Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
SEBASTIAN
“I had a premonition last night.”
It’s probably not the weirdest sentence ever heard in this house, but the newspaper stays covering my face anyway. My grandmother is angling for something, and the longer I maintain my ignorance, the longer the bliss. It’s kind of our thing.
“Really?” I say blandly. “That’s nice.”
“Don’t you want to know what it was about?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me, Gran. You always do.”
She titters at that. “Cheeky, like your grandfather.”
“I learned from the best.”
She’s quiet then, distracted by the memory of him. It softens her age-weathered smile and turns her eyes hazy for a beat or two. The image is so visually sharp, I don’t need to look to see it unfold.
“Speaking of,” Gran says, “I’ll be seeing him soon.”
I let out a soft, near silent sigh.
Here we go…
“Huh. That’s interesting?—”
“Isn’t it?”
“Especially since he died eight years ago.”
“Yes, well, that’s what my premonition was about. I feel like this Christmas will be my last.”
There’s a clang of cutlery against fine china plates.
“Don’t say that,” Charlotte begs.
My daughter’s voice strangled with alarm has me lowering the newspaper finally. Like most mornings—afternoons and evenings too—she’s acted like we don’t exist since the moment we sat down for breakfast, so to say I’m shocked by her acknowledgement is an understatement.
She’s thirteen going on thirty and glued to her phone usually, but right now she’s the five-year-old who begged me to check under her bed for monsters and peppered my cheek with Charlie-kisses announcing I was the bestest daddy ever .
These days I’m an embarrassment, the I-don’t-want-to-be-seen-dead-with-you dad .
It’s not pleasant, but we’ve all been there.
“Ah, so you can hear us when we talk, Charlie. Good to know.”
“It’s Charlotte, Father ,” she replies, all surly sarcasm and rolling eyes, even though the not-so-little terror knows I hate being called that.
Touché.
I guess she learned from the best too.
“Also, nice segue there, Gran. Masterful, in fact.”
“Wasn’t it?” There’s a smugness colouring that smile now, though she tries to hide it behind a sip of tea. Somehow my grandmother has only grown more cunning with age.
Perhaps we learned it all from her instead.
“It’s only November though,” I counter. “Bit early to be having premonitions about Christmas, don’t you think?”
She hums in response, hand quivering as she sets down her cup into its matching saucer, her dexterity not what it used to be.
“Obviously they want me to be prepared to cherish the time we have left.” She pinches a slice of toast from the toast rack and slathers it with butter, the scrape of her knife an irritating melody in the otherwise quiet dining room. “It’s very considerate of them actually.”
Fucking hell.
“Them?”
“I don’t like this, Granny.”
“Oh, darling, I know. But death is a part of life. It’s nothing to be afraid of.” She pats Charlotte’s hand, a there there gesture of little comfort given the deepening frown on my daughter’s face.
Annoyance curdles in my chest. I’ve never hidden these kinds of topics from her, but I also don’t want to slap her in the face with it unless absolutely necessary. Knowing my grandmother, nothing about this conversation is necessary in the slightest.
What is she up to?
“Even so, it’s a bit morbid. Can we maybe change the subject for now?”
“You’re not being very supportive, Sebastian. I raised you better than this.”
Smothering another sigh, I fold my newspaper slowly and set it to one side.
As the estate manager there are a million things I should be doing right now. Along with our annual Bonfire Night display tonight, we’re creeping up to the busiest time of year in the Walmsley Manor House social calendar, which requires a whole lot of coordination and decorating to prepare for the multitude of festive events. That’s on top of the general running of the estate and the twelve acres of surrounding gardens and farmland.
I don’t have time for whatever trick my grandmother has up her sleeve, but I find myself saying, “What do you want me to do?”
How could I not? This woman basically raised me.
Gran brightens immediately. “Well, obviously I need to work on my Christmas wish list. You’ll help fulfil your grandmother’s dying wishes in time for Christmas, won’t you?”
“You’re not dying,” Charlotte snaps, an eerie echo of my own thoughts.
Aside from a slight decline in mobility, my grandmother is in perfect health. A health she attributes to daily walks in our fresh country air, and a nightly tipple of sherry from the local Cotswolds distillery. After her yearly check-up two months ago, she spent weeks telling the entire village she has the heart of an ox and a fifty-year-old, which is no easy feat.
Still, regardless of her good health, she is seventy-five and if something might make her happy in these later years, I’m gonna do it.
I guess that’s our thing too.
“I’ll do what I can,” I tell her.
“Good. I’m glad you said that because it’s my dearest wish to see you settled down. So you better get to work on finding yourself a wife.”
What.
The.
Fuck.
“Excuse me?”
“No, you’re right. It’s only eight weeks till Christmas. A wife is asking too much. A girlfriend will do.”
Charlotte snorts a laugh.
“What are you talking about? Did you fall in the shower and hit your head again?”
“No. I use the shower seat now, since you won’t stop nagging me about it. Just like your grandfather. Nag, nag, nag.”
“It’s because I care about you and want you safe. Should I call the doctor?”
“I haven’t hit my head, Sebastian. I am of perfectly sound mind.”
“Yes, the premonitions really give that away.”
“Did I say premonitions?”
“Yes. Not even five minutes ago.”
Gran hums, the same airy dismissive tone she uses when being purposely obtuse. “I don’t think so. I’m certain I said it was a dream.”
I slump against the table and pinch the bridge of my nose, as if the action will rein in my frustration somehow.
“What do you think about Sasha Smith?”
She’s killing it with the segues this morning because what the hell?
“I love Sasha,” Charlotte announces dreamily.
“Me too. I know I’m biased because Rose was one of my dearest friends and of course I’d like her granddaughter, but…” Gran stares off unseeing, her mouth settling into a fond smile. “Isn’t she lovely?”
Well…
The woman is a fucking knockout, there’s no denying it. I’m a big guy and I like my women to match. Nothing gets me off more than a thick, curvy body, the kind of bountiful I can really sink in to, and the thought of a breast too big for the size of my hand has me on the edge of absolutely feral.
So yeah, Sasha is my type and then some. She’s a goddamn walking wet dream, always teasing me with those wide hips and thick thighs, that perfect plump ass prime for a spanking. Then there’s her hair. I’ve always had a thing for redheads, but those copper curls bounce to their own beat sometimes, a striking contrast to her grass green eyes and freckle-dotted skin…
Fuck.
I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been struck dumb by the sight of her and that’s not a universal experience for me. But lovely?
If looks could kill, I’d be dead a hundred times over. I’m still not sure why.
Okay, so I freely admit I’m not the most sociable of people, thanks to years of being followed, harassed, and photographed during the height of my rugby career. I never quite got over seeing my most traumatic and career-ending moment plastered on the front-page news either, though I’ve tried.
And sure, I’m known to be a bit prickly whenever forced to make an appearance in the village—fêtes, festivals, workshops, best-vegetable-of-the-month award ceremonies, you name it, Walmsley does it—but none of that warrants the death stares Sasha sends my way.
It’s a shame really. There’ve been times I thought maybe we could have some fun together. Lord knows there’s a lack of it in this village sometimes. But I prefer my women more pliant in my arms and less like they want to wring my neck.
“I don’t think about Sasha Smith at all, Gran. Why do you ask?”
“Hmm. Just wondering. Perhaps someone else will catch your eye then.”
“That’s assuming I’m even looking, which I’m not. Just so we’re clear.”
“If you say so, dearest,” she says brightly. “Oh, before I forget, I’ve hired Sasha to do the Christmas decorations again.”
“No.”
Absolutely not.
The thought of Sasha running around the manor in her tight jeans, ignoring my suggestions, and scaring me half to death climbing on teetering ladders fills me with dread.
I can’t do it.
I won’t.
“Why not?” Gran asks.
“No. I told you after last time. Never again.”
“I don’t remember that. You must be imagining things.”
“Gran, come on.”
“Or maybe it’s my hearing. You know how things get at my age.”
“I know what you’re doing, Edith .”
“Do you? That’s good. So we’re on the same page then.”
“Fuck my life.”
“Sebastian! Don’t be so uncouth. We’re eating. Besides, I thought you’d appreciate some help this year. We don’t want you aggravating your knee again. You limped for almost a week after you put up all the lights last time.”
I clamp my eyes closed, resignation curving my spine. “I’m not gonna win this one, am I?”
My grandmother won this round before it even started.
Across the table, Charlotte chomps away at her cereal, trying not to smile. “Don’t ask me,” she says once she’s finished chewing.
“Great. Real helpful. Traitor.”
My daughter takes a slow exaggerated slurp from her pink Stanley cup straw and shrugs.
“Okay. You win. As always.” Beating this woman is impossible, and it’s stupid to even try. “When does she start?”
“I’m sure she’ll let us know later. She’s popping by for a chat this afternoon.”
No way.
“Reschedule it. There’s too much going on today. It’s Bonfire Night, in case you forgot.”
“I don’t forget anything,” Gran says. “Remember, remember, the fifth of November and all that.”
“You just said things get dodgy at your age.”
“I said that about my hearing, not my memory. Please keep up, Sebastian.”
“Oh my god,” I mumble, much to Charlotte’s giggly snort of delight.