He’s the boss, the rational part of my brain tosses into the equation. But I’m beyond being rational. I’m fucking raging. The time difference. The lack of sleep. Hormones and emotions and nerves. Everything is conspiring to get on top of me, and I’m banging on the study door before I can talk myself out of it.
“Come in.”
I don’t wait around. I open the door and barge into the room, heart hammering my ribs.
“Amelia?”
With the door closed, the study is a lot smaller than it looked when Declan showed me around the house. Claustrophobic almost. The desk takes up a lot of the floor space, but there’s a drinks cart behind the desk, a writing bureau, a bookcase crammed with books, and filing cabinets. I wonder how much time he spends here. Maybe this is where he gets his best ‘boss’ ideas.
Like sacking the new housekeeper without giving her a chance to prove her innocence.
“Am I fired?”
He blinks, and the color drains from his face like I just threw a bucket of cold water at him. “What did Orla say?”
So, it’s true.
“Nothing. I was polishing the floor, and I heard you talking.” No point lying about it now. I’m already too late to save my job. “When were you going to tell me? After I finished the floors or were you going to let me cook dinner first?”
My face is growing hot. My chest is heaving with the effort of containing my temper. But the way he looks at me, like this is all his fault, is throwing me off-balance.
“Amelia, will you let me explain?”
“Please do. I can’t wait to hear what I did wrong. Then, perhaps you’ll listen to my side of the story.”
He nods once. “You’re right.”
He turns around, fills two glasses with amber liquid, and then hands one to me. Our fingers brush, and I know that he feels it too when his eyes widen and his pupils blow. He knocks back his drink, stares at the empty glass as if he doesn’t know how it got there and pours himself a second shot.
I shouldn’t drink. I’m working, dinner isn’t ready yet, and more importantly, I need a clear head to defend myself against whatever accusation he’s going to throw at me. But I raise the glass to my lips anyway and take a sip.
Brandy.
I wouldn’t normally touch hard liquor, and now I know why. One sip, and my brain cells are fuzzy. How is he even still standing after knocking back a whole shot in one go?
“So?” I prompt.
He takes a deep breath like this is painful for him.
Well, I’ve got news, buddy: it’s a hell of a lot more fucking painful for me.
“I…” he can’t even look at me.
“What did I do? Was it because I asked about your wife? I know I can be a bit full-on sometimes, but I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I would never?—”
“It wasn’t that, Amelia.”
His soft voice with the lyrical accent that sends shivers down my spine cuts through my tirade and leaves me bewildered.
“What then?” I shake my head. He doesn’t look like a man who hires and fires without a shred of remorse.
When his eyes meet mine, I get that same feeling I had yesterday, studying his profile, that we’ve met before. But I quash it before it gets in the way of what’s really going on here.
“You haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t want you to think that.”
“Ha!” I blurt out. “What am I supposed to think then?”
“This isn’t about you.”
