Page 17 of Bracing The Storm

Silence, then, “Yes. Fine. Just a moment.” More labored breathing. Heels clicking. Something clatters to the ground, meaning she must have dropped something. The sugar? Cream? Who knows? I smile as I wait, patiently.

Seconds pass, then a rattle and a deep sigh. She’s plopped into her office chair. An instant later, she resumes the conversation, “Sorry for keeping you waiting. I’m back at the office now. Let’s hope the boss isn’t going to make me sit in another late-night conference today. My legs are killing me.”

“You’ve been sent to get so much coffee, you must have the legs of a marathon runner by now,” I joke.

“I know. Who needs spinning classes when you’re an intern, right?” She laughs. “Anyway, back to you. You were saying?”

“Hmm,” I mumble, as my thoughts go back to Patrick Walsh. “The thing is, photos are scattered all over the house and they look like such a happy family in all of them. I can’t wrap my mind around it. The guy’s a bit rude and rough around the edges, but that’s about it. I don’t understand why Roisin would not want her own son to have this house.”

“Whoa, Lori. Stop right there,” Mia says. “You don’t know these people; know nothing about their lives. You don’t know what goes on behind closed doors. People are complicated. They fall out all the time, and then end up making irrational decisions. You should know that better than anyone else. You should also know better than to get involved.”

I sigh. “I guess you’re right.”

“I am. I always am,” she says. “Even if he’s grumpy and insufferable, the house sounds dreamy. Enjoy it while you can, before you’re back in New York, stuck in some boring job and stuffy office with a lousy view of the opposite building’s wall. In the three months I’ve been here, the only two things I’ve learned are everyone’s name and coffee preferences. By the time the year’s over, I’ll be more qualified to get a job as a barista than an advertising executive. I would do anything to be in your position right now. In fact, I don’t even know why I’m here. London’s a great place, don’t get me wrong. But after seeing everything there is to see—twice—I’m slowly starting to realize this internship isn’t worth the hassle. I could have learned more from watching YouTube.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could give you a hug.”

“It’s fine.” She sighs. “So, what are you going to do about him?”

“Him?” It takes me a moment to realize the topic’s switched back to my predicament, which wouldn’t really be one if it weren’t for Patrick Walsh. “Nothing, I guess. I’ll just let the lawyer deal with everything. In the end, it will all sort itself out the way things always do, one way or another.”

“Sounds like something I would do.”

“Yes, well, I guess I have no choice.” A loud thud draws my attention. I frown and get up from the bed. “Mia, can we talk later? There’s something I need to check on.”

I don’t catch her answer before I hang up and walk over to the window to peer at the commotion outside.

Someone’s switched on some music, the noise blaring from the speakers, the bass so loud I wouldn’t be surprised to find the door shaking on its hinges. At least twenty people have gathered in small groups and are now strolling past the guesthouse, carrying things.

Pushing the curtains aside, I crane my neck to get a better look.

Is that a painting? A candleholder? A box with?—

“Is that food?” I mumble. It looks like the entire contents of a fridge.

WTF?

Two teenagers appear on the other side of the window, their hands pressed against the smooth glass as they stare at me. The food’s instantly forgotten. I wouldn’t usually worry about anyone’s offspring, but I remember that I’m the owner of the grounds now. If anything happens to them, it will be on me. I’m not going to have my ass sued for all it’s worth and then some barely a day into this whole inheritance affair.

“What’s going on, for crying out loud?” I grab a jacket from the back of a nearby chair, throw it on, and then storm out the door to see what this is all about.

“Hey,” I yell at a dark-haired guy standing in the driveway. He seems slightly familiar. Only when he turns do I realize it’s Patrick. His smile instantly dies, probably the same way my frown turns into a scowl. Wedoseem to have a few things in common, like our mutual dislike and that each brings out the worst in the other. “What is this? What are you doing?”

“Lori.” He jogs over and stops a few inches from me.

Too close for comfort.

Apparently, he not only grew under a rock and doesn’t know the definition of cordiality; he also has no regard for personal space.

“What’s the commotion?” I repeat.

“Oh, you mean my little gathering. Just some friends stopping by.” He laughs and waves at someone. I follow his line of vision to a busty brunette who is holding up what I previously assumed was a painting. Now I realize it’s a banner. I hold upa hand to shield my eyes against the glaring midday sun, and squint as I try to read the childish handwriting.

The letters are embossed with glitter that shimmers in the bright light, but the text is clear and easy to understand.

I want your baby, Paddy!

Like on cue, a group of women appear from around the corner. Some are holding up banners. Some are shrieking. Others are whistling.

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