Mr. Rochester: British Bad Boy (Classics Made Smutty Book 1)

by Marian Tee

  Time continues to pass ever so slowly. I feel like it’s been hours, but when I check my watch it’s barely nine in the evening.

  God.

  I hate this. How is that mere days in Mr. Rochester’s company have usurped the routine which had dictated most of my life?

  It doesn’t make sense.

  Or it can’t make sense save for one thing, but the sheer possibility of it scares me---

  Not yet. Not now.

  And so I deliberately shun the thought, and instead continue tossing and turning on a bed that suddenly feels too big and empty. I desperately search for something to keep my mind off things---

  I get it sooner than I want, and it’s worse than I can ever imagine.

  A rustling sound reaches my ears in the dead quiet of the night, and I sit up.

  Impossible, I think nervously.

  Mr. Rochester’s place has all kinds of high-tech security checks in place. It’s impossible for any burglar to get in – right?

  And yet I keep hearing it, someone moving around in the next room---

  The supposedly empty room next door.

  Gulping, I ask out loud, “Is anyone there?”

  The sound stops…and so does my heart.

  I wait with bated breath, but the sound doesn’t resume.

  Lying down, I slowly pull the covers over me.

  I must’ve been imagining things. Right?

  I try convincing myself of this even as my heartbeat continues to stutter and I can’t quite breathe properly.

  It can’t be a ghost, I tell myself. And it can’t be an intruder either.

  I close my eyes.

  I must have been imagining it---

  But the thought has barely formed in my mind when I hear the same rustling sound.

  SHIT.

  The next day I give Consuelo the shock of her life when she finds me in the kitchen at five in the morning, drinking my third cup of coffee.

  “Madre de Dios!” She hastily makes a Sign of the Cross.

  “Morning, Consuelo.” I smile weakly. “Sorry I frightened you.”

  “Te ves terrible,” she says forlornly as she peers at my face.

  I don’t speak Spanish, but I definitely get what she’s saying, and I sigh. “I know.”

  The housekeeper clucks her tongue sympathetically. “You didn’t get to sleep last night?”

  “Uh huh,” I answer while suppressing a yawn. My eyelids are finally starting to droop, and I wonder tiredly how I’m going to get myself to work.

  “So you came down for a change of surroundings.”

  “Uh huh.” I cover my mouth as I yawn.

  “But then you drank coffee and it kept yourself up instead.”

  “Uh huh.”

  She nods understandingly. “I see.” Turning away, she takes her apron off the hook, saying, “You miss the master, si?”

  “Uh huh.” And then I realize what I’m saying, and I sit up. “I mean, no!” I make a face at the housekeeper, but Consuelo only laughs with a knowing look on her face.

  “I don’t miss him! Okay?”

  “You want to have breakfast now?” the housekeeper asks cheerfully.

  I groan. “You’re not taking me seriously---” My stomach interrupts me with a grumbling sound.

  Consuelo shoots me an inquiring look.

  “But yes, I’d like breakfast.”

  The older woman smiles, promising, “I’ll have it ready in ten minutes.”

  “Thank you.” I bite my lip, and unable to leave it alone, I stress, “But I mean it. I’m really not missing him.” I get up from my chair, adding, “I’m a free bird, you know. My happiness doesn’t depend on a man---”

  “---are words that all girls say,” Consuelo finishes with a snort, “when the man they want still haven’t placed a ring on their finger.”

  “You make a terrible feminist,” I tell her earnestly. “Has anyone told you that?”

  But the older woman only shrugs, clearly unaffected.

  On my way out to the kitchen, I pause by the doorway. “Umm, Consuelo?”

  “Si?”

  “I kept hearing things last night.”

  A pause.

  Then Consuelo coughs. “O-oh?”

  The sound is suspicious, and I whirl around to look at her properly, and the housekeeper gives me a guilt-stricken expression.

  Aha!

  My eyes narrow. “You know something.”

  “I don’t know anything.” The housekeeper turns her back on me and starts busying herself taking out pans and food from the pantry.

  “You make a terrible liar, too, Consuelo.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Is this place haunted, is that it?”

  “N-no?”

  “I don’t believe you.” It’s clear that the woman’s hiding something, and when I remember the sounds I heard last night I feel the hairs on my nape start to rise.

  Shit.

  I don’t care if Consuelo admits it or not. I just know the place is haunted…and it won’t be for weeks until Mr. Rochester comes back.

  Damn it.

  Mr. Rochester calls me again when I get back from work that day, and this time I’m unable to resist the urge to hear his voice.

  “Ms. Reed.” His oh-so-British accent makes me shiver. I’ve forgotten how sexy his voice sounds. “How have you been?”

  Missing you. Badly. But out loud, I just say gruffly, “Okay.”

  “Tell me about your day.”

  “One of your business associates from Turkey called.” And so I go on and on, telling him everything about work.

  “I’m glad to hear you’re handling everything well while I’m away.”

  “Yes, well, that’s what you’re paying me for, aren’t you?”

  “Absolutely.” He pauses. “And now that you’ve gotten that out of your system---”

  Realizing he’s easily seen through my ruse, I mutter darkly, “Know it all.”

  Mr. Rochester ignores this. “May we start talking civilly? I asked about your day, Jane.”

  I say sweetly, “Bastard.”

  But my boss only chuckles. “I am that. And if you were to be honest, you know you’d thank God I am---”

  “No, I won’t!”

  “Otherwise you’d find me utterly boring,” Mr. Rochester completes silkily.

  Oh.

  He has a point.

  “Now tell me about your day,” Mr. Rochester invites me once more.

  “Why should I?” I can’t help sounding childish and sullen.

  “Because I asked you to,” Mr. Rochester answers easily, “and you promised to be a good girl, didn’t you?”

  I can’t help laughing a little. Oh, the gall! But even so, I end up acceding and I start telling him about my day, leaving nothing out except the hauntings. After, I hear myself say, “Tell me about your day, too.”

  There’s a moment of pause before Mr. Rochester says slowly, “I’ve never bothered to talk to any woman I’m fucking.”

  “If they didn’t bother to ask,” I say sweetly, “then maybe they didn’t really want to hear what you have to say.”

  “Another woman would’ve said it was because they were stupid.”

  “We all are,” I say with exaggerated sadness, “for wasting our time with you.”

  Mr. Rochester laughs. “Touché.” And then he starts to speak again, and I find myself gripping my phone tightly when I realize he’s doing exactly what I asked, and he’s telling me about his day.

  We talk until the wee hours, but when it’s time to end the call I can no longer help it. “Mr. Rochester---”

  “What is it?”

  My lips move, but no words come out.

  A moment later, Mr. Rochester sighs. And then he says very softly, “I miss you, too.”

  Ah, shit. I squeeze my eyes shut. “Are you a mind reader now,” I mutter sulkily. “Is that it?”

  “My soul knows yours like it’s its other half, that’s all.”

  I close my eyes more t
ightly. “And now you’re a fucking poet?”

  A lazy chuckle is my response, but when I don’t say anything else, Mr. Rochester sighs once more. “Something’s wrong.” The words aren’t a question. “Tell me what’s wrong, Jane, and I shall fix it for you.”

  He speaks in such a matter-of-fact voice I can’t help smiling a little despite the trepidation that’s making my heart ache so badly.

  “It’s just…” I look back at the past few days. In so short a time, he’s managed to make my world revolve around him so quickly and easily. And that’s not normal, is it?

  “Things are going too fast,” I say finally.

  “Maybe.” Mr. Rochester’s tone is quiet. “Or perhaps neither of us are simply the type to waste time on bullshit.”

  I choke back a laugh.

  “Sleep now, my dear. I’ll call you again tomorrow.”

  Hearing him end our call is bittersweet, but somehow I feel better and I find myself drifting to sleep easily…until the sounds wake me up once more.

  Shit.

  This place really is haunted.

  “You took too long to answer my call.”

  And you’re taking too long to come back, I think dourly as I close the door to his office. But out loud, I only say, “I didn’t want to answer your call where everyone’s around. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m still at the office---”

  “And in case you’ve forgotten, I’m the CEO at that bloody office.”

  “True,” I agree, “but it still doesn’t mean you have any right to command me unreasonably.”

  It’s a nice line if I say so myself. Unfortunately, I completely ruined it with an involuntary yawn.

  “You sound tired.”

  “I’m not.” But it’s a lie. The two weeks are almost up, and I honestly can’t wait until our resident bad boy is back home. It’s not just that I miss him. I also just want to get a good night’s sleep for once, and I’m thinking that maybe the hauntings will stop when the lord and master of the manor returns.

  I’ve been reading about hauntings, and several books have mentioned how some “spirits” are less likely to make their presence felt when around a home’s true owner.

  Which could be why they’re only making those terrifying noises, I think wearily, when Mr. Rochester’s away.

  “Perhaps you’re missing me too much,” Mr. Rochester suggests.

  “Yeah.” I don’t even have the energy right now to lie about my feelings. “That could be it.”

  A pause, and then Mr. Rochester asks abruptly, “What’s wrong, Jane?”

  “Nothing---”

  “Do you need to see a doctor?”

  “Huh? No!” The jump from Point A to Point Z makes me dizzy. “I’ve just been having a hard time sleeping.” The idea of telling him about the hauntings doesn’t even occur to me. Even now, it still sounds silly to my ears, and besides he’s coming back tomorrow anyway.

  So just one last night of haunting, I remind myself, and then it’s done.

  “What time’s your flight?” I ask.

  He tells me, adding, “But I’ll need to drop by the office first.”

  An idea occurs to me, and I say slowly, “Is it okay if I wait for you here? I mean, I want to sleep in the office tonight.” The more I think about this, the more I’m convinced it’s the perfect solution. I’m so tired of the ghostly noises, and I just want to sleep eight hours straight for once.

  “Why would you want to?”

  “Because I, umm…” Shit. What excuse can I give? Racking my brains for an answer, I blurt out the first idea that comes to me. “I…want to give you a…a…welcome fuck?”

  As soon as the words are out I want to kill myself.

  “A…welcome fuck?” Mr. Rochester echoes the words blankly.

  I can’t blame him. What the hell, Reed? Like, what the hell? But since I’ve already said it, might as well stick to it.

  And so I say, “You heard me right.”

  Mr. Rochester sighs. “You’re obviously lying, but…I’ll still take you up on your offer. I’ll let Maria know about the arrangements so no one will bother you. I’ll have Sam deliver a change of clothes to you as well.”

  His thoughtfulness surprises me as always, and I say awkwardly, “Thank you.”

  “It’s the least I can do,” he murmurs devilishly, “when I have a welcome fuck to look forward to.”

  The line goes dead before I can answer, and I stare at my phone for several moments, wondering if hitting my head with it will perhaps knock more sense into me.

  Welcome fuck! Had I really promised Mr. Rochester a welcome fuck?

  The realization makes me cringe, but even so it’s not enough to get my mood down. With every minute that passes I find myself increasingly buoyed by the knowledge that at least for tonight I won’t be troubled by any kind of hauntings.

  By six in the evening everyone working at the penthouse floor has left, and an hour later I’m having dinner alone at the staff kitchen. Just being there makes me feel nostalgic---

  Everything started here, I think wistfully.

  And so much has changed then.

  Bunking in Mr. Rochester’s office that night turns out exactly as I predicted, and as soon as I curl up in the couch I drift into sleep, one that’s peaceful and completely uninterrupted by any kind of haunting.

  The morning after, however, is a different matter. It’s around five in the morning when I hear sounds.

  Shit.

  Not again, and not here, too?

  For long moments I remain under the duvet while waiting for my eyes to adjust the darkness. I see the faintest ray of light streaming from the windows, but it’s not enough to throw out the shadows in the room.

  Eventually, I spy a figure near the desk---

  My heart stops.

  Oh God. So this time it isn’t a ghost but an intruder, and the slight figure is bent over the CEO’s desk, ruffling through Mr. Rochester’s drawer.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  What do I do?

  I fight to keep still when the figure suddenly turns towards my way.

  Oh God. What if the person has a gun? What if he shoots me for no reason?

  The figure keeps moving closer.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Closer and closer---

  Until I realize I’m not staring at a man. The intruder turns out to be a young female, and I almost gasp in surprise.

  What the hell?

  She doesn’t even seem a day older than sixteen!

  My mind boggles at the idea, but I manage not to give myself away as the girl continues to stare at me.

  Finally, she turns away, and I watch the intruder move towards the door, actually tiptoeing to keep her footsteps noiseless.

  I bite my lip hard, struggling in my own fight for silence.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  The door closes behind the intruder.

  I wait a few seconds, fearing it’s a trap and the intruder is just waiting to see if I’m awake.

  A few more moments pass, and when nothing happens I jump off the couch, hit the emergency button, and tell security that an intruder’s been to Mr. Rochester’s office.

  And then I wait.

  I pace the length of Mr. Rochester’s office, biting my nails every once in a while as I struggle to figure out how exactly the intruder was able to sneak past security. And were they able to catch him or not?

  An hour later someone knocks on the door, and I rush to open it, uncaring that someone sees me still in my PJs. Instead of the security, however, I find myself face to face with a sneering Virginia.

  “I had to come in early today because of a meeting,” the receptionist says with a curious smirk on her lips. “And it’s a good thing I did because I needed to fix the mess you created.” “What mess?” I watch Virginia make this huge pause like she’s biding her time before making a big announcement, and my brows furrow. What the hell is this about?

  The other woman meets my gaze once more, asking,
“Were you the one who asked security to catch an intruder?”

  “Yes.” And so what if I was? Does she want to take the credit for it?

  “I see.” And she starts smirking again.

  “Can you just tell me what this is about?” I try not to sound bitchy or impatient, but I’m honestly beginning to feel tired at how she’s dragging things out.

  Virginia laughs.

  I just stare at her. “I don’t see what’s funny.”

  “You certainly wouldn’t,” Virginia jeers, “since you’re the joke here.” She takes another pause and looks at me expectantly as if waiting for me to die of embarrassment.

  Idiot, I can’t help thinking. I’m sorry I’m being a bitch, but she really is an idiot.

  “If you want me to feel bad,” I say very slowly and patiently, “you need to explain a little more, okay?”

  Virginia turns red. “Stop treating me like an idiot!”

  “I can’t help it if you keep acting like one.”

  “Bitch!”

  “Better that,” I say honestly, “than an idiot.”

  “Fuck you,” Virginia shrieks. “You’re the idiot here because you’re acting like you have everything when you don’t!” And for some reason she starts cackling like it’s going to hurt me.

  Idiot, I think again. Inside jokes can’t hurt if they’re not shared.

  “You!” She cackles even more. “You still haven’t figured out, haven’t you?” She throws back her head with another shrill laugh. “You’re so clueless. It’s too much.” She makes a show of trying to control her laughter, and this time it works.

  I’m feeling just a little bit pissed, and I say thinly, “Just get to the point.”

  But of course Virginia doesn’t and instead takes her time brushing off imaginary dirt from her clothes.

  My teeth grind. I know when I’m being symbolically brushed off, but even so I’m grudgingly impressed she can be that subtle.

  Finally, Virginia turns to me and says without preamble, “Mr. Rochester has a daughter.”

  I still.

  “And she’s the intruder you had security apprehend.”

  She really was Mr. Rochester’s daughter. The words hammer nonstop in my brain as I sit on the couch in the CEO’s office. His eighteen-year-old daughter is seated next to me, beautiful, witty, and currently chatting my ears off. She is refreshingly candid, the total opposite of her father.