Panic over.
But my brain isn’t satisfied. I check the time on my cell. 05:57. Orla is probably downstairs already, kneading dough into a loaf tin ready to slide into the Aga.
I don’t know what to do. I could simply head back to my own room, shower, get dressed, make my way downstairs to start my day like any other. But the niggling voice in my head is telling me to speak to Declan first and find out what’s going on; no point stressing over it when it could be resolved by talking.
But I’ll feel like the biggest fucking idiot if I go downstairs in my robe and find him chatting to his mother-in-law in the kitchen like everything is perfectly normal. How do I explain that one?
Oops, sorry, thought I’d grab a coffee to take back to Declan’s room.
Or I could pretend that I’m sleepwalking, detour around the kitchen table and go back to bed. Orla would sign my employment termination paperwork herself.
I glance at the phone in my hand. I’ve always prided myself on being practical like my mom, but since meeting Declan, my brain has turned to mush. Mentally shaking some sense into myself I type a message and hit send before I can second-guess it.
Where are you?
I know it makes me sound needy, but too late to take it back now.
Declan reads the message. I wait for the three little dots to inform me that he’s messaging me back, but they don’t appear. Then he goes offline.
O-kay…
Now what do I do?
I barely take a breath before doubt flares into anger. No, I’m not putting up with this shit. Not from him. Not from anyone. He told me to remember my worth, and boy am I fucking remembering it now.
I get out of bed and grab my robe, fastening it around my waist. I don’t give a fuck if he’s chatting over a cup of tea and homemade shortbread in the kitchen with Orla. I don’t even care if I look like the arrogant New Yorker who thinks they can barge in on a private conversation and help myself to coffee.
He doesn’t get to make me feel this way. I’m not the only one with a gigantic fucking secret in this house, and I’m not carrying all the burden on my shoulders without a little help from him.
Opening the bedroom door, I hold my breath and listen.
The house is silent. I can’t tell if Orla is moving around downstairs or not, but I’m not going to let it stop me. If I bump into her first, I’ll wing it.
I sneak downstairs, my heart thudding like I just completed a morning jog around the grounds and bumped into the ghost of Christmas past on my return. At the bottom, I’m surprised to find that there are no lights on through the double doors leading to the kitchen and conservatory, and no aroma of baking bread. What the hell is going on?
It feels like they both did a runner in the middle of the night and forgot about the new housekeeper asleep in the boss’s bed.
I check the kitchen first. As I suspected, it’s empty, and Orla’s absence in the usually inviting hub of the house prickles underneath my skin. Something is going on, and I didn’t feature on their need-to-know list. Of course I didn’t.
I’m not family.
Pulse racing, I go back to the foyer and hesitate outside the door to Declan’s study. I can’t hear a thing. I should’ve picked up my phone before I went snooping around the house. I could’ve tried calling him and listened for his ring tone. But I feel too nauseous and dizzy to go back upstairs, so I do the next best thing.
I knock on the door, the sound reverberating around my skull.
No answer.
I move closer and whisper his name urgently, “Declan?”
Still nothing.
This is his personal space. I still have no idea what Declan does—he fucked me on his desk; he didn’t give me a business summary—but when my fingers close around the handle and I press it slowly, I remind myself that I’m not snooping. I only want to know what’s going on. He owes me that much at the very least after all his promises and pillow-talk.
The first thing I notice when I open the door a fraction is that the lamp on top of the bureau is switched on and emitting a gentle glow. Feeling more confident, I cross the threshold, my eyes automatically drifting towards the desk. The blind is drawn, the room is shadowy, but there’s an empty brandy decanter on the desk, and Declan’s leather seat is facing the window.
“Declan?” I fully enter the room and close the door behind me with a soft click. “Is everything okay?”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even acknowledge that I’ve spoken.
