“That would be most kind of you, Emma,” Alfred answers with a smile and nod. Glancing down at my attire—peach striped pyjama pants and a tank top—he says, “I'll let you get changed into your uniform. Provided you have a clean one that fits.”
“I do, thanks.”
“Excellent. Good luck.” With that, he disappears into the storm, leaving me to dress.
I mutter curse words the entire five minutes it takes for me to dress, put my hair up in a twist, and apply a light layer of makeup. Well, light might be the wrong word. I did go a little heavy on mascara. Apparently, there’s a tiny but strong-willed part of me who badly wants to show Mr. Important what he can’t have. She won the argument with feisty, independent Emma, who is now completely disgusted as she applies her shiniest lip gloss in the mirror above the toilet. Yes, the toilet. The sink has a small window above it so I have to straddle the toilet to use the mirror. Isn’t this delightful?
Okay, Emma. Just get this over with so you can come back and have a long nap and dream about a land where men don’t exist.
Grabbing the umbrella from the tiny closet, I pick up the cooler and start on my way.
8
The Mysterious Ms. Banks
Pierce
Okay, so things aren’t exactly going as planned. I’ve burned eight days already—eight!—without accomplishing anything other than doodling some mildly inappropriate sketches. I finally gave up on sleep-as-a-reward after about thirty-two hours of torturing myself needlessly. Not that it’s helped.
I also haven’t had a chance to redeem myself with the lovely chef. I’ve been hoping she’ll bring up one of my meals so I can compliment her culinary skills (which truly are well-refined) and apologize for my unforgivably rude behaviour, but so far, it’s just been Alfred. And for some stupid reason, I can’t even manage to order food properly. You’d think speaking to her through the safe distance of the radio would help, but no. I still come out sounding like a total arse.
I’ve been sitting at my computer tapping my fingers on the desk for the past thirty minutes while I obsess over our brief conversation.Why on earth am I letting this woman get under my skin? Forget her. You have one job, Pierce. And you’re failing miserably.
Thunder rolls through the air as the door opens. In walks Ms. Banks, dressed in a suitably fitting uniform this morning that happens to be dripping wet and rather muddy around the ankles and knees. Her cheeks are rosy, her hair is dripping, and her mascara is running. She says nothing as she carries the cooler in one hand.
I jump to my feet, wanting to help her, but then stop when I see the haughty expression on her face. “Good morning, Ms. Banks.”
“Good morning,” she whispers. “Where would you like me to set this?”
“The dining table would be fine. Why are you whispering?”
“Because the other day you insisted on silence while being served,” she whispers, her expression nothing if not facetious.
I wince at the memory, then say, “I was a little out of sorts when I arrived, I apologize.”
“That’s fine. No need to apologize to the help,” she whispers, setting the cooler down on the table with a thump. She lifts the lid, taking out a carafe of coffee, a plate, a mug, a glass, cutlery, and napkins. I watch as she opens metal containers holding my breakfast and deftly arranges everything on the plate.
Scrambling to think of something intelligent to say, I come up blank and end up settling for something cliché. “I feel like we got off on the wrong foot.”
“Not at all, sir,” she says, her voice barely audible. “You were just making your expectations clear.”
“There’s really no need to whisper or call me sir. It’s Pierce.”
She finishes and turns to me, speaking in a normal voice. “Coffee, French toast, poached eggs, sausage, an array of locally grown organic fruit, and orange juice squeezed a few minutes ago. Not to worry, there are no onions, pecans, sun-dried tomato, goat cheese, anything caramelized or covered with gristle, and no gazpacho of any kind.”
I wasn’t expecting the side order of feisty with my meal, but I can’t say I don’t deserve it. “It looks delicious, thank you,” I say, unable to pull my gaze from her mesmerizing hazel eyes. Realizing I’m likely starting to seem creepy with the intense eye contact, I glance down at her dripping clothes. “Are you all right? You look like you’re having a rough morning.”
For the briefest second, her face softens just the slightest, then, as quickly as it appeared, the stone wall returns. “Never better.”
Pulling a towel out of the cooler, she drops it to the floor, steps on it with both feet, and uses it to wipe the floor of her tracks as she returns to the front door. “Enjoy your breakfast, sir.”
With that, she’s gone, leaving me alone again. I walk to the window and watch her slip and slide along the muddy path down the mountain, wondering why the hell she didn’t drive up here in this storm.
9
Never Wear Mascara in a Storm
Emma
