14. Whitley Whitt

Chapter 14

Whitley Whitt

Truce beware .

“You should do a picnic.”

I breathe in deeply, enjoying the fresh flower scent coming from the garden outside the dining-room windows. After agreeing to have lunch with George, we’ve been sitting and talking about everything Frank Stein. Fine by me, since it keeps my mind off Connor. But a picnic?

I doubt Frank N. Stein is ready for a picnic. The last thing I need is him thinking I’m trying to trap him in marriage while he’s here.

“This isn’t a harlequin romance, George.”

“You don’t know that. You would be good for him, I think. I mean, have you seen Bridgerton ? We both know he could just buy you another castle.” His eyes brighten. “A better castle. Let it happen and I’ll come visit. Maybe this is the next best Cinderella story.”

“George! I barely know him.”

“Or maybe you’re really Beauty and the Beast .” He wiggles his brows.

That’s kind of mean. Frank is just crazy tall, but still nice to look at.

“Hey, Frank Stein is very good looking. Even if he is really, really tall.”

“I wasn’t talking about him.” George winks and moves to get off his stool just as Connor opens the hallway door into the dining room, his face screwed up in a frown. Shit.

Dammit, the little old man saw him coming and has now abandoned me.

“Ciao, darling,” George says, the traitor obviously not wanting to get in the way so we can tangle, since he keeps pushing for it.

“What do you want, Connor?” I ask, my tone unamused as I start collecting George’s and my teacups from the small table.

“Would you like to have lunch with me?” Connor says, his lips pulling into a boyish grin that was not there a moment ago, or ever .

“You have got to be kidding me,” I blurt, nearly dropping the delicate teacups in surprise and completely over whatever games he is trying to play with Frank Stein.

It’s obvious I have become the focus of some sort of pissing match. Why else would they both be in my room and asking me on dates in the last twenty-four hours? Someone somewhere is playing a cruel joke.

“Would you like to tell me what you were doing in my bedroom?” I ask, my tone snarky even to my own ears.

“Not particularly, no,” he says, following on my heels.

“Then not particularly, no,” I spit back at him.

“Okay, time for plan B.” He pulls at his gloves, whipping them off, then starts undoing his suit tie.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to choose a pickup line that may work.”

“Wow.” I laugh at the odd, unexpected joke. “I didn’t know Connor O’Doyle had a sense of humor.” I say the words before I can wish them back when his head turns to mine, a light frown bringing his brows together.

“We have fought since the first day,” he says, as if I wouldn’t know.

I was there, dealing with it.

“Yeah, we got off on the wrong foot, but now we have a truce... I think. So, it’s fine.” Right after I walk into the kitchen and settle mine and George’s lunch dishes down, he reaches to take my hand in his. I snatch it back. “That doesn’t mean I trust you, and right now, I don’t trust you as far as I could throw you. Back up.”

He brings a hand to his chest and adopts a sad-puppy look. “You wound me. Perhaps we should start over.” His voice sounds hopeful, and the deep, smooth London accent makes my heart flutter.

“Start over? Is this some sort of weird flirting technique? Take her dildo and scare her in a bathroom?”

He splutters and guffaws, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Well, when you put it like that... how am I doing?” He flashes me a lopsided grin and his eyebrows wiggle suggestively.

“Don’t you have better things to do?” I ask, taking a step back to put more space between us.

“Nope, and I am trying to tempt you to take a walk with me.”

I raise a brow and nudge his arm, urging him to move from the spot he’s leaning on the counter. He moves deftly, pushing his hands under his arms as he does, and my gaze snags on a tear on his suit, as if the stitches were pulled.

“What happened to your suit?”

He glances at it and brushes his hand down his chest. “Flexed too hard.”

He holds an arm out and bounces his muscle.

I snort a laugh. “It all makes sense now. Is this why you’re a dick? The body and all the ego that goes with it?”

“Ouch, woman. We called truce, remember?” He winks, and a smirk wiggles its way onto his face as he looks over mine. “Made you smile, though.”

I head over to the sink, turning my back to him to hide how I’m struggling to suppress a grin. It falls because it’s a truce I know can come crashing down at any moment and O’Doyle Rules will return in full force. Only now I am even more worried because I’m painfully aware he’s not just an asshole.

“Come with me,” he asks, holding out a hand in my periphery, and my heart stutters.

“Where?” I regard him cautiously, my eyes narrowing to slits.

He shrugs. “Just a walk around the castle.”

I glance at my watch, calculating how much time I’ll need to prep some samples for the dinner.

Against my better judgement, I say, “I’ll give you one hour.”

“One hour truce it is.” A boyish light passes over his blue eyes, and I melt.

Shit.