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“Well I know that Vicky goes to a yoga class on Saturday mornings, if you’d like to join her, or you can swim in the pool, or go shopping, or just have some time to yourself.”
“A yoga class would be lovely,” I say enthusiastically, “if she doesn’t mind me tagging along.”
“Not at all, she’ll love it. None of our girls are into it, and she’s always saying she’d love to go with someone.” He claps his hands together. “Okay, well that’s sorted. I’ll leave you to get settled in. Please, just call the house when you’re ready to come up this evening and I’ll send a car, then you won’t have to worry about driving back tonight.”
“Thanks,” Titus says, and they shake hands. Alan waves goodbye, goes out, and closes the door behind him.
We stare at each other, then both blow out a relieved breath. “Phase one complete,” he says. “Thank God.”
“So far, so good. Shall we get our cases out?”
“Yeah, okay.”
We head back out to the car, retrieve our bags, and bring them into the bedroom.
For a moment, we stand there looking at the giant bed. I glance at Titus and follow his gaze to the wardrobes. The fronts of the doors are mirrors, which give a perfect side-on view of the bed.
His gaze slides to mine.
“Don’t say a word,” I tell him, trying not to laugh.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Hurriedly, he slides open the doors, revealing the hanging space, and we spend five minutes hanging our clothes in the wardrobes before returning to the living room.
“Looks comfy enough,” I tease, gesturing at the leather sofa. “Shall we rock, paper, scissors for it?”
“I’ll be fine,” he says. “My punishment for being an idiot.”
I laugh, go through to the sparkling kitchen, and open some of the cupboards. “Oh my God, Titus, look at this.” I show him the selection of groceries, which range from pantry items like pasta and rice all the way to boxes of chocolates, including several boxes of After Eight Mints—my favorites.
Titus opens the fridge and gapes at the array of fresh fruit and vegetables inside, along with several bottles of champagne and white wine. There’s also a rack to one side with a dozen assorted bottles.
“Hold on,” he says, and he strides into the living room. I follow him and watch him glance around, then walk over to a cabinet against the wall. He opens it and makes an odd kind of strangled sigh, the type I might make if I saw him exiting the riversansclothes. I look at the contents. It contains a dozen bottles of amber-colored whisky.
“Fuck me,” he says, taking one out. “It’s a twenty-two-year-old rare-cask Ardbeg. That’s, like, four thousand dollars. A twenty-one-year-old Lagavulin, six grand a bottle. And a limited edition twenty-year-old Mr. Porter Glenfiddich! Fifteen grand a bottle!” He stares at me. “They’re all Islay malts—my favorites. How did he know?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “He also got my favorite chocolates—I love After Eight Mints.”
He lifts the Glenfiddich out, holds it as if it’s a priceless artifact, and strokes the label.
“Do you touch your women like that?” I ask.
He gives me an amused look, then returns his gaze to the bottle. “Is it too early to try it?”
“Touching a woman?”
“I meant having a whisky, but if you’re game…”
I chuckle. “Alan said the sun’s over the yard arm. Come on.”
We go back into the kitchen, retrieve some ice from the freezer, and pour a generous measure of the Glenfiddich over it. I make him roll his eyes by adding a splash of cold water to mine from the fridge, and then we both take a sip.
“Ooh,” he says, “caramel and creamy lemonade, and a touch of vanilla.”
I wince. “If you say so. It’s fucking strong.”
“Philistine. We’ll have to have a tasting session. I’ll teach you how to appreciate a good malt.”
“Only if I can teach you about gin.”
