* * *
Devin tossed the paper onto his desk with a sigh, then threw his hands into the air, upsetting a cup of tea which spilled over his paperwork.
“Damnation,” he growled, flinging himself to his feet and sweeping as much of the tepid beverage as he could away before it could stain the wood. The will he'd been drafting was ruined and he'd have to start over. “I love my job. I love my job. I LOVE my job!” he reminded himself. “Anything is better than that noisy, sweaty factory with Father and Chris telling me what to do.”
Taking a deep breath, Devin screwed up the paper and tossed it in the bin. At least you didn't upset the inkwell, dolt. Too aggravated with himself to restart the document that had taken him several hours to prepare, Devin rose carefully, managing for once to avoid hitting his head on one of the low rafters, and ducked into the out-of-doors in search of a cup of tea that didn't endanger his paperwork.
Exiting the brown and brocade box that formed his place of business, Devin blinked in the sparkling June sunlight and rambled down a street lined cheek by jowl on one side with a row of brightly colored but narrow homes. On the opposite side, adjacent to the building in which his office formed a small portion of the first floor, other shops and businesses competed with each other by decorating picture windows with gaudy displays of lace, hats, toys, cigarettes, and other goods and services just waiting for the first influx of vacationers from London. Après moi, le déluge, Devin thought irreverently. Not that he was going anywhere. His business remained fairly steady regardless of the socialites who tended to flood Brighton after Midsummer's Eve. Only a week to go now. A week and the lovely solitude of the coast, which refreshed him after long hours hunched over his too-small desk in the semi-darkness, would be crowded with pretty and expensive-looking young ladies, trying desperately to be noticed by a gentleman who was titled, wealthy, young, handsome and kind. In short, a phantasm.
Devin sighed again, the cool ocean breeze insufficient to lift his melancholy. Only a week until that damned Sir Fletcher will arrive and demand his will… that I just ruined. If he likes it, all's well and I can draw up a marriage contract for his daughter. If not, I'll lose the most lucrative client I've ever had. Recalling the pressure that cramped his back and hands until he felt as though he'd tripled his twenty-five years, Devin's comforting sunlit walk began to feel like a dangerous indulgence. Must get back to that will. Ducking into his favorite tea house, he took a seat and awaited the arrival of his favorite shop owner and lusty widow, Mrs. Murphy. As he waited, he scanned the stuffy interior. Suffocating pink striped fabrics billowed from the tables and clustered around the windows, as though trying to smother the diners with their aggressive cheer.
Sure enough, she arrived at his side in a moment, with two cups of steaming tea and a plate of scones.
“Hullo, Mr. Bennett,” she said in a friendly, impartial voice that always startled him as she took a seat by his side. How can such a passionate person feign coolness so well?
“Mrs. Murphy,” he replied in a parody of blandness.
Her emerald eyes twinkled with humor at their discreet exchange.
“How goes the legal world?” she trilled in her captivating brogue.
“Well enough,” he replied, not wanting to talk shop. “And the world of business?”
“Slow.” She sighed. “I'm looking forward to next week, even if I do have to work like a dog when they come.”
“I understand,” he replied. His eyes dropped to the hint… well, more than a hint… of cleavage revealed by her replica of a fashionable dress, and then returned to her eyes. He drank his tea and nibbled the scone while their gazes spoke words that could not be uttered in public.
“Will you be needing any help with the pavers in your garden tonight?” he asked at last, in an undertone, though the only other patron in the shop was an old woman so deaf, even shouting failed to capture her attention.
“Yes, I think so,” Mrs. Murphy replied, biting her lip to contain a laugh. “An old widow like me should count herself blessed to have such a tall, strong young friend to help me with my gardening.”
Gardening? Is that what we're calling it now? Devin grinned. No seeds will be sown, to be sure, but no matter. It's as good a metaphor as any.
“I'd better get back to work,” he said at last, setting aside his cup. The scone, though flaky and tender as always, had seemed to stick in his throat, and lay half-eaten on the plate. She scowled at it. “I'll see you at seven.”
Mrs. Murphy nodded.
He winked at her, restoring her grin, and left the shop. Finish that will, Bennett, and you'll earn a relaxing turn in the sheets with your favorite redhead. Grinning, he ambled back down the sunny street and into his office, where his now-dry desk awaited. I will finish this time.
Other Books by Simone Beaudelaire
When the Music Ends (The Hearts in Winter Chronicles Book 1)
When the Words are Spoken (The Hearts in Winter Chronicles Book 2)
Caroline's Choice (The Hearts in Winter Chronicles Book 3)
When the Heart Heals (The Hearts in Winter Chronicles Book 4)
The Naphil's Kiss
Blood Fever
Polar Heat
Xaman (with Edwin Stark)
Darkness Waits (with Edwin Stark)
Watching Over the Watcher
Baylee Breaking
Amor Maldito: Romantic Tragedies from Tejano Folklore
Keeping Katerina (The Victorians Book 1)
Devin's Dilemma (The Victorians Book 2)
High Plains Promise (Love on the High Plains Book 2)
High Plains Heartbreak (Love on the High Plains Book 3)
High Plains Passion (Love on the High Plains Book 4)
Devilfire (American Hauntings Book 1)
Saving Sam (The Wounded Warriors Book 1 with J.M. Northup)
Justifying Jack (The Wounded Warriors Book 2 with J.M. Northup)
Making Mike (The Wounded Warriors Book 3 with J.M Northup)
Keeping Katerina (The Victorians Book 1) Page 26
