Page 13 of Bracing The Storm

My throat goes a little dry. He’s referring to our business relationship.

Obviously!

“That was a great pitch.” I smile. “How can I say ‘no’ to that? Thank you for meeting with me.”

He laughs. “Great. For a moment, you had me a little scared. We don’t lose clients. Ever. Shall we sit down and go over a few details?”

I nod and look around, wondering where we could possibly do that. I could invite him back to the cottage. I haven’t gotten around to tidying up and don’t remember whether I put my bra and panties away. I can’t risk him seeing my oversized sweatpants—or worse—lying around.

“The house?” he suggests, sensing my hesitation. “The late Ms. Walsh used to meet with me in the morning room. I’m sure no one will mind if you have guests over. It’s yours, after all.”

He smiles, and his hand settles on the small of my back, guiding me down the driveway toward the imposing entrance. He opens the door for me, and I find myself in the foyer again.

“The morning room offers the best view of the garden,” Duncan says, leading the way. I realize he hasn’t just been here before. He also seems very familiar with the place.

“You know your way around,” I remark.

He nods. “My father was a very good friend of the Walsh family. As a kid, I used to be here all the time.” He smiles again, but I think I catch a dark shadow in his gaze. He pulls a chair for me and settles in the one next to it. Our legs brush under the glass table but if he notices it, he doesn’t seem to mind.

As he flicks through a thick folder to pick out a few sheets of paper, I sneak a quick peek around the room, taking in the crystal chandelier, minimalist furniture, and huge glass front overlooking the backyard with its overgrown roses bushes. It’s clear why it’s called the morning room. Everything is bright and friendly, even more so than the rest of the house. The view must be spectacular early in the morning, when the garden is covered in dew and the first sunrays turn the tiny crystals into a kaleidoscope of colors. I can see myself draped in a dressing gown, sipping a cup of coffee as I mentally prepare myself for the day ahead. Then again, it’s not so much myself that I’m seeing but Ms. Walsh—the real owner of this place.

“Everything okay?” Duncan asks.

I turn back to him and smile hesitantly. “Yes.”

“You looked a million miles away.” His gaze is prodding, expressing the unspoken question lingering in the air.

“I’m just—” I shake my head. “I arrived less than a day ago. It’s a lot to take in.”

“It is, isn’t it? You’re from Brooklyn?”

“What gives me away? The accent? Something about my manners?”

“It’s much simpler than that.” He shoots me a sheepish smile and points at what looks like a letter and an address on it. “It says right here. I’ve been to New York a few times. It wasn’t my thing. Too much traffic, and too little human interaction, and by that I mean the genuine kind where you actually care about the stranger starving down the street. It must feel like you’re in a completely different world.”

“I haven’t seen much of Ireland yet, but I think those were my exact words to my best friend this morning.”

His brows shoot up. “Your best friend? Did you bring someone with you?”

“No.” I laugh and instantly feel myself blushing again at the way he’s looking at me. It’s not like I should care what a stranger’s making of me. Like he said, this is my place now. I can have as many people over as I want, but for some reason, I don’t want to come across like I’m already squandering Ms. Walsh’s money. “Mia’s doing an internship in London. We’ve been friends forever. She might pop over if—” I gesture around, struggling to find the right words.

“If this proves to be a little too much?” Something like a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. It occurs to me that Duncan likes to smile a lot.

“Yes.”

“It’s understandable,” he says. “While it’s probably everyone’s wish to be rich, most couldn’t deal with something like this. So, what’s the plan?”

I stare at him for a moment, taken aback by his straightforwardness. Then again, it’s to be expected that the estate’s legal representation would want to know what’s going to happen next.

“I’ve been thinking about selling.”

He grimaces. “That’s a shame, but I can’t say that I’m surprised. You’re in a foreign country, unfamiliar with our customs and food.”

“And accent,” I add.

“That, too. You probably have your own life to get back to. Friends. Family. A husband or boyfriend.” His gaze shifts automatically to my hands, which are folded in my lap.

“Friends, family, yes. None of the latter.”

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