books, but only because the men weren’t jerks like my father. For a long time, I clung to the fantasy that one day I’d meet my own prince charming despite meeting only jerks.
I see what I must do. My purpose is crystal clear. This isn’t about the house. It’s about Roisin’s son. She wanted me here. She wanted me to bring her rebellious son to his knees or why else would she have left her home to a complete stranger, probably knowing well that he would fight his corner?
It might sound a bit far-fetched, but I’m running out of possible explanations.
“Someone’s seen a few too many shrinks in his life. Leave that line of work to the professionals because you suck at it.” I smile. “I’ll see you later, Mr. Walsh.”
He reaches for me. His fingers touch my arm, then pull back quickly, as though scorched. “Wait! What’s your plan? Why are you so smug?”
“You just wait and see.” I walk out before he can realize I have no game plan. But I’m confident I’ll come up with one soon.
Patrick Walsh is going down.