Page 33 of Bracing The Storm

I shake my head, signaling I have no idea. And even if I had, I probably wouldn’t tell her. As much as I love her, she is a bad influence when it comes to men. She’s a sucker for romance. Shewouldn’t see a hot guy’s bad intentions if they came biting her in her perky backside. She’s been in love more times than the number of pairs of shoes she owns, and she’s a shoe hoarder. Have a good-looking male cashier at our local Walmart so much as smile her way and she’s already planning her wedding.

“No idea at all?” she persists.

I hesitate. Idohave a suspect. Apart from the Grump, aka Patrick, Duncan is the only other male person I know around here.

He seems to have the cushioned bank account to afford spending a fortune on useless, albeit nice, stuff like toiletries and lingerie. He also screams good taste. And didn’t he express his regret at not bringing a welcome gift? But I can’t mention that to Mia or she might start sending out wedding invitations behind my back. She calls it “being a hopeless romantic”. I call it being delusional. We always end up agreeing in the middle. She’s a hopeless yet delusional romantic.

“You just hesitated,” Mia says. “Spill or I’m taking the next ferry.”

I laugh. “Now there’s a threat if I ever heard one. What are you going to do if I don’t tell you? Come over and force me into binge-watching Netflix with you? Pour the whole bottle of massage oil over my head and massage me into oblivion? Oh, the terror!”

“No.” She draws out the word as she considers her options. “I wouldn’t do any of that. Now that you have a secret admirer, you can’t spend your nights watching television or you’ll end up looking like the living dead in the morning. You can’t walk around looking like you’re in dire need of a coffee drip. I’ll just find your admirer and instructhimto use that oil on you, right after he’s drawn you a hot bath and spread all those rose petals on that gorgeous four-poster bed?—”

“That’s it,” I cut her off before she can get to the juicy parts of her tirade. Mia isn’t afraid of going into graphic details. I always thought she’d make a great smut author. “Remember the bad reception I was telling you about due to a wobbly cell tower shaking in the wind?”

She frowns. “You never mentioned anything like that or I would remember.”

My poker face is so bad Mia would see right through my bluff and call me out on it so I hold the cell phone away from my face and switch off the camera. With my hand muffling the mouthpiece, I yell, “It’s happening right now. The weather’s so bad the tower’s shaking again. The ground’s rattling from the vibrations. I’ll call you later when it’s safe to talk.”

A pause, then, “You totally made that up. Don’t you dare hang up on me, Lori!”

I laugh again. “Of course I made it all up, but you still love me.” Staring at the bright sun spilling through the high bay window, I swipe over the screen to end the call and drop the cell phone next to the gift box. My good mood instantly evaporates as I realize I have to do something about my so-called secret admirer; talk to him, let him off gently. I’m just not a big fan of confrontations or dashing other people’s hopes. Besides, he is my lawyer and might not take well to rejection.

I can’t risk delaying the necessary paperwork and prolonging my stay just because my good-looking lawyer’s sent me a gift. Better say nothing for the time being. Best-case scenario, he’ll take my silence for a lack of interest and then pretend it never happened to save face.

“Not a word it is,” I mumble to myself.

It’s a day later and my legs are still hurting from my first shift at Sinead’s café. I gaze longingly at the bubble bath bottle before I put the lid back on and stash the box at the bottom of the drawer, then close it with a little more force than necessaryas I make up my mind not to touch it. I’ll just find a convenience store and buy something cheap with the same soothing effect at a fragment of the price. My aching muscles won’t know the difference.

I’ll do that as soon as I can find the strength to walk down that hill.

The whir and strangled rattling of a dying engine carries over from the window. I don’t need to look outside to know it’s Patrick’s monstrosity of a truck. It’s beyond me why he’s driving something that should have been in a scrapyard five years ago. At least he owns a car; I don’t. As much as I hate the idea of asking him for a favor, I need a few things from the shops. And who better to take me there than the local grumpy guy who probably grew up here and knows where to find everything on my shopping list?

I slip into a pair of jeans and a snug shirt, then head down the stairs, wincing with every step. The weather looks balmy enough so I don’t bother to grab my jacket from the hall. Once I’ve stepped outside, a chilly gust of wind hits me and I realize sunshine in Ireland doesn’t necessarily equal shorts and a need for shades. The air’s so cold my face instantly goes numb. Wrapping my arms around myself to keep warm, I peer at the truck. No one’s inside. The guy moves fast, I’ll give him that.

I look around, frowning. Where the heck is he?

“Hey!” I yell because I don’t feel like searching the whole property only to find him sitting on the couch, engaged in yet another one of his hobbies that probably has its own fan following.

My voice is swallowed by the wind. Grimacing, I follow my intuition and go around the house, figuring if he entered the house we would have met in the hall.

I spy him in the backyard, crouching near some shrubs, doing who knows what. His back is turned to me so I yell, “Hey, you!”

He turns around and rises to his feet, stretching to his entire height, all 6’3” of it, his gaze settling on me with a frown. “My name’s Patrick.”

“I don’t care. It’s not like there’s any need for me to remember it.”

His brows shoot up and something like amusement flickers in his gaze, “Actually, there is.”

“Why?” I ask warily.

“Because you’ll need to know it when I make you scream my name.”

I stare at him, taking in the way something flickers in his expression. It takes a moment or two for the meaning of his words to sink in.

“You’ve got to be joking,” I say, my voice strangely hoarse.

“Am I though?” In spite of his lopsided grin, the expression in his stormy eyes is dead serious.

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