“Youknowwhat I mean.”
She raised a single gray eyebrow, the same one she’d been raising at me since her brows had been a ruddy auburn color and she’d been looking down at me. Now she had to crane her neck upward when she scolded me.
Which didn’t stop her—at all.
Her cheerful tone returned. “Did you see any of the neighbors while you were out?”
“All the neighbors hate me thanks to the daily freak show congregating outside my gates and parading up and down their tony street. Well, everyone except that heavyweight boxer who moved in next door, and that’s only because he hasn’t spent enough time here in Eastport Bay yet to get annoyed with it.”
Mrs. Potts patted me on the shoulder. “They don’t hate you, dear. Sounds like someone could use a bite of lunch and perhaps even a little dessert. Monsieur Laplume made Boston cream pie this morning.”
“I am hungry,” I admitted.
She stepped over to a panel on the wall and pressed one of its myriad buttons. “Sofie? Please tell Monsieur Laplume the master has returned and is ready for his luncheon.”
“Why do you keep calling me that? I’ve told you it makes me feel weird.”
“Monsieur Laplume likes it. Remember, he worked for European royalty before coming here to cook for you.”
She stepped forward and brushed a lock of hair off my forehead, studying my face in motherly concern.
“I have an idea. Why don’t I have a tray sent up to your office? I just finished tidying in there. Clean as a whistle. And I opened the windows to let in a fresh breeze… perfect for writing.”
Her last three words were delivered in a hopeful sing-song tone that made me roll my eyes like I’d done when I was eleven and she’d suggested my brother Hunter and I “hop right on” our homework after school instead of putting it off and playing video games first.
“You shouldn’t have bothered to clean in there,” I growled, though honestly, it was hard to muster any irritation with her. “I haven’t been in that office in weeks.”
The old housekeeper’s tone firmed as she looked directly at me and dropped her chin. “Iknow.”
Though my temper flared momentarily, there was no way I’d lash out at Mrs. Potts, who had been, for all practical purposes, a mother to me since I was ten.
I knew where all this was coming from. She was worried about me, and I was damn lucky there was someone in the world who was.
My heart warmed, and I planted a kiss on her powder-scented forehead.
“Thank you for ordering lunch. Please tell them I’ll take it in thedining roomin about five minutes, after I’ve changed.”
“But—”
I walked away, calling over my shoulder, “Have a good day, Mrs. Potts.” I could practically hear the disapproving scowl on her face.
Opting for the grand central staircase instead of the elevator, I made my way to the second floor and down the long hall toward my bedroom suite, passing door after door, each of which led to guest rooms that had gone unused for at least a year.
Just shy of the double doors to my bedroom suite, there was an opening to the right, a narrow stairway leading to the turret room that served as my office.
I stopped in front of it, staring at the floor. Breathed in. Breathed out.
Turning toward the stairs, I put one foot on the bottom step and a hand on the rail. Paused. Took in a deep breath.
Then shaking my head, I let out the air and turned away, walking quickly to my room. Once inside, I went straight to the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the rocky beach and the open Atlantic Ocean.
The view never failed to soothe me, no matter what the season or the weather. Today, dark clouds hung low over the blue-gray water, and there was a definite chop to the surface.
Storm’s coming.
I’d have to make sure someone went up and closed the office windows before it hit. They faced the water, and the wind whipped around the turret even when it wasn’t stormy.
I’d always loved the sound. It was the best kind of white noise for writing—back when I did that kind of thing.
