Page 22 of Bracing The Storm

“That Patrick and his mother had a fallout a couple of years ago, right after his father’s passing. Roisin and Patrick weren’t on speaking terms as far as I know.” She inches closer and glances around her, as though the walls might have grown a pair of ears in the half hour I’ve been here.

I hold my breath and find myself surprisingly eager to find out as much as I can about Patrick. It’s not the guy I’m interested in; it’s the reason behind my sudden windfall, or so I tell myself.

Oh, whom am I fooling?

I didn’t question Ms. Walsh’s motives before, and I’m certainly not doing it now. The way I see it, she and I met under difficult circumstances. I helped out a stranger, not knowing who she was or how much her generosity would surpass my help.

When Sinead remains quiet, I decide to give her a nudge. “What happened?”

She lifts her fingers and taps them against her lips, thinking. “No one really knows. Patrick isn’t one to disclose any personal stuff, but the housekeeper heard them fighting a few times.Apparently, Roisin and Patrick didn’t always see eye to eye. Her biggest problem with him was his choice of lifestyle. She had plans for him; get married, take over the family business and all that.” She swats her hand. “You get the drift. Anyway, he would have none of it. His leaving was the final straw. The lawyers came a day later. The housekeeper overheard them talking about a new will. Maybe that’s when she left it all to you.” Sinead’s eyes sparkle with curiosity. The statement is more like an open question hanging heavy in the air.

It’s all hearsay, nothing concrete, just speculations and gossip that’s probably been tossed across town like clothes in a tumble dryer. Once a story gets passed on like that, one’s bound to ask how much of it is true and how much has been added to fill the inevitable holes.

I make a mental note to meet the housekeeper and have a word with her. Maybe Ms. Walsh didn’t mind, but I sure don’t like people spreading rumors behind my back.

“She couldn’t possibly have changed the will in my favor two years ago when I only met her a year ago,” I say to set the matters straight.

“A year ago, huh?” Her brows shoot up again. “You really must have left quite the impression on her.” The question is there again. I want this job badly. I would probably get it if I played the “instant friends” card and added the story of how I met Ms. Walsh to the village’s gossip pot. But somehow it feels too intimate, like a betrayal of trust. I just can’t do it; not even to get Sinead to like and hire me.

“Maybe.” I shrug. “Anyway, about the job. Give me a chance. I promise you won’t regret it.”

She hesitates again. I can see her caving a second before she says, “Fine. You’re starting on Friday. Seven a.m. sharp.”

Chapter Seven

Aday later, I get up at the crack of dawn. Okay, I’ll admit it’s already past eight when I can finally muster enough willpower to roll myself out of my heavenly bed.

My eyes feel swollen from lack of sleep. The shadows around them are emphasized by the remnants of mascara I didn’t bother to take off last night. You’d think the mattress or the jet lag that’s long gone could be blamed for my raccoon look. In reality, it was the music blaring from the house that kept me up half the night. I couldn’t have defined what it was if my life depended on it. All I could make out was a lot of bass that sounded like a sledgehammer was having a go at my brain. It was past midnight when I stomped over, ready to smack the life out of whoever was responsible for the noise pollution. That’s when I spied Patrick’s truck in the driveway.

Apparently, he had returned from his cave. What a shame he hadn’t found his soulmate right there and then and decided to stay out of my way forever.

But that’s life.

You can’t have it all.

The door was locked. I spent a good ten minutes banging my fist against the solid wood and calling his name so many timesthat my throat felt sore from the effort. All to no avail. He neither opened the door nor switched off the music. Worse yet, I think the noise pollution rose in volume, which makes me assume he heard me just fine and cranked it up to spite me.

In the end, I had no choice but to return to the guesthouse, admitting defeat.

One to zero for the hot, obnoxious guy!

“If he wants a war, he can have it,” I mutter, barely able to keep my eyes open as I take a quick shower and get dressed.

Upon leaving the guest house, I almost trip over the box littering the doorway and hit my elbow against the wood frame. If the refreshing shower didn’t do the trick, the sudden jolt of pain traveling up my arm instantly wakes me up.

“What the—” I lift the box and carry it back inside, placing it on the coffee table, then take two steps back to glare at it like it’s to fault that my elbow feels numb and I probably won’t be able to use my arm for the next hour.

It’s expensive.

I can tell from the thick, white paper embossed with tiny roses and the silver ribbon tied around it. There’s nothing attached to it, no card, no note. I stare at it for a minute, unsure what to make of it. I don’t usually get gifts. Combine that with the fact that I don’t know anyone around here, and it makes no sense that someone would have left it for me.

It’s probably for Patrick.

That’s the more reasonable explanation.

Maybe it’s his birthday. Or one of his lady friends is a giver. Something about the thought doesn’t sit well with me. For some inexplicable reason, I don’t like the idea of another woman buying him something and popping over to surprise him with a gift. It’s too personal. Too intimate. Then again, it’s not like it’s any of my business. I have no claim on the guy. Hell, I don’t even know him, nor do I want to.

The right thing to do would be to take it straight over to the main house and throw it at him. Not hard enough to make it hurt or damage whatever’s in there, but with enough vengeance to show him I don’t appreciate playing his mail delivery service. He deserves it after causing me a sleepless night.

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