Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
“ T hey fit like a glove.” Mia coos and squeals with delight. “It’s like they were made for you.”
“I doubt the designer made them specifically for me bearing in mind the balance of my credit card.” I turn the speaker volume down before the entire population of Ireland can hear her gushing, and then proceed to remove the straps from around my ankles with one hand while holding my cell phone up with the other.
“So, what’s the plan?”
I hesitate because I still haven’t made up my mind. Wear them. Not wear them. Return them. Keep silent and end up with who knows what Duncan’s coming up next.
Maybe there won’t be a next time. Maybe the night will go so badly that he’ll be put off for good. He’s bound to realize I don’t live up to the fantasy image he has of me, whatever that may be. Given that we haven’t spoken more than a couple times and those few exchanges didn’t even extend to exchanging information on favorite foods, he’s bound to have a very distorted picture of who I am as a person.
“I think I’ll just go to the pub tonight, see what happens. You know how my dates usually go.” I only realize my blunder when it’s too late.
Mia doesn’t know anything about the pub or my date with Duncan. She doesn’t even know he exists.
Unfortunately, nothing ever escapes her attention.
“What pub, Lori? What date? You didn’t mention anything, unless it all happened since the last time we last spoke, which was last night. Have you been keeping secrets from me?”
Busted.
I cringe. “I wouldn’t call them secrets. You were busy and I didn’t want to distract you from your job.”
“Internship,” she corrects. “And I call that bullshit because all my internship’s done so far is perfect my skills in the craft of coffee running.”
I laugh. “Don’t forget the killer legs you’re getting thrown in as a bonus. I haven’t seen you in such good shape since high school.”
“That reminds me, I’d love to chat some more but the boss needs his clothes ironed,” Mia says. “Apparently he has to have half of his closet done by tomorrow otherwise the world will come to its untimely end. Guess who’s stuck doing it?”
“Can’t he just pay professionals to do it for him? No offense, but you can’t exactly be trusted with an iron or any household appliance for that matter.”
“None taken.” She sighs. “All the dry cleaners are either closed or unwilling to spend their Saturday night working their way through a mountain of Maxwell’s clothes.”
“How big is that closet?”
“Don’t ask. Let’s just say you could probably dress a small country.” She frowns. “I’ve called every dry cleaner within a twenty-mile radius. They either laughed in my face or told me to ‘bugger off,’ which I’ve learned is British for the F word and just as rude. I think some might have even blocked my number. Maxwell doesn’t care about any of that; the only thing he cares about is the perfect crispness of his cravat. I tried to tell him those went out of fashion in 1879 but apparently he thinks they’re having a revival. I wouldn’t be surprised to find I’m working for the only man who knows what they are.”
“And it can’t wait until Monday?”
She shakes her head.
“I’m so sorry, Mia. I know how horrible that must be for you.” Horrible is an understatement. More like “unnatural”. She doesn’t do housework. I also don’t remember the last time she stayed in on a Saturday night. Only a few months ago, I would never have imagined Mia being stuck at home ironing shirts while I got to hit the local pub in fuck-me heels.
“I wish I could just throw his clothes in his face and quit right on the spot. But I need this internship so that’s not an option. I’m trying to look on the bright side though,” she says.
“Which is?”
“This internship is going to open big doors for me so I’ll keep working my butt off. I’m not going to waste my breath feeling sorry for myself. The thing is I’m not sure I won’t end up burning a hole or two in his expensive wardrobe, and it wouldn’t even be on purpose. You know how bad I am at ironing.”
Or cooking. Or cleaning. Or anything that involves a house. Or garden. Or a pet.
“Remember that one time you wanted to heat up takeaway leftovers and the oven caught fire?” I shake my head. “Our landlord threatened to kick us out.”
“It wasn’t my fault. Takeaway containers should come with a warning that they’re not fireproof. But the firefighter was hot as hell. Too bad he was too busy putting out the fire and I didn’t get to ask for his number.”
I sigh, lost in reverie for a moment. Crazy as it always was with Mia around, I miss our college times, when life was hectic but somehow less complicated. Back then, I was still na?ve enough to think the world was our personal oyster and as long as we worked hard enough, anything was possible.
I learned my lesson the hard way.
“I need to get started,” Mia says, drawing my attention back to her. “But I’ll call you tonight and then you’re going to give me details. Lots and lots of them, preferably the raunchy kind.”
“Like I ever have any of those to share.” Patrick’s image pops into my head and my heartbeat spikes a little even though nothing dirty has happened so far.
Apart from that one kiss.
But, fuck, was it a good one.
I can’t stop thinking about it. Or about the morning after my arrival when he just barged into the guest house and looked at me like he wanted to throw the bed sheets aside and take me right there and then, when we hadn’t even exchanged names yet.
“Then get some,” Mia says. “Put on the shoes and flaunt those gorgeous legs of yours. Have fun. At least one of us should.”
I manage to disconnect the call without making any promises. By the time I head downstairs, it’s already noon and my stomach makes an un ladylike noise, reminding me that skipping a meal isn’t an option. That’s probably the reason why I gave up on shifting the extra padding around my hips years ago.
I push the door open and stop in my tracks as I almost trip over the traffic cones littering the floor. There’s also a stop sign and a note attached to it that reads:
PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING!
I frown.
The traffic cones are clearly dividing the space, leaving the dining table on my side, and the fridge, oven, and counters stocked with food—basically all the good stuff while the table is useless—on the other side.
What the?—
It takes me a full minute to make sense of the display before me. When the penny finally drops I laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Patrick asks, startling me.
My gaze flicks in the direction of the open door on my far left. It’s the pantry. I’ve only had a peek inside but it was enough to give me a clear picture of the mysterious housekeeper. Not only is she as efficient and organized as the president’s personal assistant; she’s clearly a fan of stocking up food for all kinds of occasions and emergencies. Like if an asteroid hits Earth and we’re forced to live inside our home for the next five years or until the thick layer of dust has settled and the air’s safe to breathe again.
Patrick’s standing at the door of the pantry, holding a bag of pre-packed brownie bites in one hand and a steaming cup in the other. I don’t need to ask what’s in that cup because the smell of hot chocolate and cinnamon wafts over, and damn, it smells so delicious I would probably sleep with him just for a little sip of it.
Blame it on my low blood sugar.
Or maybe it’s simply the fact that he looks delicious in a pair of jeans and a snug black shirt that emphasizes his bulging muscles.
“I thought you were only eating salad,” I say, ignoring his question.
“It’s Saturday. I need nourishment to keep me going through the night.” He winks meaningfully and, balancing the bag on his arm, pops a brownie bite into his mouth. No need to ask him to clarify. He’s young, insanely attractive, and the world is probably his oyster. Or at least half of the female population. The other half is either still in diapers or in a nursing home.
“Of course,” I mutter, my good mood instantly replaced by irritation at his insinuation. “Can you—” My voice breaks at the way his gaze seems to be glued to the front of my shirt. I can almost feel his touch on my skin, his hands caressing the two beads until they’re perfect peeks begging to be sucked into his mouth.
My nipples harden instantly.
Patrick’s brows shoot up. “Can I do what? Actually, I’m pretty sure I can.”
I groan inwardly. Yes, he’s hot and all that. But does he have to be so obnoxious about it?
“The fridge.” I point at the huge high-tech thing with its glass panel that turns see-through the moment you touch the glass. Right now, I’m so hungry it’s the stuff of my dreams. And those brownie bites he keeps popping into his mouth without offering me one aren’t helping. “Can you remove whatever this is that’s littering the floor so I can get there?”
He regards me until he’s done chewing, then takes a gulp of his delicious-smelling hot chocolate. “Sorry, can’t do. You see, that’s my part of the house. I can’t let a stranger in for obvious reasons. You could be a killer.”
I roll my eyes. “If I were a killer you’d be dead by now, what with those traffic cones doing nil to stop a raging maniac swinging a knife.”
He shrugs. “You have a point. But the answer’s still ‘no’. You want something to eat, you go and get it elsewhere.”
“Even though there’s a fully-stocked pantry behind you that belongs to me, you want me to drag myself all the way down the hill, and walk for miles and miles to find that fishmonger’s because Sinead’s café is closed?”
I can’t believe the cheek!
“A contract’s a contract,” Patrick says. “We both agreed on the rules, remember? I said you were not to enter any parts of my house. Your exact words were ‘sounds good to me.’”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
He shrugs again. “You could go hunting. There’s a rifle somewhere in your part of the house. I think my dad used it to scare the raccoons away or so he claimed.”
I blanch at his words. “Hunting? I’ve never killed anything in my life.”
“Relax, love. It was a joke. Contrary to your belief, we’re not barbarians. We don’t go hunting for our next meal because we have something called shops, you know.”
I smirk. “Looking at you, you could have fooled me.”
His jaw sets and his eyes harden. “Anyway, you know where the shops are. I suggest you get going soon, before the weather takes a turn for the worse.” He points out the window at the wind howling through the trees, rattling at the shutters and the treetops and anything that isn’t nailed to the ground. Even though I’m starving, there’s no way I’m heading out there on foot.
I swat my hand, like it’s no big deal. “It’s fine. I’m sure I’ll find some stray chocolate bar in my baggage somewhere. It might not be a five-star menu but it will tie me over until later tonight.”
His brows furrow. “Until later tonight?”
“My date?” I smile sheepishly. “Did I forget to mention it? Duncan’s taking me to the pub. Apparently there’s a talent show we’re going to watch. It’s bound to be fun.”
“Duncan?”
“Yes.” I take in his deepening frown and the way his eyes seem to darken a little. Is he jealous? He can’t be and yet I can’t help adding fuel to the fire, just in case there is a bit of that green-eyed monster in him and it’s rearing its ugly head. “The lawyer of the estate? Young, good-looking, flashy sports car. You met him the other day. You two seemed to know each other. Anyway, I can’t eat too much anyway. Who knows where the evening might take us, and I can’t risk looking bloated.” I wink, leaving the rest unspoken, my voice dripping with double meaning.
He takes a deep breath as he puts on a nonchalant expression, but his frown remains etched on his forehead.
Ha!
He can’t fool me. Maybe there is no love lost between Duncan and him. Or maybe he doesn’t like the fact that not every woman’s salivating over him. Whatever the reason, Patrick Walsh is jealous. I feel a little triumphant at that. Any victory is a victory, no matter how insignificant, and I’m in this battle to win it.
“ That’s your concern?” he says. “If you were naked and spread out on my bed, the last thing on your mind would be how you look. In fact, you wouldn’t be thinking straight at all, what with my tongue knowing how to make you forget the world around us.” He reaches me in a few long strides and holds out his bag of tartlets.
I stare at him, lost for words. He didn’t just say that! I must have misheard him because if he did it would imply that?—
“The plates are in your part of the kitchen. Get two.” Patrick points at the cabinets to my right and something like a smirk spreads across his gorgeous lips. My gaze is glued to them, and I’m suddenly wondering what he tastes like. Not just his mouth, but all of him. His skin. The lower part of his body. His gaze bores into me and his grin widens. “Cat got your tongue again? Want me to help you find it? I would be more than happy to. Just say the word.”
Can the guy read my thoughts or am I just an obvious idiot drooling all over him? His voice is deep and low and oozing with unspoken promises. My heartbeat quickens and a sizzling sensation travels through my core. I’m burning to take him up on whatever he has to offer.
Damn!
He probably wouldn’t even have to put much effort into anything. That voice alone, whispering sweet nothings into my ear, would be enough to make me come.
I inhale a sharp breath and take a big step back, infusing as much iciness into my voice as I can muster. “No, thanks. As much as I enjoy our meaningless conversation, I need to get ready.”
“What’s the rush? It’s not like Duncan will appreciate the effort. I, on the other hand, would know how to appreciate it in countless ways, over and over again.” He breaks off. The invitation is there, lingering in the air, clear and blatantly obvious. I bite my lip as I wonder what those countless ways are and whether they’d involve his bedroom or mine. Heck, I wouldn’t even need a bed. A sofa, wall, or even the backseat of a car would be good enough as long as he had his wicked ways with me.
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” I whisper more to myself than to him and turn to leave.
“Lori.”
Patrick’s deep grumble stops me mid-stride. I’m frozen to the spot as I realize I love the sound of his voice and the way my name rolls off his tongue. It feels right, like it belongs there. My chest tightens at the thought. Something’s happening. I don’t know what it is; I can’t put my finger on it. I just know that this goes beyond physical attraction.
I actually like him. Liking a man is a dangerous thing because it always leaves a backdoor open for more. There’s a difference between letting him take you to bed, then forgetting about him come morning, and letting him steal your heart.
Patrick Walsh strikes me as the kind of man who’s stolen a few hearts and left them shattered to pieces in his wake.
I turn to face him. His expression is pained, as though he’s struggling with something.
“What do you want?” I prompt.
“Help yourself to whatever you want. I mean it. What would people think of me if they found you starved to death in my house?” His pained expression is gone, replaced by his previous nonchalant smile. It’s beyond me how anyone can change moods so quickly, but Patrick seems quite skilled in it.
“They’d probably think nothing given that it’s my house now.”
His smile drops instantly. I don’t wait for his response; I just turn on my heels and march out the door, keeping my head high. Another triumph for me. Only, this one feels like a dirty move, a low blow that leaves me wondering whether what I’m doing is worth it.
The money from selling the place could help resolve my problems back home, but at what cost?
Once I’m back in my bedroom, I take out my cell phone and text the one person I thought I’d never want to see again.
My fingers fly over the touchscreen, deleting words here and there as I choose my phrasing carefully. In the end, I decide to keep it simple.
We need to talk. Text me back when you get the chance.
I send the text before I can change my mind, then bury my head in my pillow and let the tears flowing from my eyes stain the expensive cotton.
It was right after my graduation from college that I found out I had a half-brother. He had called out of the blue to congratulate me and got me a job with the same investment company he was working for. I thought we could be at least friends, if not family. I thought I could trust him. Until, one day, he called me to his office and fed me to the wolves.