Page 21 of Make You Mine

“In this weather? What sort of heartless employer would I be letting you bike through a bloody monsoon?”

That earns me the faintest of smiles, one corner of her mouth twitching up as she follows me to the front door.

The rain’s really coming down now. Proper British weather.

We step out to the sound of it pattering against the drive. I get in behind the wheel, flick on the wipers and headlights, andlet the car hum to life. Chelsea settles into the passenger seat, folding her coat neatly in her lap like she’s at a job interview. Two weeks in and she still carries herself like she’s expecting to be graded on every move.

I’ve been told I can come off a bit stern—intimidating, even. And fair enough, I’m six foot four and built like a bloody rugby forward. Still, you’d think we’d have warmed up to each other by now.

Maybe Amerie’s right. I’ve been buried in work so long I barely know what’s happening in my own bloody house.

The roads are dark and slick as we pull off, the sort of winding country lanes that punish you for not paying attention. We ride in silence for a bit, the low growl of the engine filling the car. Then, as if she can’t stand it any longer, Chelsea speaks up.

“Thanks again for the lift,” she murmurs, fiddling with a loose thread on her cardigan. “When I asked for one, I thought Amerie would drive. I wouldn’t have asked if I knew it’d be you.”

“Amerie doesn’t drive here. Doesn’t trust herself with the left side of the road. And frankly, I don’t trust the roads at this hour either. She’s a New Yorker. Barely drove there, let alone here.”

Chelsea lets out a quiet laugh. “We could use more streetlights, that’s for sure.”

“You’re not wrong. So tell me, why wouldn’t you have asked if you knew it’d be me? Don’t tell me I’m that frightening.”

“Well…” She chews her lip and keeps fussing with that thread. “Maybe a little. You just… you seem really important. Always busy. I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”

“It’s no bother,” I say, hands tightening on the wheel as we round a bend. “How’s the job treating you so far?”

She blinks. “Hmm?”

“Working for us. You can be honest. I can take it.”

She pushes her glasses up and thinks on it, then smiles. Genuine this time. “I’ve really enjoyed it.”

“Not just buttering me up for a raise, are you?”

She laughs again, the sound soft and bashful. “I wouldn’t lie about that, Mr. Keating. You’ve all made me feel so welcome. It’s meant a lot.”

The sound of her unguarded voice throws me for a beat. I’d braced for the usual pleasantries—cheerful, polite, transactional—but she sounds like she means it. Like we’re more than just her employer. Like she already feels part of the family.

Eyes on the road, I give a small nod. “Glad to hear it, Chelsea. And really, it’s Declan. No need for the formalities.”

The sign for Ashwick flashes by. Rain’s still hammering down with no sign of letting up.

I ease to a stop in front of the address Chelsea gave me: a run-down stone cottage with dark windows and a lawn that’s clearly lost the war to the weeds. The whole place looks like it’s been forgotten by time or. at the very least, by a gardener.

I’m half a second from asking if we’ve got the wrong spot when she unclips her seatbelt and starts gathering her things.

“This is me,” she says, clutching her coat to her chest. “I really appreciate you going out of your way to drive me.”

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact you bike ten miles each way,” I say, flicking the hazards on.

She shrugs, pushing damp hair behind her ear. “It’s not so bad. When it’s not chucking it down sideways.”

“I’ll get your bike.”

We meet at the back of the car. I unhook the thing from the rack while the downpour soaks through both our hoods. It doesn’t matter because we’re drenched regardless. Chelsea gives a grateful sort of smile as she takes the handlebars from me, her fingers brushing mine.

“You didn’t have to do that. I could’ve managed.”

“It’s within reach when you’re built like a bloody scaffolding pole.”

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