‘You can’t be serious?’ Her jaw falls open.
I tear my eyes away, back to the task at hand. Unpacking. ‘I’ve never been more serious in my life, sweetheart.’
‘Urgh! Don’t call me sweetheart. It sounds like an affliction rather than a term of affection, from you at least.’
‘Fine, Victoria.’ I annunciate every single letter just to get a rise from her, like she gets a rise from me by being so fucking beautiful and infuriating.
Has she really such little regard for her own safety? Surely, she of all people should appreciate how fragile life is? How everything can change in a split second. She experienced it as a child first-hand when she lost her parents.
I attempt to appeal to her rational side. ‘Surely you can appreciate how quickly things can take a turn for the worse? You must see it in the hospital, day in, day out.’
‘Exactly. And that’s why I’m determined to live every day like it’s my last. Because it damn well could be.’
The door slams, and she stomps across the hallway to her own bedroom, banging that door, too. I’m going to have my work cut out for me.
I finish unpacking and head down to the kitchen to rustle up something for dinner for the two of us, and give her time to cool down.
I can appreciate her situation. It can’t be easy having a full-time tail, especially at twenty-three. But she’s not your average twenty-three-year-old.
I find the ingredients in the fridge to make a carbonara. Even though I mostly take advantage of the restaurant at Huxley Castle, I find cooking therapeutic. Especially cooking with wine, but unfortunately I’m working. And Victoria is hard work at the moment. Still, I find a bottle of Sancerre and pop it on the table in case she wants a glass.
I’m about to call her for dinner when she descends the staircase.
My jaw nearly hits the floor.
As stunning as she is without make-up, with it she’s a fucking knockout. Her lips are painted a shade of fuck-me red to match her dress, if that’s what you can call the satin clutching her curves like clingfilm. The V drops so low at the front I can almost see her belly button. It takes every ounce of willpower I own to not lick my parted lips.
Long, toned legs protrude from beneath the short skirt that hangs a good four inches above her knee.
Oh, mother of fucking God, please tell me there’s a fire extinguisher in this house because she’s so fucking hot she could spontaneously burst into flames at any second.
My Adam’s apple feels like a rock lodged in my throat. It’s an effort to swallow, let alone form a coherent sentence.
I turn my attention to the stove and try to gather myself. ‘Interesting choice of outfit for dinner.’
‘I’m going to a party at my friend Libby’s place.’ Her defiant tone dares me to disagree with her.
I can’t stop her. Even if I wanted to.
‘Fine. Can we at least eat first?’
She shrugs and I dish her up a plate of pasta, praying I won’t stab myself in the eye with my fork, distracted by the vision opposite.
This job is already proving to be more challenging than I anticipated.
5
VICTORIA
We sit at the enormous dining room table in silence, bar the occasional scrape of metal forks and the traffic whizzing by outside the window. I reach for the bottle of Sancerre, but Archie leaps to his feet and grasps it first.
He’s changed out of his suit and into a pair of grey, low hanging sweats. A tight-fitting white t-shirt showcases his chiselled chest to perfection. When his arm raises to pour my wine, so does the t-shirt. I get a flash of his taut, tanned midriff and the light masculine trail blazing to his waistband and lower.
I force my eyes back to my plate and take a huge mouthful of wine.
Archie’s pasta is fabulous. It’s a shame I can’t say the same about his social skills. We eat without uttering a single word and he looks everywhere but at me.
Am I that repulsive?
