Page 8 of Bracing The Storm

Focus, Lori, focus.

It must be the stranger from last night. The big, rude one, who wasn’t a fan of introductions or exchanging pleasantries, or words in general.

I blink against the sun spilling in through the doorway, casting shadows across the walls. My vision slowly adjusts as I take in my visitor and my breath catches in my throat.

Holy shit, he’s freaking hot!

He’s tall, dressed in jeans and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves that reveal strong, tanned arms. His body looks like it’s carved out of stone and belongs on the front cover of any fitness magazine. His dark hair is a wet, disheveled mop, like he couldn’t find a brush after his morning shower and just ran his fingers through it. I stare at him, taking in the raw masculinity emanating from him, and decide I wouldn’t mind entangling my fingers in his hair as I draw him to me in a slow, steamy kiss.

“Want me to take a picture for you?” the guy says. His voice is deep and husky with the same accent I remember him having. Combine his rude tone with the darkness, and it’s no wonder he actually made me fear for my life last night. In the broad daylight, however, he doesn’t seem to pose any imminent threat. In fact, he sounds sexy as hell.

I sit up as I mentally prepare myself for a big comeback.

Bring out the big guns and all that.

Only, the big guns‚ aka my brain, have deserted me.

“Well?” He steps closer and his brows shoot up. His eyes are a shade of dark-blue and gray, piercing through me with a coldness that renders me speechless for a moment. He may be sexy as fuck but his dislike of me is so evident it’s pouring outof him in long, cascading waves. He definitely seems to have a personal problem with me when he doesn’t even know me.

That’s fine! I don’t like him either, and I wouldn’t bed him if the entire population depended on it.

“A picture? Of what? You? Please!” I ask as my brain finally decides to join in the conversation. “What for? It’s not like there’s anything to see. Nothing special about the view.”

I snort for good measure because my voice sounds a little too breathy for my liking, which I attribute to the long flight and the air being a little chilly.

“Didn’t seem like it when you’ve just been staring at me for the last five minutes.” The guy regards me for a long moment, eyes raking over me and settling on my legs for a moment too long. I follow his line of vision and realize I’m only wearing my panties and bra. At some point during the night, I must have stripped off my clothes. Now I’m completely exposed to his gaze, and he doesn’t seem to own a hint of good manners nor the decency to look away. He’s staring at my half-naked body like a starved man would observe a piece of cake—the chocolate kind.

Heat rushes to my face and something like a tingle settles somewhere between my legs, reminding me that there hasn’t been a man who’s looked at me like that in, well…ever.

“Can you turn around, please? Or did you leave your manners at home to sleep in this morning?” I wrap a sheet around me and once he’s turned his back on me, I get out of the bed, immediately regretting the sudden movement. The room begins to spin and I find myself clutching at the wooden frame at the foot of the bed, closing my eyes as I wait for the dizzy spell to pass.

My low blood sugar reminds me that I skipped dinner.

Luckily, the guy’s still turned away and he hasn’t noticed, or he’d probably insist that I get it checked out at the nearest hospital just to get rid of me.

“Morning? Is this morning to you?” He spins around to regard me, and points at the window like I’m supposed to know how to read the time of day from the number of sunrays seeping in through the gap in the curtains. “It’s almost noon. Around here, we have breakfast preferably before the sun comes up. Anything after seven, and you’re bound to earn some raised eyebrows and turn into the locals’ hot gossip for the day. I saved you some coffee and leftover toast. You’ll find it in the kitchen. Make it quick before I feed it to the pigeons.” He turns to leave, calling over his shoulder, “Welcome to the Walsh estate. Have a pleasant stay. Or not. I don’t care either way.”

No “Did you sleep well?” No “You must be jet-lagged out of your mind. Can I get you some Advil?”

“Coffee and leftover toast. That’s some nice Continental breakfast if I ever saw one. Please don’t roll out the red carpet on my behalf,” I mumble, repeating his sarcastic phrase from last night. But he doesn’t hear me because he’s already out the door, slamming it behind him.

Sighing, I sink back down on the bed and peer at my cell phone. Noon, my butt. It’s barely ten a.m. Who is this guy? I should have demanded that he introduce himself and his part in all of this. Last night, I figured he was a mere driver, some anonymous person living in the grand village of my-brain’s-too-jetlagged-to-recall-the-name. Now I realize he’s an employee of the grounds, which most certainly explains his brisk manner and the way he seems to order me around. He’s either not a fan of strangers or he’s loyal to the late Ms. Walsh and is sulking at the prospect of having a new employer.

Either way, he’ll warm up to me eventually. Probably right after Christmas, when he sees his bonus, because I intend to get a job and be a very generous employer for as long as I’m the owner of the estate. After that, we’ll be out of each other’s hair forever and he can be rude to someone else.

The bathroom is dreamy, all white tiles and sparkling marble counters. I go through my usual morning routine, taking a shower that turns into a longer affair than necessary, letting the hot water caress my aching body, then change into the first pair of jeans and top I can grab from my still unpacked suitcase. I take my time applying minimalist makeup, but instead of joining the rude guy in the kitchen, wherever that is, I decide to keep him waiting and venture outside to familiarize myself with my new home, even if it’s only a temporary one.

As soon as I open the door, a cold breeze hits me, making me wrap my jacket tighter around me. It is a thin thing, not really meant to stave off the cold Irish wind, but I didn’t think to bring anything warmer with me. I head out the back of what I thought was a barn, realizing this isn’t a barn at all, more like a cottage or a small guesthouse. As I proceed down the gravel path toward the hills in the distance, I make a mental note to visit the local shops and find something more suitable to wear.

The air is clean and sharp, pregnant with the fragrant scent of everything nature has to offer.

And there’s plenty of that.

There is so much to take in, I don’t know where to look. In spite of the weather, everything is green and in full bloom. The thicket is overgrown and speckled with tiny white flowers. The lawn is immaculately trimmed and wrapped in morning dew that glitters in the bright light like a diamond with a million facets. I take in a deep breath and spin in a slow circle, only now catching a good glimpse of the house adjacent to what the guy called the barn last night.

It’s a magnificent three-story affair and reminds me a bit of one of those celebrity residences you see on TV with way too much space and no idea what to do with it. It’s all white turrets and gleaming windows that probably offer stunning views of thehills stretching in the distance. I haven’t seen the inside yet but suddenly that’s all I want to do.

I round the cottage and head back down the gravel path in search of the entrance to the main house. The old truck from last night is still parked in the driveway and looks completely out of place. I wouldn’t be surprised to find a logo on it advertising Jack-of-all-trades and a local phone number.

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