“Excuse me for taking a shower.”
“You’re excused.”
I hefted Winston up into a tighter cradle hold and shot a dark look towards the man standing before me. “Oh, thank you. I’m so bloody honoured that you’re kind enough to excuse me for taking care of the basic human right of cleanliness.”
Something flashed across his gaze, and I’d swear that his lips tugged to one side, albeit sardonically. “You have a dreadful attitude; do you know that?”
“On the contrary, I’m an exceptionally agreeable person.”
“Not in my experience.”
“Not to be rude, but your experience with me is fleeting, vague, and largely led by your own rude disposition, so perhaps you shouldn’t comment on your perceived ideology of my personality until you’ve gotten your own flawed traits in check.”
“Anyone who starts a sentence with “not to be rude” is almost certainly going to be rude.”
My lips tugged to one side before swiftly dropping into a stonewall expression. “Oh, good. You heard me.”
“Miss Aarons.” He put his foot on the doorframe in such a way that would stop me from shutting the door. “You might be a superstar author who has somehow enthralled my grandmother with some charm you possess that I have yet to discover, but this is my estate. My property. This house you are staying at for your writing retreat is being rented at my discretion, and it might behove you to read the tenancy agreement you signed before you arrived. You’ll find that while we allow animals, containing your pet is a necessary part of it.”
Winston mewled his displeasure. Was it at me? Was it at Max? I’d never know. I didn’t speak cat.
I stared at his foot. “Forgive me, Your Grace. Or Max? Perhaps Lord Windermere? I’m sorry, your introduction was severely lacking in how I should address you—if one could call it an introduction.” I turned my attention back to him and met his vibrant blue gaze. “You are correct, and I will do my utmost to contain Sir Winston Purrchill, and this mistake will not happen again.”
He grunted.
“And speaking of the tenancy agreement, as the owner of the property you’ll be more than aware that I signed a three-month agreement which means I’m a short-term tenant, not a holiday let, and your foot in the doorway means you’re currently trespassing.”
Max pulled his foot back, but not without glaring at me.
“That’s what I thought.” I adjusted my hold on Winston so I could wrap my fingers around the handle of the front door. “Was that all? Again, I don’t mean to be rude, but I do have some work to get to.”
“Keep. Your. Cat. Inside,” he said firmly. “And you can refer to me as either Lord Windermere or Your Grace. Whichever you’d prefer.”
I smiled. “With all due respect, you really don’t want to know what I’d prefer to call you.”
“That’s another phrase people use when they wish to be insulting.”
“Look at that. You’re not as stupid as you look.”
With that, I shut the door on him before he could shove his stupid shiny-shoed foot in the way again. He hammered his fist against the door, and I leant into it.
“You’re not as stupid as you look, Lord Windermere,” I corrected myself, grinning as soon as I straightened and turned away from the door.
I could almost feel him seething through the walls.
I enjoyed it more than I should.
Hey, I understood that Winston escaping wasn’t exactly ideal, but if he was going to be rude to me… then I was going to be rude right back.
If he didn’t like it, he’d have to be nicer to me, wouldn’t he?
CHAPTER FIVE
MAX
Insufferable Know-It-All
“You cannot put pool noodles on the goats.”
Grandma snipped her scissors in the air, then turned and pointed them in my direction. “I can do whatever I like. They’re my goats.”
“Pool noodles, Grandma.”
“I’m aware of what they are, Maximillian.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
She knew I hated it when she used my full name.
Why couldn’t Maxwell have been my real name? Why Maximillian? It was a bloody mouthful of a name.
“Where did you even get the idea for the pool noodles? What do you hope to achieve by putting it over their horns?”
“I saw it on the Internet, and it seemed like a good idea.”
“Then it is, undoubtedly, a dreadful idea. Nothing on the Internet is a good idea.”
She eyed me. “Didn’t you make a pasta recipe you saw on the Internet?”
“I have no idea how you can compare a pasta recipe to putting pool noodles on your male goats’ horns.”
“You saw your recipe on the Internet and thought it was a good idea. I saw this on the Internet and think it’s a good idea. The principle is the same.” She held out a pink pool noodle. “Cut this.”
“You have the scissors, Grandma.”
She handed them to me and stretched the pool noodle out once more. “Cut that in half, would you?”
I did as she asked and watched her hold one half of the noodle up against one of Goatzart’s horns.
I still couldn’t believe she’d called one of these goats Goatzart.
Between that and the pool noodles, I really needed to restrict her Internet access before MI6 showed up.
“Take three inches off. It’s a bit long.”
Said no man, ever.
I snipped the pool noodle.
“I said three inches, Max. That means three actual inches. Not a man’s three inches.”
I sighed.
Still, I cut it again.
“Thank you.” She took the noodle and slid it over Goatzart’s left horn. “There. Perfect.”
“Yes, it’s lovely. Pink is really his colour,” I said, eyeing the white goat. “But you have yet to explain why you’re adorning the goats with swimming aids for children.”
“It’s obvious, is it not?”
“If it were obvious, don’t you think I’d have guessed it?”
“Maximillian, I don’t like your attitude.”
“I don’t have an attitude, Grandmother.”
She turned and waved half a pool noodle at me. “Grandmother? That’s an attitude there, boyo. Cut it out.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s better. Just because Ellie handed you your arse in a gift-wrapped package doesn’t give you the right to snipe at me.”
I narrowed my eyes. “How do you know we had a disagreement?”
“One, I know everything.” Grandma slid the other half of the trimmed noodle on Goatzart’s other horn. “Second, it wasn’t a disagreement. It was you being rude after an acceptable apology and then being shocked when she called you on your bullshit.”
“Please don’t use that language.”
“I’ll use whatever language I like. Would you prefer I swore at you in French? Perhaps Italian? I’m sure I can search my brain for it. It’s been a while, so it might come out Greek.”
Jesus. Did she have a dictionary of foreign swearwords stored in some obscure part of her brain?