by Mara McQueen
Olivia felt a smile creeping onto her face and looked away to hide it. This wasn’t the time and place to be amused.
Kieran moved to her side and leaned down. Dear God, if he took a deep breath, his chest would touch her shoulder. A small flutter of nervous energy shot through her. This wasn’t fear, oh no.
This was desire. Raw, poorly timed, alarmingly powerful desire.
To her surprise, Kieran wiped her shoulder. Her eyes fluttered in confusion before she noticed what he was trying to do—a tiny smudge of something grey had managed to soil her wrinkled clothes.
Talk about a mood killer. She blushed hard.
His chest rumbled with a deep laugh. “So who did you think you were hunting down?”
That sobered Olivia up. Kieran’s disdain for Addie and her special friend was obvious at dinner, but Olivia could still make a very grave mistake by accusing his potential future family member.
“Nobody,” Olivia lied. “I felt threatened, so I reacted.”
“Interesting reaction.”
Not willing to embarrass herself further, Olivia stepped away from him, trying to make it look like she was simply admiring his study.
The mahogany desk that dominated the room was simply exquisite, as were the antique sconces and the shōji screens. The rug, while not exactly soft under Olivia’s bare feet, had a vivid red motif. The dark hardwood floor was in such a good condition, Olivia almost wept with joy at the thought of showing it to prospective buyers.
It was so unlike the rest of the house, not just because of the massive free space, but—
“It’s clean,” Olivia said in disbelief, eyes ping-ponging to the massive screens dominating half a wall. Why did he need so many monitors? “And way too high-tech.”
Kieran let out a deep, quiet laugh. “Yes, it is.”
Olivia’s mouth slackened. “So my room’s the only rundown one? How...?”
“If I had to live like the rest of them for three months, I would’ve ended up flinging myself from the nearest balcony.” Kieran walked back behind his desk. “My grandmother’s completely against any type of change, even if it means making her home practically uninhabitable. I had to argue with her for an entire week to get her a new mattress and clean her bedroom spotless.”
“You've been four months, right?”
Kieran looked out the open window. “Yes. My grandmother’s health is a full-time job now. Thankfully, Emma is smitten with her.”
Olivia sucked in a deep breath. She knew just as much about comforting another human being—and a stranger, at that—as Martin apparently knew about proper knocking.
Gazing around to find something, anything, that could restart the conversation, Olivia spotted a framed picture on the edge of the desk. A middle-aged Japanese woman with long straight black hair laughed at the camera. She held a grumpy little boy with a cleft lip in her lap, stopping him from jumping into a pond filled with koi fish in the middle of a feeding frenzy. So that’s who Kieran got his amazing cheekbones from.
“Your mom’s very beautiful.” Olivia leaned over the desk to take a closer look at the picture.
“That’s not my mother.” Kieran turned the frame, shielding the photo. “But thank you.”
Olivia tapped her baton on her thigh, silently cursing herself in all the languages she knew. There she went again, blundering away her chances.
Milo would be dancing in the manager’s corner office before she got over the embarrassment of this night.
She should've made a shameful retreat back to her stuffy room. But her hands had a mind of their own. Fidgeting, flexing.
Next thing she knew, her eyes landed on the chess set. Her fingers wrapped around the white knight and moved it.
Kieran cocked a brow. A second of silence lapsed.
Dear Lord, Olivia was going to get thrown out of Bolton Manor. Tonight.
He moved his black rook, and sat down in his chair with feline grace, motioning to the seat on the other side of the desk.
Was he serious? Olivia debated whether to politely excuse herself or indulge for a full minute. Finally, she sat down hesitantly.
“I warn you, I haven’t played chess in years.” Her mother had given up their weekly matches right around the time Olivia was ten, and her parents’ business had started booming.
“And I haven’t played against someone since my grandfather died. I think we’re even.”
They played in silence, the only sound in the study the thunder in the background. Whenever the lightning flashing through the windows illuminated Kieran’s profile, Olivia could only stare at the man.
The slope of his eyebrows. The way his lower lip dented when he rested his thumb on it, concentrating on his next move. How his eyes flashed to hers when it was her turn, making her heart do the most troublesome flips.
Dangerous, dangerous territory.
She needed to get a grip. And nothing could chill the enticing tension in the air like talking about business and money. "Can I ask you something?"
Kieran's gaze slashed to hers. "Judging from your tone, it's either extremely awkward or very invasive."
"It's both." But she needed to know.
"I'm all ears."
Olivia cleared her throat. There was a reason she hadn't been trying to impress Mrs. Bolton every chance she got, like Milo. "Are you sure your grandmother wants to sell Bolton Manor?"
There, she'd said it. The situation was delicate, and she needed to be sure everyone was on the same page.
She wanted the promotion and the commission, but she wanted to be able to live with herself more.
"Yes," Kieran replied curtly. "It's all she's been talking about lately, and you don't have to take my word for it. Ask anyone in the house. All I want is to make sure she's happy."
Good. Olivia didn't know what she would've done if she had been dealing with a soulless grandson out for his grandmother's money. And both Mrs. Bolton and Sarah had said the woman wanted to sell, she had no reason to doubt him. "You might be required to get a court's approval to make sure her rights are respected."
"That won't be an issue," he said, calm and in control. "But I appreciate you looking past the commission and actually caring."
"Such a compliment." Olivia exhaled a laugh. "As a thank you, I might just start talking about all the contract contingencies you need to know. I have a feeling you're going to love going through every small detail."
Kieran returned her smile with one of his own, and this one actually had warmth behind it. "How about we save that conversation for tomorrow? I need all my attention on the game so you won't beat me too badly."
They lapsed into a comfortable silence. He won the first match. Olivia won the second. She stretched the day’s kinks out of her neck, raising her arms high. “Let’s end this night with us both being victors.”
“I agree. Thank you for a lovely evening.”
“I can safely say this is the most fun I’ve had al Bolton Manor.” This evening might’ve started off wonky, but, damn, what a finish.
“Perhaps we could play again before the week is up.” He scanned her face, eyes narrowing somewhere between playful and scrutinizing. “Now, as the perpetual gracious host that I am—"
Olivia laughed low in her throat. "Of course."
"I would be remiss if I didn't ask you if there's anything else I can assist you with?”
Olivia opened her mouth to decline. And then she thought better of it.
“Do you have some clean sheets I could borrow? Mine are a bit...worn.”
Before Olivia could finish, Kieran had already closed the distance between the desk and the wonderful double doors on the right side of the room. He slid them open and disappeared behind them.
If Olivia had been impressed by the study, the bedroom adjacent to it took her breath away.
So clean. So lavish. So not hers.
Olivia wanted to throw herself into the low bed in the center of the room, and snuggle inside what looked like the most comf
ortable linens ever.
Before she could indulge that little fantasy further, Kieran returned and handed her a stack of perfectly ironed red sheets.
“Enjoy them.” He stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, a smirk on his face.
For a fleeting second, Olivia let herself indulge in another small fantasy, where she wasn’t an agent, and Kieran wasn’t the person who could influence Mrs. Bolton’s decision regarding who got the sale.
He was, after all, smart and attractive enough to pique her interest even for a one-night stand. Maybe more.
She squashed down those thoughts as soon as they started heating up her cheeks.
“Thank you.” She clutched the sheets to her chest and made to turn.
“So.” His voice stopped her. “Any other Bolton Manor amenities giving you problems?”
Maybe he wanted her around as much as she wanted him. Bolton Manor was so stifling, she felt the need for decent company after only one day. He'd had to endure this house for months.
“No,” Olivia lied. It wasn’t the time, place, or person to complain to. “The cell reception is a drag, but I’ll live.”
“Yeah,” he said and rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly a bit cautious. “The house makes up for it though. Horrible heating, a broken roof, sodden rugs—you can’t find those just anywhere.”
Olivia laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“It has its charm and little pieces of history everywhere.” She smiled. “I saw some scratches on the banister. Yours?”
“No, I came here when I was a bit too old to ruin the decor. Nan told me they were there before she was born.”
“A lot of Bolton generations.”
“One too many, some would say.” His neck muscles tensed. “Not an architecture specialist like you, of course. When did this passion of yours first start?”
Olivia felt her blush returning. If she wasn’t mistaken—but she probably was—Kieran was kind of trying to flirt with her. Or make her go away.
“I studied art history.” Olivia shrugged, completely at a loss of how to behave. This was inappropriate. This was exciting. “What about you?”
He stood up straighter and cleared his throat. “Computers, programming, coding. Plenty of hours spent in front of computers.”
The light flickered above them, stopping the rest of Olivia’s retreat. Kieran stepped closer, watching the sconces light up erratically. His slow moves mesmerized Olivia.
“Don’t worry,” he said, his deep voice reassuring. “It happens all the time. If we weren’t selling the place, I would’ve invested in a good generator.”
Her eyes landed on the patch of skin visible beneath his perfect collar again. She wanted to run her fingers across it. Instead, she took a deep, calming breath. “I should go before they give out.”
“Want me to walk you back?” he asked with a smirk. “Make sure nothing attacks you?”
Olivia laughed and turned, looking at him over her shoulder. “It’s fine. If something happens, I’ll just scream for you.”
Olivia only realized what she had implied when Kieran’s smile grew. “That sounds like an amazing plan.”
He laughed and inclined his head in that half-bow of his as Olivia fled his study.
But she couldn't escape her dangerous, tempting thoughts.
After she had ridden herself of the task of selling the manor, maybe she’d take a trip to London, just to catch up with Kieran. And then, she wouldn’t have to worry about professionalism.
It would never happen, but it didn’t hurt to dream the impossible, did it?
Let's Talk Business
Olivia’s restless night fluctuated between luscious dreams involving Kieran and ones where the house fell on top of her. By the time she came down for breakfast, she wasn’t in the best shape.
Martin and Sarah were still eating in the dining room, looking over a poorly printed map.
Milo rested his elbows on the table and held his head up in his palms. The bags under his eyes were bigger than Olivia had ever seen them.
“Your room sucks too, huh?” she whispered to him as she sat down and grabbed a piece of toast.
“I’m going on the most lavish vacation of my life once I leave this place.” Milo rubbed his eyes, scrunching his nose. "It reeks in places no house should."
“Cheer up. You and your pretentious nose only a few more days to endure.”
“Easy for you to say with your meager sense of smell. And I think that mattress has permanently bent my spine.”
"You'll live." Olivia rolled her eyes. "Or you can leave."
"Not until I get the contract, Abbate," he said in a sing-song voice.
"I can't wait to see the look on your face when you don't, Underwood." Olivia poured herself a lukewarm cup of coffee, grimacing. It smelled like wet dirt.
Martin and Sarah wouldn’t stop gushing about their own plans for the day, giving Olivia and a half-asleep Milo all the unnecessary details about what the Butcher supposedly did twenty-four hours before his death.
The mystery of the late-night semi-visitor was also cleared in two seconds.
“So sorry,” Sarah said when Olivia oh-so-innocently brought up the subject of Martin’s bathroom emergencies. “He does that at home, too.”
“Didn’t know it was your room. I could’ve sworn I was on the ground floor.” The top of Martin’s ears turned red. “And I thought for sure the locked room was empty.”
Olivia didn’t press the issue of him bolting off once she had yelled out. The man had been embarrassed enough.
“We have a full day ahead of us,” Sarah said, so giddy that she shook her chair. “We think we might’ve found the old mill where the Butcher hid after his rampage.”
After checking and rechecking their camcorder, Sarah and Martin left the dining room, whispering and taking their delightful eccentricity with them.
“Good thing those two loonies found each other.” Milo yawned so hard his jaw creaked just as Emma wheeled Mrs. Bolton in the room.
He let out an excited cry, like a toddler. Emma's forehead creased as she gave him a small smile. Lord, when had these two turned friendly?
“Mrs. Bolton, would you like a scone?” Milo offered politely, already halfway out of his chair.
The old woman raised her hand to silence him. The strand of keys strapped to her encrusted belt clinked.
“What I want is to have a discussion about my childhood home. Now,” she said all matter-of-factly. “Let’s talk numbers.”
Mrs. Bolton perched her glasses on her protruding nose, giving her the appearance of a ticked-off eagle.
“Since you’re both here, and in some sort of competition, I’ll take full advantage of that until the end of the week and see which one of you cares about the manor as much as me. Or, at least, about your hefty commission.”
Olivia and Milo openly gawked at Mrs. Bolton, who was nothing, absolutely nothing like the frail, harmless creature they had encountered until then. She seemed formidable.
Bracing herself, Olivia fell back on the speech she’d prepared before coming to the manor. “I can assure you, Mrs. Bolton, we'll do our best to satisfy all your needs.”
Milo shook off his sullen mood and leaned forward. “Heatherton and Associates will do everything in our power to assure—”
“Yes, yes, yes, all that.” Mrs. Bolton waved dismissively. “Kieran might say yes to anything to keep me happy, but I won’t accept anything under 5 million quid.”
Olivia sucked in a sharp breath. The sum hinged on something between completely unreasonable and batshit insane. Neither she nor Milo could ever pull off something like that.
“Mrs. Bolton, that’s—”
“And I get to keep most of my furniture,” the old woman interrupted sternly. “I intend on restoring and donating it. One can have only so many raggedy rugs that don’t go with anything.”
Mrs. Bolton kept looking at the two estate agents. Neither of them was in any hurry
to say anything. There were only two options: lie to the lady and eventually disappoint her, or crush her expectations on the spot. Both scenarios were equally distasteful.
“Or, if you don’t feel up to the task, we can always contact another company.” The corners of Mrs. Bolton’s mouth quirked up. “Kieran insisted on bringing Heatherton & Associates in, but I have a whole list stashed somewhere—”
“No!” Olivia and Milo said together, their voices having the panicked tone only an agent losing their listing could pull off.
“Very well then,” Mrs. Bolton said happily and grasped the armrest of her chair. “And I want to make myself perfectly clear...”
Olivia rolled her shoulders back—what now? A special letter from the queen?
“I want whichever one of you will end up selling Bolton House to be nothing but professional. I might, at some point.” Mrs. Bolton's voice trembled. “Proposition you to sell it for a box of kittens or something equally moronic. Heed me no mind. Don’t presume you can take advantage of an old dame. Kieran will take great pleasure in hunting you down.”
Compassion shot down Olivia's spine at seeing Mrs. Bolton accepting her fate with such dignity. A formidable woman indeed. Olivia hoped she would get to interact more with this side of her—perfectly in control and, frankly, a bit terrifying.
“With that in mind,” Mrs. Bolton continued, signaling Emma to wheel her out of the room with a snap of her fingers, “let’s start with the inventory.”
And so began one of the most arduous days of Olivia’s career.
Dust, Grime, And Sweat
Mrs. Bolton had Olivia and Milo look over every armoire, cabinet, vase, and weaved basket she'd brought back from her many travels.
When they finished with the ground floor, exhausted and dusty, Mrs. Bolton declared the top floor needed a good culling too, no matter how much Milo tried to politely protest.
“No, I don’t want to finish this another day, Mr. Underwood. Tomorrow I might christen myself Lady Whatersworth and declare this estate a sovereign nation.” Mrs. Bolton craned her neck in Emma’s direction, who stood faithfully behind her. “Go on up with them. Make sure they don’t muck anything up.”
