“Well, she was there last night, looking hale and hearty.”
As hale and hearty as his pink cheeks? Could Mari be the reason he seems no longer interested in me? And if so, what do I care?
About a teaspoon amount, if I’m honest with myself. Maybe even less. I have bigger problems this morning. Sometimes I just want to see what I can get away with is just a little too complex for comfort.
When I reach the kitchen, the atmosphere in there is . . . awkward. It’s almost like everyone had taken a vow of silence. Dougal and his crew are busy preparing lunch, so I guess they have an excuse, but Chrissy and Sophie barely glance up as I reach for the French press.
And yes, I’m a chicken. A chicken who needs coffee to face the kind of conversation I need to have.
“Coffee, anyone?”
“No’ for me, hen,” Chrissy says from her position in front of an ironing board and a pile of table linen. Her response is cordial enough, yet she still doesn’t lift her gaze.
Oh, well.
“What’s on the menu for today?” I ask, lifting a lid from a cauldron-sized pot as I wait for the kettle to boil. Phew, that is stinky.
“That’s just stock,” Dougal mutters, his eyes on one of his crew as he makes tiny quenelles of chocolate ganache. Much more appetising.
“Well, they look yum.” No answer. “Is there another big meal tonight?”
“No,” Chrissy answers. “Just a small supper party for family and friends. You can just relax tonight.”
Welp, I wasn’t offering to help either, I think as I smother a cynical smile. Last night was my limit. “No Mari today?” I ask of no one in particular.
“No, she’s still no’ well,” wee Sophie offers up. “She called in sick this morning, so Lady Isla says.”
Ah. And there is the reason for this awkwardness. Sounds like they’ve all been given a talking to by Isla, is my guess. Don’t sully the name of the duke. Or maybe: be nice to Holland because I need her to look after the kids. Either way, I preferred the atmosphere of yesterday, I decide, as I take my coffee to the kitchen table and begin to flick through my phone.
I’ll finish my coffee, and then I’ll be on my way.
On the way to face the duke.
“Hey, Griffin!” I call out, spotting him across the lawn. I know Alexander isn’t likely to be out here, but I think I already mentioned I’m a total chicken shit.
Why do now what you can put off for a little longer, right?
“Do you have a sec?” I add as he lifts his head in acknowledgement.
Crossing the verdant cushion that Cameron and his crew seem to spend so much time tending, Griffin steps up onto the ornamental bridge, the soles of his shoes clipping against the stone.
“For you, I have all the sex,” he kind of answers, coming to stop in front of me.
“You mean lots of seconds. As in time?” Because that sounded a little wrong.
“Yes. I have lots of time for you, Holly. Lots of time to sex you.”
“Ha, funny.”
“Only if you want it to be.” Folding his arms, he presses his butt up against the side of the bridge.
“What?”
“I’m more a fan of the intense kind of sex, myself.”
“Oh, I am kind of regretting calling you over here.”
“Why did you, by the way?” He shoots me a cocky grin but I’m about to disappoint him.
“Because of the peacock.” I point my thumb over my shoulder at the magnificent but bad-tempered bird guarding the other side of the bridge. “I wanted to cross the bridge, but the dang thing wouldn’t let me.” Actually, I wanted to take a photo of him first, but he seemed to take extreme offence, fluffing his feathers threateningly. Yes, I’m supposed to be looking for Alexander, but I thought I’d take the opportunity to use this bridge that tourists are always hanging around. It is a very pretty bridge, very Instagram-able, with its weeping willow and stream, but I’m not about to explain that to him. Griffin I mean, not the peacock.
“Oh, so you did want me for my body?”
“Well, yeah. I could’ve pushed you into the water as a decoy.”
“Holly, Holly, Holly.” He shakes his head though doesn’t give up on his grin. “I would’ve only pulled you in with me. Who do you think would’ve looked best with a wet T-shirt?”
“Urgh, you should live under a bridge, troll boy,” I say, swiping him across the chest with the back of my hand. I start a little as he catches it.
“When are you going to take me seriously?” he murmurs, pressing it flat against his chest. One hand resting on my wrist, he begins to stoke the back of my hand. “We could be good together, you and me. I think I told you once before, I’m really good company. I’d keep you warm on these cold Scottish nights.”