“And you turned him down.”
“I did.”
“Business and families can be a difficult balance.”
“I have no allegiance to the man. He’s Isla’s husband and the father of my nephews. If he can’t take care of them, I will. But I’m not adding him to the list of my responsibilities.”
“I see.” He smiles wryly, his gaze turning to the wall of TV monitors. “I think you have enough of those.”
For a moment, I assume he’s talking about the house, the estates, but as my gaze naturally follows his, I find myself warding off the sight. “I don’t need responsibility for that, so don’t think to send me his bill.” Because there on screen, I catch an unfortunate glimpse of a half-clothed Griffin, along with the angelic-looking woman from downstairs. The pair aren’t alone, another woman crawling up the huge bed.
“The bill? I’ll send it to my uncle. I believe he has him on a retainer.”
Something else that doesn’t interest me. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”
“English, sometimes, makes little sense,” Van mutters, straightening from his desk. “So you think Isla’s husband . . .”
“Thomas,” I supply.
“Will come to me for money to invest?”
“You met him at Christmas two years ago, and he’s tried to bring you up in conversation numerous times since. The oligarch’s son.”
Van nods knowingly. “What are Russians known for if not vodka and money?”
Not to mention their dubious business dealings.
“So, am I to invest in this distillery?” he adds.
“Absolutely not.”
“I didn’t think so.” He smiles, shark-like. “But there’s no need to bite off my head, old friend.”
“I have a feeling that things are getting desperate for him.”
“Should I meet him or not? Perhaps I can bring him here?”
To what purpose, I’m about to ask when his head turns quite deliberately to the TV monitors.
“Give me a couple of days to think on that.” It’s not like I have any reason to ruin my sister’s marriage, apart from abhorring the man she chose. “I’m going up to the castle next weekend. I’ll see how the land lies then.”
“Of course.”
“You’re welcome, too. It’s the tourist season, but the place will be closed for the weekend. Isla and the boys are there.” I’m not sure why I add the latter. I know he has always been attracted to her, despite his attempts to hide it. Besides, for a man who owns a club that allows people to fuck indiscriminately, he’s always been quite honourable himself. And my sister is as faithful as her elderly Labrador. And a lot less trouble. But the words are out there, and there’s no taking them back. Not that he’s likely to say he will.
“Yes. I believe I’d enjoy the break.”
I try to hide my surprise. I’m not sure whether I manage it.
Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, indeed. Or in other words, this is something I’ll need to puzzle out another day, I believe.
18
Holly
I close the education centre on Thursday after a fairly quiet day where the highlight was trying to work out why one of the little visitors was steadfast in his belief that he was going to be a golden retriever. I’d passed out the crayons and fun workbooks (made to look like schoolbooks from Tollbridge School of Sorcery and Enchantment, though kind of cheap) when he’d opened that sucker and set to, muttering “watch me be a golden retriever, a golden retriever.”
I’d had to bite the inside of my cheeks when he’d rushed at me twenty minutes later, just as I’d handed back the magic wand (a small tree branch) to a cute six-year-old girl, demanding I’d take a look.
“Miss Boo! (that’s my stage name, I guess) Miss Boo! Look, I’ve finished.” He’d tugged so hard on the ankle-length skirt that is part of my uniform, I thought he’d tear the velcro. Uniform. Yep. That wasn’t mentioned in the contract. No way I’m posting evidence of this on my Instagram account.
“Already?” I’d exclaimed theatrically (because drama major = old ham) as my eyes scanned the room for his parents.
“Yes! Already! My mummy says I’m a golden retriever.”
I’d pondered this for a beat before realising he meant overachiever.
Kids. They crack me up.
Loosening the Velcro on the waist of my skirt, I step out of it and hang it on the peg, swapping my prim high-necked blouse for a long cardigan. I usually wear a T-shirt, leggings, and boots under that get-up, but I do wonder what’ll happen when summer comes to Scotland. Will I still need the layers, or will I melt?
Maybe I can get a little weather advice from Cameron tomorrow when we hit the pub. As I grab my Kilblair Castle cotton tote, because this is no place to use my Prada, nervousness washes through my stomach. Not the anticipatory, exciting kind, and, to be honest, I just don’t get it. Why am I not more excited about it? He’s cute and kind, and he brings me flowers almost daily. From the garden, sure, but I’m not exactly high maintenance. Buy me a beer, tell me I’m cute. Slap my ass when we know each other a little better, and I’ll be a happy girl! I don’t need hundred-dollar bouquets, diamonds, or wooing. I just need you to like me. And for me to like you. And I do like him, but still, this feels . . .