“Ahhh, William,” the bastard says, “we have a problem.”
“We have more than one,” the kind old man says as he wipes water from his face with a handkerchief.
The old man in his tweed jacket smiles before looking at the bastard.
“William, I clearly ordered a man as a personal chef!”
“Because?” the old man asks.
“Because,” I cut in, for drama. “Because he can’t control himself.” I put my hands back on my hips.
“Phah!” Grumpy says.
The old man shakes his head, rubs a temple, and starts to think on his feet. “Look, what if she, you, dress as a man?”
Grumpy and I both look at the old man, then we look at each other. The Grump even double blinks. “No, that’s just weird.”
“Agreed,” I say. “It’s disturbing to agree, but the grumpy suit is right.”
“What?”
“Oh, and there is another problem, Sir,” the old man, William, says.
“And that is?” Grump says, looking me up and down.
Again, he is dressed in a navy suit, and for some reason, he looks impeccable.
Old money and classy AF, unlike me in my old clubbing gear with hard 'look at me' nipples.
“The bridges are almost all out. The accommodation for said chef is also now flooding due to the old roof. The old roof we should have fixed in the summer. May I go on?”
Grump and I are close to fighting again.
“No, please go and do what you need to do.”
William nods and trots outside, back into the storm. The cold hunk stands closer, arms crossed.
“What are we going to do with you?”
The statement disgusts me. I am not an asset. To buy. To sell. To trade. Or to take liberties with.
As he wonders what to do with me, I think about last night. And the wicked things he did to my body.
I’ve had trouble thinking of much else since we came together. I’d also not come in a month.
The idea of me feeding him and that wicked mouth of his turns me on. In saying that, I despise him. It’s as if he thinks he is better than me.
He isnot!
“Look, the situation is this,” he says, calming and pacing. “I have to focus on work. Really focus, and, well, a male was supposed to remove any urges.”
I sigh, finally starting to get it.
“I’m sorry, it just won’t work. You’re not supposed to be hot. Not even a bit!”
“I am not hot!” I say firmly, adding a huff.
“You kind of are.”
