Chapter Six
“So, you’re going to cook, clean and basically keep house for this guy over the next three months until the house is sold?” Willa asked casually, watching as Bo painted her nail a bright shade of red.
“Yep.” Bo chewed on her lip, trying not to get polish on her cuticle. “That’s the deal we made.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? It’s pretty much the same as what I was doing for Geoffrey before he died.”
“But you ate with Geoffrey, right?” Willa queried. “Are you expected to eat with Mr Two out of Ten too?”
Bo frowned. “I wish I’d never had that conversation with you. His name is Max, okay?”
Willa gave a wicked grin. “Right, right, Max. On first-name terms now, are you?”
“Well, I’m hardly going to call him ‘Mr Fitzroy’ like a scullery maid.”
“Maybe you should. Maybe he’d be into it.”
Bo paused, the polish brush hovering over her thumbnail, lacquer dangerously close to dripping over the countertop. “It’s not like that. Not at all. We’ve put the past behind us and have reached an arrangement which works for us both.”
Willa shrugged. “Seems like the arrangement works more in his favour than yours. You’re cooking and cleaning for him, remember?”
“It’s not a favour. He’s going to pay me, just like Geoffrey did. It’ll supplement my income from Ida’s until the house is sold.”
“It was different with Sir Geoffrey though,” Willa remarked, nudging Bo’s fingers towards her nails again. “You worked in the garden with Geoffrey. Ate lunch and dinner with him. Somehow, I don’t see your Mr Two out of Ten being quite so welcoming.”
“I don’t want him to be welcoming,” Bo replied easily.
“I told you; it’s not like that. It’s much more .
. . professional. We worked out boundaries which suit us both.
Max has given me a copy of his schedule and expectations regarding meals, and neither of those involve my spending any time with him.
” She paused. “Besides, his work schedule looks insane. Lots of long evenings. Even if I was expected to eat with him — which I’m not — it would be nearly impossible.
Most nights he isn’t back until one or two in the morning. ”
Willa looked up at that. “What does he do?”
“What do you mean?”
Willa prodded Bo. “His work, the insane schedule . . . what does he actually do?”
Bo paused. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, I never thought to ask. Our first conversation wasn’t really . . .” Bo trailed off, feeling awkward.
Willa grinned once more. “Wasn’t really as informative as it could have been?”
Bo blushed. “No.”
Abruptly, Willa looked concerned. “Bo, honey, I know you’ve slept with this guy, but you know fuck all about him other than that he’s an abrasive two out of ten who works long hours.
He could be a murderer for all you know, and you’ve just agreed to cook, clean and live next door to him, as well as shower in his bathroom. ”
“He’s not a murderer,” Bo scoffed. “He’s Geoffrey’s nephew. Geoffrey would have told me if there was that kind of scandal in his family.”
“Maybe, but still, you told me that he and Geoffrey were pretty much estranged. In fact, the very reason you ended up in bed with this guy was because he and Geoffrey had an argument. There must be a reason why Geoffrey didn’t get along with him.”
The nail brush hovered again as Bo digested Willa’s words.
Willa’s right, Bo realized. Geoffrey didn’t get along with Max, and the only time I ever heard Geoffrey raise his voice was when Max was around. Geoffrey was the kindest and sweetest man I ever knew; no one who ever met him didn’t like him. So, what went wrong between him and his nephew?
“Maybe I should talk to Max,” Bo agreed slowly, reaching for the polish and dipping the brush into it liberally. “I mean, you’re right, I should learn a little more about him. Make sure he isn’t a murderer, secret gambler or drinker or drug addict—”
Bo stopped as Willa stiffened, internally swearing at her own carelessness. Her friend’s lovely face had paled, a woebegone expression settling across Willa’s delicate features.
“Sorry,” Bo whispered. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“No,” Willa replied, shaking her head, and with it, the sadness that seemed to have enveloped her. “No, it’s okay.”
Bo reached for Willa’s hand, taking care not to get polish on her friend. “Have you heard from Berg yet? Since you argued with him?”
“No.”
“You should get in touch with him.”
Willa shook her head, however. “There’s no point. It won’t change anything.”
“But maybe—?”
“No, Bo. It’s always the same with Berg.” Willa’s voice was blunt. “He’ll be in touch when he’s ready. Besides, it’s going well with me and Scarrow. I can’t think about Berg right now.”
Bo nodded. Where Berg was concerned, she knew better than to argue with Willa.
After Bo, Berg was Willa’s best friend, maybe even her soul mate, if such a thing existed outside of the movies.
They’d starred together in the unexpected hit film that skyrocketed Willa’s career and turned Berg into everyone’s favourite tortured heart-throb, and they’d been friends ever since, bound by the strange and glittering world of Hollywood neither of them had really been prepared for.
Bo had never joined Willa on the red carpet.
The bright lights, borrowed gowns and flashing cameras .
. . that was Willa’s world, not Bo’s. Not that she needed to play Willa’s plus one, when Berg was at Willa’s side.
They always looked so good together, the kind of beautiful that made sense, the kind that sold magazines and stirred whispers of an off-screen romance.
And maybe those whispers would be true, if it wasn’t for Berg’s addiction, Bo thought.
If it wasn’t for the relapses and rehab and constant heartbreak, Bo was certain Willa and Berg would have already found their way to one another.
As it was though, Willa and Berg were steadfast friends, and she’d been there for him through everything, the good and the bad. Lots of the bad.
“Okay,” Bo replied, releasing Willa’s hand. “If you say so.”
“I do say so. Besides, this isn’t about me and Berg. This is about you and Mr Two out of Ten.”
“Max,” Bo corrected her.
“Your new employer slash landlord slash co-inheritor,” Willa added. “Be careful around him, okay?”
“I’m always careful,” Bo said, and she nudged Willa playfully with a laugh. “You know me.”
“I do know you,” Willa replied, but she didn’t laugh back. “You’re soft-hearted, kind and you get attached easily. A man like your Mr Two out of Ten—”
“Max.”
“—could really take advantage of you.”
Bo sighed. “That won’t happen. I’m going to be sensible here. Three months’ work and then I’m out. I’ll take my half of the money from the sale of the house and then I’ll never have to see him again. I promise to be careful, okay?”
“See that you are,” Willa said, and her voice was firm. “Find out what this guy does, make sure he’s trustworthy and then keep your distance. Professional boundaries, Bo.”
“Willa—”
Willa’s face stayed firm. “Professional boundaries, Bo. If nothing else, remember that.”
* * *
She came home to find the entire contents of Geoffrey’s study packed into boxes and sitting on the pavement.
It was a clear evening without any rain, but still, Bo’s stomach lurched when she saw all of Geoffrey’s beloved books exposed to the open sky, his furniture stacked without real care for its history or value.
Geoffrey had spent years collecting those books, searching out old and rare editions of classic novels as well as hardback copies of political biographies Bo knew had been signed by the author.
Furious, she went to pound on the front door only to find it wide open, delivery men moving about inside, while Max stood in the hall, watching them disinterestedly with a coffee in hand.
For the crime he’d just committed in Bo’s eyes against Geoffrey’s books and precious things, he looked casual in the extreme.
His hair was in his eyes, his glasses perched on his nose, while he was wearing, of all the things, socks and sandals under a pair of chino shorts in a shade of beige so colourless he nearly blended into the wall.
His button-down shirt was open at the collar, and he looked at her warily when she immediately stalked up to him, jabbing her finger into his chest so that he leaned back against the wall.
“You,” she said furiously. “You really have no respect at all, do you?”
“More respect than you’re showing right now,” he bit back. “I’m not a block of Swiss cheese. Do you want to stop poking holes in me?”
Bo made a frustrated noise, but she dropped her hand all the same. “Those are Geoffrey’s things,” she told him, stepping back and clenching her hands. “His things, and they’re all over the pavement outside.”
“So?”
“So?” Bo felt another wave of pure fury rise within her and she began to poke at Max’s chest once more. “So, they’re his things, and they’re special, and important, and you . . . you . . .”
“Ow, do you want to stop that?” With his free hand, Max grabbed Bo’s, closing his fingers tightly around her own.
There was a strength to his grip which was surprising, even in her fury, and she froze, temporarily rendered quiet.
She watched as he took a sip of his coffee, infernally calm and collected, his gaze steady on her face.
“They’re not Geoffrey’s things, not anymore,” he told her.
He took another sip of his coffee before putting the cup on a nearby shelf. “He doesn’t need them now, Bo.”