Page 26 of Bracing The Storm

I settle on a room on the second floor, mainly because it’s vast and bright, but it also comes with its own open fireplace and an en suite bathroom. Outside the small balcony is a rose bush climbing up a trellis, the sweet fragrance wafting in through the open door. I pull the curtains aside to let in as much of the heady scent as possible and go about filling the space with my meager belongings.

***

I spend the next couple of days familiarizing myself with some of the house. Itisgorgeous, even more so than I thought. The kitchen is easily twice the size of my old apartment back in NYC, all white with polished marble countertops and huge glass doors that lead directly into the backyard. The housekeeper seems to be moving with the invisibility of a ghost because I haven’t heard or seen her yet. She must be real though, judging from the scent of roast beef and vegetables coming from the oven, and the fact that breakfast is waiting on the table every morning, and the fridge is never empty. A blueberry pie winks at me from a desert-serving tray. I don’t bother with dinner. As delicious as the roast beef smells, real food is overrated. But that pie is going down without much of a fight. It looks so buttery and delicious, it’s probably going to be sliding down my throat.

I don’t bother with a plate. What’s the point? The house is mine, and so is the pie. Grabbing a fork, I sit down at the huge mahogany table and just dive in, stuffing big chunks of the sweet delight into my mouth, moaning in the process. I must be in some sort of sugar ecstasy because I only hear the visitor when he clears his throat, startling me.

The fork drops on the plate, sending crumbs of pastry across the table. I jump up and press a hand over my chest.

“You startled me.” I laugh nervously, relieved it’s my lawyer, and proceed to wipe a hand over my mouth to remove any remnants of food. I don’t bother with my hair. That’s a lost cause.

“Sorry for startling you. I tried to knock but no one answered.” Duncan’s expression is one of amusement as he looks from me to the dessert and then back to me. I don’t even want to know his opinion of me now. He probably thinks that where I come from plates and good manners have yet to be invented. A quick glimpse at the pie, and I can’t blame him. What’s left of it seems to have been savaged by ravenous bears.

Not my most glorious moment.

“Sorry about the mess.” With an embarrassed smile, I incline my head toward a chair, silently inviting him to sit.

“We all have that one vice.” He winks and takes me up on the offer, pushing his chair a little closer to me.

“Really? What is yours?” I scan him briefly. It can’t be pizza or any fast food. It probably isn’t pie either. Judging from his muscular physique he hasn’t had one of those in a while. He looks like he works out a bit, but probably not as much as Patrick.

Patrick.

I feel like pulling out my hair. Here I am, sitting with an attractive man who seems to tick quite a few boxes, and all I canthink about is that one annoying person I wouldn’t mind kicking all the way to the moon.

I force my attention back on Duncan and realize he has said something. I’ve no idea what it is, and I can’t ask him to repeat it. He’d realize I wasn’t paying attention.

“My mother used to make it all the time,” Duncan continues, oblivious to the fact that I’ve no idea what he’s talking about. “I’ve outgrown it, but once in a while I have those moments when I have to drive fifty miles to the only bakery that gets them just right.”

“That’s—” Fascinating, I want to say but there’s nothing fascinating about his story or baked goods. I love cake and chocolate as much as any woman, but once I’ve scratched that itch it’s hardly fascinating stuff. “Wow. You don’t mind driving fifty miles to a bakery? I’d just raid the fridge and eat whatever’s in sight. You’re definitely not as bad as I am.”

“Judging from the condition of that pie, I guess not.” Smiling, he clears his throat, and the atmosphere suddenly changes. I can sense it’s serious before he’s even broached the subject. “Look, Lori. I have some bad news. I thought I would come over to tell you in person rather than over the phone.”

“Yes?”

He hesitates for a moment, as though to brace himself. “I don’t know how to say this as it’s a rather delicate matter.”

Just spill it out.

I bite my lip because patience isn’t my virtue.

“It’s about Patrick. Patrick Walsh,” he adds, probably assuming I have a Patrick living on every corner back home. My brows shoot up and I inch forward in the hope my encouraging body language will make him speak faster. Anything involving the irritating guy living in this house sounds a thousand times more interesting than whatever story Duncan’s just shared with me.

I just can’t help myself. My entire body’s on full alert.

“I remember who that is,” I say nonchalantly. “What about him?”

Duncan frowns. “The appointed judge has turned out to be a bit of a nightmare. Inheritances don’t feature highly on his priority list so getting the paperwork signed off might take a bit longer than anticipated. I know you expressed a wish to sell and get back to your old life as soon as possible, so I want you to know that we’re working on it.”

“I said that?”

He nods. “You did.”

I regard him for a moment, unable to remember when exactly I mentioned any concrete plans of selling to him. As far as I’m aware, I mentioned something along the lines of thinking about it. I wave my hand, suddenly not so eager to sell. At least not for a while. “It’s fine. I can imagine worse places to spend a few weeks or months. There’s been a change of plans anyway. I’ve decided to stay for a while. There’s no rush to get back home.”

In fact, the longer I can stay away, the better.

“Really? That’s great.” His smile seems a little clouded by surprise, though that could be just me imagining things. “What changed your mind?”

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