Page 25 of Bracing The Storm

His gaze has settled back on me. The glint of amusement has been replaced with ice daggers. “Maybe there’s a reason I’m here, like my mother’s recent passing, and a stranger trying to get her hands on the family estate.”

That certainly makes sense.

I sigh. “Look, Mr. Walsh. I enjoyed chatting with you but I haven’t got all day.”

He narrows his eyes on me. “That’s understandable, given how busy you are. What is it exactly thatyoudo, apart from moving into strangers’ homes and trying to steal their inheritance?”

For a moment, I’m struck speechless. I didn’t see the blow coming. It’s not even a subtle one, and I have a feeling it wasn’t meant to be. No one wants to hear an accurate description of oneself, and particularly not one so unflattering. He wants me to feel bad for being here, for taking something his mother didn’t want him to have.

Truth is, back in NY, when the lawyer read the parts of the will that included me, it was more than just a few sentences. Roisin Walsh had carefully considered her decision and been adamant in her wish. According to the lawyer, she wouldn’t have it any other way. She had demanded that I get the house and no one else.

Maybe my comment went too far, but I’m not going to give Patrick the satisfaction of feeling bad about it. It’s not my fault his mother changed her will in someone else’s favor. As hard as it is for me to understand her reasons and for Patrick to accept her decision, the sooner he comes to terms with it, the better.

“It was your mother’s wish, Patrick,” I whisper. “I can’t change that.”

“She must have been out of her mind. There’s no other explanation,” he says.

I avert my gaze, unable to face the anger and hurt in his expression. “I’m sorry for my comment before. It was uncalled for,” I say. “What you do or don’t do isn’t any of my business. Let’s leave it at that. Next time make sure your lady friend”—I emphasize the word—“finds the right door.” I turn on my heels to leave but then stop in my tracks to add, “And Patrick, I want the set of keys toeverythingwithin the hour as I’m moving into my house. Please start looking for accommodation elsewhere. I suggest you do as I say. Don’t make me call my lawyer.”

Chapter Eight

I’m only in the guesthouse a few minutes when I hear footsteps outside the door, followed by a loud thud, which I assume are the keys to the Walsh property dropping to the ground. A few seconds later, the truck’s engine roars to life and tires screech as he takes off. From the sound of it, Patrick is furious, but I don’t care.

Humming the melody to “It’s the final countdown”, I head outside to get the set of keys and find the package next to it together with a note that says something like:

“Not interested in your underwear unless you’re wearing it, in which case my door’s always open.”

I go over the note twice because Patrick’s scribbling is as hard to read as his pronunciation is hard to understand, and I’m not sure I got it right.

Yes, that’s what it says.

My cheeks catch fire. The guy is rude and a little chauvinist…and so freaking hot I wish I had the guts to take him up on his offer. I don’t know what it is about this man, but his merepresence keeps reminding me it’s really been too long. And who could be more suitable to help remove the cobwebs down there than the type of man you wouldn’t bring home to meet your mother?

I crumple the note in my hand, eager to get rid of it, but the picture of me turning up at the house, wearing nothing but the pearl thong, just won’t stop flashing before my eyes.

How would he react if I gave him exactly what he asked for?

The idea is tantalizing, definitely more taboo than anything I’ve ever done, and a little pull settles between my legs in response.

I shake my head, annoyed.

Not happening.

Not in a million years and certainly not with someone like him. Not only is he a stranger; he’s also the most infuriating person I’ve ever had to deal with, and I’ve barely scratched the surface of his ego.

To distract myself from the intrusive thoughts, I text Mia.

Me: Looks like it’s finder’s keepers after all.

I add a smiley emoji, then add some more for good measure, going overboard because my little victory is still burning bright inside me. And then I spend an hour packing up. To be honest, there isn’t that much to pack, but I take my time, enjoying the little victory like you savor a box of really expensive chocolate.

The sweet taste of success feels so good, almost as good as Patrick’s hands would probably feel on me.

Once I’m done, I make my way to the main house, putting a little bounce in my step. There are a couple of bedrooms to choose from, all identical, copycats of each other with their luxurious yet somehow muted décor and stunning views of thesurrounding area. They’re guest rooms, I assume, designed to make any visitor feel comfortable.

Like home.

I smile at the thought as I realize this is slowly starting to feel a bit like home. What appeared intimidating at first is still opulent but no longer frightening. This is all mine, at least until I figure out what to do with the estate. Until then, I plan on enjoying my time here as much as I can.

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