Page 43 of Bracing The Storm

“The name sounds familiar but I can’t place it.”

“You really are clueless when it comes to music.” He laughs, but there’s something heavy about it, as though he can’t quite believe it.

“It’s not a big deal to me.” I shrug. “I just don’t like it and that’s that.”

“Who doesn’t like music? How is that even possible?”

The question makes me slightly defensive. Clearly, music means something to him, but I’m not going to pretend that I’m a different kind of person for a guy, not even for someone as good-looking as Patrick. “I’m sure plenty of people prefer thepeace and quiet that come with no banging on or thrumming an instrument or a stranger’s yowling intruding in your thoughts.”

“I guess. Stranger things have happened.” He clears his throat, indicating an imminent change in subject. I’m glad he’s not trying to dig deeper. Most people aren’t interested, and he’s no exception to the rule. People usually take my dislike of music for what I make it out to be—a simple aversion to it. No one knows that, as a child, my father used to take me with him to every gig. No one knows I cherished those moments with him when that mutual love for music seemed to strengthen our bond to the point that he became something of a superhero to me.

That was before he decided to take off with a groupie ten years his junior, leaving my mother drowning in a mountain of debt while taking care of a little child and working every kind of an honest job she could get her hands on. Needless to say, his superhero image took a nosedive soon after and he became the enemy, together with all the things we used to love doing together.

The memory of my father’s betrayal brings me back to reality. I’m not here to make friends or share my bed with this guy. I’m here because I’ve inherited his house and need the money that comes with it.

“Back to why my hair’s dripping all this water onto the floor.” I straighten in my chair. If he can sense the sudden iciness in my tone, he doesn’t remark on it.

“Yes?”

“I can’t take a shower. There’s no warm water.”

“Hm.” He doesn’t seem surprised or worried. In fact, he shows no reaction at all. I narrow my eyes at him as my suspicious nature kicks in.

“You’re to blame for that, aren’t you?”

“Lori.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. His eyes focus on me and the determination I thought I saw beforeis back in place. “This is my family’s home. I grew up here. I’ve lived here most of my life. My mother must have lost her marbles leaving it to a complete stranger, and apparently the will’s bulletproof so there’s nothing I can do about it. But did you really think I’d make it easy on you? Go down without a fight?” His voice is calm and collected, but his rumbling Irish accent comes through stronger than before. Even though he doesn’t show it, I know he’s emotional about it. I can see it in his eyes. It’s emanating from him in long, invisible waves.

And who wouldn’t be under such circumstances?

I want to apologize but the words don’t make it past my lips, probably because his position is understandable, and so is his instant aversion to the stranger who’s about to take away something that should be his. I can’t agree with him by saying sorry and then continue to stake a claim to the estate.

“Look, Patrick. I—” I stop mid-sentence. I understand, I want to say, but what’s the point? It’s not like I can change anything. “So you just switched off the hot water? That’s mean and petty.”

He raises his brows. “Really? You call me mean and petty?”

“I didn’t ask your mother to leave all of this to me.” I point around me.

“Maybe. But you could have declined. You could have had the decency to pass on it and return it to the rightful heir. She and I were family. You aren’t.” The rumbling accent is so strong now, I’m having trouble understanding him.

Suddenly I feel faint, probably because his words ring painfully true. I’m not family. I didn’t earn any of this. And yet?—

“I can’t do that. I can’t just decline,” I whisper. “And please don’t ask me why not because I can’t tell you.”

He nods and heaves a sigh of resentment. Maybe he’s reached a state of acceptance, knowing there’s nothing he can do that could change the outcome of the situation.

I smile weakly and push up to my feet. “Thanks for the talk. And please just be reasonable and switch on the hot water. Taking cold showers isn’t my thing. I wouldn’t want to have to complain to Duncan about it.”

“Sit down.” His voice is sharp, leaving no room for discussion.

“What?” I stare at him, frozen to the spot. Did he just usethattone with me?

“I said sit down.” He leans over and points at the chair. I obey his request, though I don’t know why. “I agree that the whole hot water thing was petty, and I will switch it back on. However, given that you’re not going anywhere and I sure as hell won’t be packing my bags until that lawyer of yours specifically presents me with the paperwork that legally forces me out, I see no other option than to make a contract. We can share a house for a limited time. You state your conditions and I’ll state mine.”

I grimace. A contract? Just like the cold showers, those don’t feature highly on my favorites list.

He pauses until I’ve nodded that I understand, then gets up and disappears out of the kitchen for a minute, calling over his shoulder, “Don’t go anywhere.”

I want to call after him that he can’t tell me to stay put because I’m not a dog, meaning I don’t follow commands. But he’s already back with a pen and writing pad before I’ve even managed to open my mouth.

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