Page 47 of Bracing The Storm

I cringe. “I wouldn’t call them secrets. You were busy and I didn’t want to distract you from your job.”

“Internship,” she corrects. “And I call that bullshit because all my internship’s done so far is perfect my skills in the craft of coffee running.”

I laugh. “Don’t forget the killer legs you’re getting thrown in as a bonus. I haven’t seen you in such good shape since high school.”

“That reminds me, I’d love to chat some more but the boss needs his clothes ironed,” Mia says. “Apparently he has to have half of his closet done by tomorrow otherwise the world will come to its untimely end. Guess who’s stuck doing it?”

“Can’t he just pay professionals to do it for him? No offense, but you can’t exactly be trusted with an iron or any household appliance for that matter.”

“None taken.” She sighs. “All the dry cleaners are either closed or unwilling to spend their Saturday night working their way through a mountain of Maxwell’s clothes.”

“How big is that closet?”

“Don’t ask. Let’s just say you could probably dress a small country.” She frowns. “I’ve called every dry cleaner within a twenty-mile radius. They either laughed in my face or told me to ‘bugger off,’ which I’ve learned is British for the F word andjust as rude. I think some might have even blocked my number. Maxwell doesn’t care about any of that; the only thing he cares about is the perfect crispness of his cravat. I tried to tell him those went out of fashion in 1879 but apparently he thinks they’re having a revival. I wouldn’t be surprised to find I’m working for the only man who knows what they are.”

“And it can’t wait until Monday?”

She shakes her head.

“I’m so sorry, Mia. I know how horrible that must be for you.” Horrible is an understatement. More like “unnatural”. She doesn’t do housework. I also don’t remember the last time she stayed in on a Saturday night. Only a few months ago, I would never have imagined Mia being stuck at home ironing shirts while I got to hit the local pub in fuck-me heels.

“I wish I could just throw his clothes in his face and quit right on the spot. But I need this internship so that’s not an option. I’m trying to look on the bright side though,” she says.

“Which is?”

“This internship is going to open big doors for me so I’ll keep working my butt off. I’m not going to waste my breath feeling sorry for myself. The thing is I’m not sure I won’t end up burning a hole or two in his expensive wardrobe, and it wouldn’t even be on purpose. You know how bad I am at ironing.”

Or cooking. Or cleaning. Or anything that involves a house. Or garden. Or a pet.

“Remember that one time you wanted to heat up takeaway leftovers and the oven caught fire?” I shake my head. “Our landlord threatened to kick us out.”

“It wasn’t my fault. Takeaway containers should come with a warning that they’re not fireproof. But the firefighter was hot as hell. Too bad he was too busy putting out the fire and I didn’t get to ask for his number.”

I sigh, lost in reverie for a moment. Crazy as it always was with Mia around, I miss our college times, when life was hectic but somehow less complicated. Back then, I was still naïve enough to think the world was our personal oyster and as long as we worked hard enough, anything was possible.

I learned my lesson the hard way.

“I need to get started,” Mia says, drawing my attention back to her. “But I’ll call you tonight and then you’re going to give me details. Lots and lots of them, preferably the raunchy kind.”

“Like I ever have any of those to share.” Patrick’s image pops into my head and my heartbeat spikes a little even though nothing dirty has happened so far.

Apart from that one kiss.

But, fuck, was it a good one.

I can’t stop thinking about it. Or about the morning after my arrival when he just barged into the guest house and looked at me like he wanted to throw the bed sheets aside and take me right there and then, when we hadn’t even exchanged names yet.

“Then get some,” Mia says. “Put on the shoes and flaunt those gorgeous legs of yours. Have fun. At least one of us should.”

I manage to disconnect the call without making any promises. By the time I head downstairs, it’s already noon and my stomach makes anunladylike noise, reminding me that skipping a meal isn’t an option. That’s probably the reason why I gave up on shifting the extra padding around my hips years ago.

I push the door open and stop in my tracks as I almost trip over the traffic cones littering the floor. There’s also a stop sign and a note attached to it that reads:

PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING!

I frown.

The traffic cones are clearly dividing the space, leaving the dining table on my side, and the fridge, oven, and counters stocked with food—basically all the good stuff while the table is useless—on the other side.

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