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“I need to change my number. That phase of my life is over.”
“You might change your mind,” she pointed out. “You might start painting again. It would be stupid to burn bridges now when you could need them later.” Although, she knew he hadn’t even set foot in his studio in the past two years, and it didn’t look like that would change any time soon.
“Tell them to back off,” he said with a steely glare. “And get me a new number.” He looked at the trashed phone. “And a new phone, this one’s screen is cracked.”
“Fine.” Honestly, she was too hungry to argue.
“Good. I need you to fire the gardener as well.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Please tell me he wasn’t whistling?”
“No.” Duncan’s face darkened. “He butchered Fiona’s roses.”
“Oh.” The wind went out of her sails. “I’m so sorry. I told him not to touch the rose bushes.”
The roses were a living memorial—left to grow wild—the way Duncan’s young wife had never had a chance to. In the two and a half years since Fiona’s death, no one had touched the roses, although their unkempt appearance was at odds with the pristine symmetry of the Georgian mansion and grounds.
“I want him gone,” Duncan said.
Donna reached for what little patience she had left, aware that his ire meant he was upset, and he just didn’t know how else to express it. “We’ve talked about this. More than once. There are other ways to deal with staff who annoy you. You don’t have to go straight to firing people.”
It would also be cheaper for her if he didn’t. Every time she had to let someone go, she ended up writing a severance cheque from her own bank account because she couldn’t cope with upsetting them.
“I said I would consider other options, but not in this case. The gardener has overstayed his welcome here.”
For once, she could understand why he was firing someone. But she didn’t have to like it. “I’ll deal with it,” she said.
She grabbed her overstuffed messenger bag from the counter and slung it over her shoulder, making sure the copy of The Hobbit she’d been sketching in was tucked safely inside. The last thing she wanted was for a world-famous artist to see her amateur doodles.
“Where are you going?” Duncan demanded.
“Town.”
“What about the gardener?”
“I’ll deal with him as soon as I get back. But if I don’t eat soon, I may kill someone.”
He considered her. “You mean me, don’t you?”
She thought it wise not to answer.
He frowned as he looked her up and down as though seeing her for the first time. Donna felt self-conscious. With her curves, she wasn’t exactly a poster child for hunger. In fact, most men thought she could stand to lose a few pounds, and they weren’t shy about telling her either.
“Did I specify a uniform when I hired you?”
She looked down at her clothes but couldn’t see what had snagged his attention. She was dressed for work: in smart trousers and a shirt. Today, the trousers were grey, and the shirt was black. She might be the world’s worst housekeeper, and she might have no authority over the staff, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her from looking the part—damn it.
“You want me to wear a uniform?” Her voice rose to a screech at the thought of wearing a French maid outfit.
“No. I was wondering if I’d specified one because you seem to dress like we’ve got a dress code.”
“All you specified when you hired me was that I wasn’t to have any parties.”
“Huh.” He rubbed his chin. “That was it?”
It was clear he had no recollection of hiring her. Mainly because it’d happened during his alcohol-sodden days.
“That was it,” she confirmed. “You opened the door, told me you’d fired the housekeeper and the job was mine. Then you left.”
