Said the woman who could easily get through a bottle of wine in no time at all.
Winston trilled at me again.
“No. You aren’t having my leftovers. There’s no need to be a brat just because I won’t let you go outside.”
He made another high-pitched noise before he flopped down onto his side in the sunshine and rolled around the tiled floor, making weird little noises as he flipped from side to side and ultimately finished belly up so he could clean his stomach fur.
I looked at him for a moment. Good grief, that cat was weird. I’d never known a cat to show off their tummy quite as much as he did.
I scraped the leftover food from my dinner into the bin before His Royal Highness got any ideas about snaffling up the half of a chicken breast I’d left behind. He could be grumpy all he liked, but it wasn’t like he was completely out of sorts here. I’d even brought his scratching posts with me along with his bed, litter tray, and bowls, and there was an entire pile of little cat toys in the living room to keep him amused.
There was even a children’s hamster toy that took batteries. I knew he wouldn’t be happy about having to be stuck inside, so I’d bought something he could chase to his heart’s content.
Well, until the batteries ran out.
Same thing.
Although I suspected the batteries would run out before his desire to chase it would.
Something knocked in the direction of the front door, making me pause. What was that? Winston was still cleaning himself without a care in the world, so it wasn’t him. Surprisingly. He was usually the cause of any strange and random noises.
Even not so strange or random ones.
It sounded again, and it was definitely someone knocking, not something.
Was it the handsome guy from earlier? I hoped not. I was in my pyjamas. Then again, that was how things usually went in my books with my hot mess heroines, so… Maybe he’d find my fruit-print PJs endearing.
The stubborn red wine stain on my left thigh might not buy into that, though. It wasn’t even my stain. I didn’t even like red wine. That was all Megan.
I slowly opened the door a few inches and peered through the gap. A woman who looked to be in her seventies was standing on the steps outside in hot pink dungarees. Her yellow wellington boots clashed glaringly with the dungarees, but she didn’t look as though she cared.
There was also a goat.
On a leash.
I looked past her to the black and white goat who was happily munching on some flowers in the flowerbed.
“Vincent! Get off my marigolds!” The old woman tapped him with the handle of the leash, an action he thoroughly ignored as he continued chomping down. “Oh, to hell with you, you stupid thing. I don’t know why I take you for walkies.”
“Might I ask why you take a goat for walkies?” I asked quietly, watching Vincent.
The woman turned to look at me, and a huge smile broke out across her adorable face. She looked a little bit like The Queen—she had the same bright smile that reached her eyes, the kind that generally warmed your heart whenever you saw it.
“Why wouldn’t you take a goat for walkies?” she replied with a twinkle in her eye. “You’re Ellie, yes? You write those naughty books.”
“I write romance,” I said slowly. “Calling them naughty books degrades them. It’s just as valid a genre as any other, if not more valid given the revenue it generates.”
“Oh, my dear, I didn’t mean it in a derogatory way. I rather like them. In fact, I eat romance novels for breakfast.” She giggled in such a girlish way that I knew she had a young heart.
I mean, she was walking a goat on a leash.
Come on.
“I just like calling them naughty books because it drives my grandson crazy. He thinks I’m too old to read about two people bonking, but it’s not like I’m getting any myself, so here we go. Oh, Vincent! No! Not the clematis!” She yanked the rope leash, and the goat finally stopped munching on the plants. “Anything but my clematis!”
There was a scattering of claws behind me, and I moved like a ninja, snatching Winston up before he could make a break for it past my ankles.
“You’re going to have to do better than that, arsehole,” I muttered, cradling him against my chest.
He trilled unhappily.
The older woman’s face lit up when she saw him. “Oh, that’s right, you have a cat! And I haven’t even introduced myself. Oh, dear. I knew I shouldn’t have brought Vincent. He’s just a distraction.”
My lips twitched into a smile. I liked her.
“Anyway, I’m Esme. Technically it’s Esme, Duchess of Windermere, I suppose. Some people put a ‘dowager’ in there, but I think that makes me sound old, and I’m nothing of the sort.” Her eyes never stopped twinkling brightly. “And this is Vincent van Goat.”
Vincent van Goat.
“Ellie Aarons, Your Grace.”
“Sod that. Just call me Esme. I get enough of that pomp when I have to go to those fancy dinners. Nice food at Buckingham Palace, though,” she mused. “Who’s your furry friend?”
“Oh.” I righted Winston in my arms. “This is Sir Winston Purrchill.”
Esme burst into laughter, throwing her head back. “That’s brilliant. I see you have a love for puns like I do. Vincent’s girlfriend is called Selena Goatmez. I got the names from my friend, Cat, in Somerset.”
Selena Goatmez.
“I… am a fan,” I agreed. “Life is a little brighter with a pun or two.”
“I wholeheartedly agree with you. Oh, and sorry about that frog. My grandson told me you struggled to find the key.”
“Your grandson?” I paused. “Ah, the man I spoke to earlier. He didn’t introduce himself.”
“I don’t suppose he did, the grumpy git.”
I fought back a laugh.
“Well, his name is Max, and he likes to think he’s in charge around here. He’s sadly mistaken. That’s me.” She winked at me.
“So… is he the duke? Or is your son?”
“Max is,” Esme replied, answering the unspoken question. “It’s just me and him.”
I nodded in understanding. So, his parents weren’t around anymore—it was really none of my business, and I wasn’t going to ask such a personal question. That didn’t stop me wondering, though, and the author in me wanted to know.
Damn it.
It made it hard to be a nice human when I was so curious.
Still, I kept the burning question locked up inside.
“Well, I won’t bother you any longer,” Esme said. “I just wanted to introduce myself, and I shall tell that bloody grandson of mine that he’s to do the same the next time he sees you.” She reached forwards and scratched Winston under the chin, something he very much enjoyed if the closing of his eyes was anything to go by. “Gorgeous boy,” she cooed. “If you find yourself in need of conversation, Ellie, I’d be happy to talk books with you.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“And of course you’ll visit with my book club while you’re here, won’t you?”
Oh, no. I wasn’t good at public speaking.
Well, I did it, and I was quite good at it, but I didn’t like to do it.