Page 44 of Bracing The Storm

“I’ll start,” Patrick says.

I crane my neck to catch a glimpse of what he’s jotting down. His handwriting is surprisingly neat with a slight slant to it. I can make out single words but my angle renders it impossible to read the whole sentence. All I can see is the word CONTRACT at the top, followed by 1.

“We’re dividing the house in half so we can keep out of each other’s way for most of the time. You are not to enter any parts of my house,” he reads out loud.

“Sounds good to me. The less contact we have with each other, the better. In fact, let’s make it a priority not to see each other ever again. How about that?” I grab the pen out of his hand to write down: And you are not to enter any parts of my house, then stop mid-writing. “Wait a minute. Who gets the foyer?”

“That would be me.”

I narrow my eyes at his grin. He thinks he’s so clever. “If I’m not to enter your half of the house and the foyer belongs to you, then how am I supposed to enter and leave my bedroom?”

Crossing his arms over his broad chest, he regards me sheepishly. “How about jumping out the window? It’s not exactly high. You could also climb back up. There’s a rose rank right outside. It will probably hold your weight.” His gaze brushes over the front of me, seemingly unconvinced.

Does he think me fat?

Who cares anyway?

I don’t need the guy’s approval. In fact, I couldn’t care less if he finds me attractive or not when I don’t like him.

Nope.

Not. One. Bit.

I smirk. “Aren’t you hilarious? Must be the Irish wit in you.”

“No,” Patrick says. “It’s pure, undiluted sarcasm.”

My temper flares. I’ve always prided myself in not being an angry person, but damn, the guy really knows how to bring out the worst in me.

I shake my head slowly. “No, I think it’s called being a jerk.”

He laughs. “Or that. But let’s face it. You’re not going anywhere so what’s a man to do other than bring out the big guns?”

“Want to bet mine are bigger than yours?” I toss the notepad back at him. “Forget the darn contract. You want war? Fine. I’ll give you war. I’ll kick your butt so hard, you won’t be able to sit on it for the rest of the year.”

He peers at me, eyes wide with mock fear. I can tell he’s actually laughing his head off because there’s that sparkle in his eyes—the one that’s always there when he’s not taking me seriously.

“What are you going to do, love? Tell all those old ladies frequenting Sinead’s café so they can get out their knitting needles to knit me a horrid cardigan to scare me out of my house?”

I wink. “You bet I will. If I were you I’d be scared out of my freaking mind. They might look like an old bunch of ladies to you, but you never know who they were when they were young.”

“You forget I grew up here. I’ve known them my whole life, each and every one of them,” Patrick says coolly.

“Yes, but did you ever listen to their stories? The ones told in the men’s absence, behind closed doors, over a cup of tea and an insanely delicious piece of pie? I bet not since you’re not wearing a skirt. I, on the other hand, have because it comes with the job description. They could have been secret agents or”—I tap a finger against my lips in fake concentration—“the housewife who killed four husbands and buried them all in her backyard, right under the rosebushes.”

“Four husbands? That must be Harriet. She went through men like some people go through their underwear drawer.” He pauses, thinking. “Then again, as far as I know they’re all still alive.”

“My point is that they like me a lot and even offered their help.” I raise my brows meaningfully.

Patrick wavers before he asks, “Offered their help to do what?”

I shrug and smile. “As Shakespeare once said, mum’s the word.”

For a moment, I think I see something like concern in his eyes. Maybe he isn’t the tough guy he thinks he is. Maybe it’s all just pretense, and underneath he’s insecure and scared like everyone else out there.

“Under the rosebushes, you say?” He tosses his head back and laughs.

I stare at him as his laughter vibrates through me, rattling me in all the wrong places. A tingle gathers inside my abdomen and travels down, settling between my legs, which annoys the hell out of me. My nipples suddenly stand on full alert, like they’re ready and begging for his attention.

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