Page 45 of Bracing The Storm

The traitors!

I narrow my eyes at him and cross my arms over my chest to hide the visible consequences of his effect on me. “What’s so funny?”

He shakes his head before he replies. “Your fictitious story and that you should mention Shakespeare. My picture of you is complete.”

“Which is?”

Damn! Why did I ask? I’m not even interested in what he thinks of me.

Nope. Nada. Not one bit.

“You were the unpopular kid who didn’t have real friends so you always had your nose stuck in a book, probably the ancient stuff where the men wore pantaloons and serenaded underneath windows at night, and the ladies hid their toothless smiles behind handkerchiefs and were chaperoned everywhere. That also explains why you know nothing about music. It’s unchartered territory for you, which is why you’re not keen on treading on it. You like to play it safe, stick to what you know.” He stops and cocks a brow. “Need I go on?”

Hot waves of annoyance begin to pour through me.

Did he just describe me as boring and safe?

Apart from the music, he’s not far off, but I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with his spot-on description of me. Yes, I loved old books, but only because the men weren’t jerks like my father. For a long time, I clung to the fantasy that one day I’d meet my own prince charming despite meeting only jerks.

I see what I must do. My purpose is crystal clear. This isn’t about the house. It’s about Roisin’s son. She wanted me here. She wanted me to bring her rebellious son to his knees or why else would she have left her home to a complete stranger, probably knowing well that he would fight his corner?

It might sound a bit far-fetched, but I’m running out of possible explanations.

“Someone’s seen a few too many shrinks in his life. Leave that line of work to the professionals because you suck at it.” I smile. “I’ll see you later, Mr. Walsh.”

He reaches for me. His fingers touch my arm, then pull back quickly, as though scorched. “Wait! What’s your plan? Why are you so smug?”

“You just wait and see.” I walk out before he can realize I have no game plan. But I’m confident I’ll come up with one soon.

Patrick Walsh is going down.

Chapter Fourteen

The next morning greets me with another bout of heavy, dark clouds and the kind of stormy wind that could give a baby hurricane a run for its money. Pushing the comfortable sheets aside, I throw a hesitant glance out of the window and quibble with myself about whether Sinead’s job is worth drowning on my way to work.

Then I remember it’s Saturday. No work for me today. I’m also supposed to meet her at the pub, but that’s hours from now. I’ve already checked out most of the house and the bad weather doesn’t invite long strolls outside.

For the first time since my arrival, I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m about to switch on my tablet and check whether there’s anything about the Walsh estate (obviously, I’m not interested in looking up Patrick’s yearbook or anything! Maybe I’ll just have a peek if I so happen to come across it.) when there’s a knock on my door.

No need to ask who it is. Only two people live in this house, and one of them seems to be making a habit out of camping outside my bedroom door.

Not literally, of course.

“I’m not decent,” I yell, even though the sheets cover every inch of bare skin on my body. My concern is the mess of hair on my head and the fact that I’m not a pretty sight on the best of mornings. Most days I’m glad the mirror can’t talk and tsk in disapproval because of the blotchy skin and dark shadows under my eyes.

“I wasn’t planning on coming in,” Patrick yells back. “There’s a parcel for you. Apparently I’ve turned into the mailman now.”

In spite of us being still on bad turns, I find myself smiling. He does have a sense of humor, I’ll give him that. That doesn’t make him less insufferable though.

“Just leave it there.”

An instant later, something lands on the ground with a thud, but there are no sounds resembling receding footsteps. I hold my breath, waiting for him to depart.

Why the heck is he hovering by my door?

“Anything else?” I prompt. “Are you waiting for a tip?”

“I’m reminiscing, memorizing the décor and all. I won’t be seeing it in a while.” I can’t tell whether he’s joking or not, and I don’t get to ask because he’s already halfway down the hall, the sound of his heavy footwear reverberating in the silence.

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