“What?” Alfred asks, clearly not understanding the reference.
“Patrick Stewart, then. He’s a pothead, isn’t he?”
“Patrick Stewart!” Pierce yells in a Scottish accent. “He’s the best part of those X-Men movies. Emma, you should be in those movies. You’d look unreal in one of those superhero costumes. Rrwaaor!” He makes a cat clawing motion at me, then swings his head to face Alfred. “She would, wouldn’t she, Alfie, old boy?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“I would,” Pierce says, waggling his eyebrows. “You should see her in her bikini diving for lobsters…”
My eyes fly open and I suck in a breath at the thought of him watching me that day.
When I glance back at him, Pierce’s eyes are wide. “I wasn’t stalking you. At first, I was just curious about what you were doing out thereonthewater,” he slurs. “Then I was worried ‘bout your safety. A girl all alone on the ocean in nothing but a tiny bikini…”
Alfred scoffs in a very clear indication of his disapproval.
A second later, Pierce says, “I think I’ll retire now. Good night, Sweet Emma…” Then he slinks down in his seat, closes his eyes and immediately begins snoring, just as we pull up to the villa.
16
So This is What It’s Like to Be Famous…
Emma
Alfred and I manage to drag a passed-out Pierce inside and get him onto the bed, which is no easy feat with a trick-kneed old guy as your only help. Alfred pours him a glass of water and leaves it by his bedside while I remove Pierce’s shoes and tuck him in.
I’m all business on the outside, but on the inside, I’m sort of all warm and mushy. He’s just so adorable that I have an inexplicable desire to take care of him. And, to be honest, I’m more than a little flattered. I know he’s crazy high, but there was a painful amount of honesty that came pouring out of him about his life, his family, and, as it turns out, his attraction to little old me. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying the moment, is there? One of the world’s most successful, most highly regarded, hottest writers fancies me. That’s the kind of thing that could give a girl a major ego boost, if she let it.
I’m not saying I’ll let it, but my backisa little straighter as Alfred and I make our way back to the golf cart.
Smiling to myself, I decide to crack open a bottle of wine and spend the evening reading moreClash of Crownsso I can figure out what makes a man like Pierce Davenport tick—other than me, of course. Wink, wink.
Once we’ve set off, Alfred says, “Emma, I have to say I’m disturbed by your terrible judgement with regard to Mr. Davenport’s safety.”
Wait. What now?“Excuse me?” I ask, hitting the gas pedal harder than necessary, causing Alfred to jerk back in his seat. “I got Pierce to the hospital as quickly as humanly possible. There’s really nothing more I could have done.”
“A good servant knows the guest sometimes makes requests that are not in his or her own best interest and therefore should be ignored, such as in the case of Mr. Davenportrequesting his food be left outside. Your duty was to find a way to meet his best interests, of which safety is paramount above all else.”
“Yeah, well, he demanded the food be left outside. I tried to talk him out of it but he wouldn’t listen. What was I supposed to do?”
“Guard it until he was ready to eat.”
“Guard—? Are you serious? You expect me to, what? Hide in the bushes so he won’t see me while I make sure nothing gets into his food?”
“Yes, that is precisely what a dutiful servant would do.”
“Okay, let’s get something straight. I amnobody’sservant. I’m achef,and as soon as I can find a replacement,I’llbe the one giving the orders instead of taking them.”
I take a sharp curve much quicker than I should, taking out a large branch that’s sticking out of the bushes. It snaps and I cringe inwardly, my heart pounding, but on the outside, I’m cold as ice and speed up even more as we wind our way down the mountain.
“This whole private cook thing is just a temporary mistake that is going to be rectified shortly, so there’s really no need for you to lecture me on servitude because I am not now, nor ever will be, a servant.”
Alfred grips the dashboard with both hands. “Oh, I’ve met people like you before. You think to serve others isbeneathyou,” he quips. “And what, exactly, have you done with your life to rise above the station you currently occupy? May I point out, you finished culinary school less than twoweeksago, not two years. You probably didn’t even pay for your education yourself. If I had to guess, I’d say you’ve been living off Mr. Banks your entire life, and when you decided you wanted to be a chef, you came to him to help make that happen.”
Wow. Just…wow.“You know what,Alfred? Not that this isanyof your business, but I worked my arse off in school, and it’s perfectly fine for me to choose not to devote my life to servitude,” I say, making a hard left when I hit the beach. “If that’s your thing and it makes you happy, good for you. But just because I have no interest in obeying orders for the rest of my days, doesn’t give you the right to judge me. You are not my employer, you are not my supervisor, and you are not my teacher, so spare me the lectures. I finished school already, thank you very much.”
I slam on the brake, causing the golf cart to lurch to a halt, then hop out to plug it in, hoping that I’ve ended the conversation.
Alfred slowly gets out and I can feel him watching me while I work. When he speaks, his voice is eerily calm. “The only reason that Mr. Davenport is laying up there terribly injured is because you are a proud young woman who doesn’t know her place. This entire thing could have easily been avoided and it is most definitelyyour fault. So, if that man wakes up tomorrow and decides to sue, or worse, to publiclyruinthe reputation of this resort, he can bloody well do it. And if he does, the fancy restaurant you think your brother is going to hand you really won’t be in operation very long, will it? Think aboutthat.”
