Page 41 of The Grosvenor's Ghost
Roll my eyes, almost stamp my foot. “I think you’re being a dick.”
And then his face twists up into a frown, like he can finally see how angry I truly am. He moves out of the way, I storm past him and down the stairs, where the offices are.
“Phoebe.” Ronan stops me just as I'm about to barge my way into George’s office. “You alright?”
“No,” I swallow, on the verge of tears but I’d rather be told that Arthur’s killed someone then cry in front of him. “I have a stalker.”
He arches a brow, looks left and then back to me. Laughs. “You sure about that?”
I glare at him. “Positive.”
He backs away, nods his head. “Alright, then.” And just as he goes to walk off, he turns around, points to me. “You tell me if you hear anything from your sister, yeah?”
I give him a fake smile.
“Speak of the devil,” George remarks, looks shocked when I walk into his office without knocking. “Just doing your taxes here, Phoebs and do you mind telling me why you’ve spent almost twenty-three grand on one dinner? What have you been eating, girl? Fucking golden bars or something?”
“I told you to do my taxes because you can discount them, not be my fucking accountant.”
I didn’t even realise both Charlie and Albie were sitting in here until one of them snorts,
George’s face drops. “Accountants are the people who do your taxes, you twat.”
“Ohmigod!” I throw my hands up. “I don’t care!”
He pulls back with a smile. “What’s gotten into you?”
Hands on my hips, I face away from him. “Tell your goons to get out. I need to talk to you.”
They both leave and when I hear the door shut, I face him. He nods at me to take a seat but I can’t. I’m angry, I’m offended, I’m hurt—I’m so many things that I haven't felt this strongly in such a long time that I don’t even know what to do with myself.
“What’s going on, then?”
“Can you find people?” I ask, picking up a paperweight from his bookshelf—honestly, cheek of him to question my spending habits. This is a four thousand pound nineteenth century paperweight.
“Depends.”
George leans back in his chair, stares at me like he knows something's wrong without me even saying it. He won’t ask directly. He won’t ask if I have a stalker but he’ll know. The twins are the kind of people who just know everything about everyone. And it’s weird because everyone knows what type of people they are yet, they don’t go around advertising it. They observe. They watch. And then they work. Both very patient, heavy on self discipline. Not like me. The second I know one thing about something, I’m on the phone telling Connie.
“What does it depend on?”
“Just sit down for a second, you’re making me dizzy.”
I put the paperweight back, sit on the couch against the wall. I know it’s a terrible habit but I start picking my nails aswe sit in silence. He’s waiting for me to say it but I can’t—I don’t want to. Saying something aloud makes it real.
“What’s happened, Phoebe?” He asks in that low voice that makes you want to open up.
“Can you find someone who’s been sending me flowers?”
He coughs once to cover his laugh. “What?”
I look over at him. “You need to take me seriously.”
“I am,” he nods, eyebrows knitted together. “Just confused.”
“But you can find the person, can’t you?”
“I can try,” he shrugs. “I need more information.”
