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I shower and change for dinner, knowing exactly what’s on the menu because I help prepare it. Guinness beef stew made with fresh rosemary, thyme, and of course, Guinness stout. I admit that it’s a nice break from all the Italian food served at my house. I listen for the locks to disengage promptly at 6:55p. My doors are unlocked five minutes prior to all meal times so that I’m not late and of course for chore time. I’m learning the routine and it’s not half bad. I’m not getting complacent, but if I’m going to be held hostage, I prefer this arrangement to being locked away in some basement dungeon without human interaction. Other than turning a blind eye to Mr. Gallagher being my captor, the house staff seems like good people. They’ve all been very welcoming and patient with the exception of Fiona. She keeps her distance because she has to, but I’m sure she’d rather claw my eyes out. She is, at the very least, infatuated with his lordship. I descend the steps but nearly trip over my feet when I reach the sunken dining room. Mr. Gallagher is sitting at the head of the table, the same as he did a week ago— same meal except three sandwiches this time.Peanut butter.
“Um, hello,” I greet unsure what else to say.
“Good evening, Aurora,” He greets. “I’ve heard good things about your cooperation this week.” He takes a bite of his sandwich and his tongue darts out slightly to catch the crumbs left behind. He chases it with a cup of milk.
“Yes. It’s been going well,” I answer, engaging in this small talk. I’m so curious about the sandwiches. It’s like a meal for a toddler. At this moment, Aoife brings out the stew and places it in front of me. “I help to make the stew,” I inform.
“I’m aware,” he says. “Aoife, bring the bottle of 2009 Mouton Rothschild and pour Aurora a glass.”
“What is that?” I ask, never having been allowed to drink.
“It’s a red blend mix of cabernet sauvignon and merlot. It’s full-bodied, packed with black fruit preserves and exotic spice layers.”
He proceeds to guide me on the five S’s of evaluating wine—see, swirl, sniff, sip, and savor. I don’t know what I’m supposed to taste, but I indulge him. A few sips in, and I feel a tingle of relaxation. An encouraging smile spreads across his beautiful face, so I drink more. He really should smile more. It gives the illusion that he’s nice. He twirls his forefinger in a gesture to Aoife who stands by. “Refill her glass, please.”
I nearly fall out of my seat with the wordpleasecoming from him. I’ve never heard it since I’ve been here. Even she looks surprised as she obliges.
“Are you some kind of wine connoisseur?” I wouldn’t have pegged him for one, but nothing about this handsome devil surprises me.
“I’m a connoisseur of all things that I take an interest in,” he answers cryptically.
I notice his battered knuckles and the dried blood on the cracked skin for the first time. He has no other visible bruises, so I’d hate to see the other guy. He catches me studying him, so I take a gulp of my wine. I have to look away from his paralyzing gaze.
“Are you going to try the stew?” I ask, noticing that he is now on his last sandwich. I introduce more small talk in an effort to break the intensity I’m suddenly feeling between us.
“No, A mhuirnín. I rather watch you eat.”
The stew smells heavenly—like comfort plated on a bed of jasmine rice. The sprigs of rosemary are a nice touch. Only, I don’t feel comfort. I feel on edge. I’m being held captive by the heat in his gaze. I won’t deny that it’s somewhat disappointing that he’s not even willing to try the stew. I try to bring my thoughts back to the food.
“Do you ever eat anything else besides those peanut butter sandwiches?” I probe as I take a hearty sip of my second glass of wine. I’m done with those five S’s though.
“Of course.” He smirks. “Do you think I could maintain this physique on peanut butter? My dietary habits can be peculiar to some, but it’s necessary.”
“You must really like peanut butter,” I surmise.
“Actually, it’s to the contrary. I hate it. But necessity and one’s likes are not mutually exclusive. One is not dependent on the other.”
He watches me eat over the next five minutes, and his spectating is unnerving. I opt to break the silence. “What does A mhuirnín mean? It’s Irish right?”
“It means, my love.”
I chug the remnants of my wine, sophistication never a consideration. He has been calling me his love this entire time. Is that a term of endearment or just another condescending line he uses?
He pushes back from the table and extends his wounded hand to me. “Join me,” he says.
There is no dominant bite in the request. Why is he being so nice to me tonight? What is he up to? Hesitantly, I take his hand and let him lead me. He escorts us to a room with a u-shaped, black tufted velvet sofa. Depraved black and white art is displayed around the room, keeping with the dark theme of the house. Blacks and grays with light reflected much like art displayed in a museum. A stripper pole is situated in front of the sofa.
“I don’t want to dance again,” I say nervously as he lets go of my hand. He takes a seat and pats a spot next to him.
“Come sit. You’re not tonight’s entertainment.” I reluctantly do as he says, but I don’t relax my guard. He types a few things into his phone and then sits back, bringing me back with him. “You can relax,” he reassures.
Fiona appears with a single wineglass and the fancy bottle from dinner. She fills the glass and hands it to me, her smile forced. “Enjoy, Ms. Aurora.”
“Don’t go far,” his lordship apprises. “I want the ‘Watch Me Burn’ show tonight.”
She nods her head in confirmation and scurries away. “Is that what you were doing with your phone?” I ask, trying to sneak a peek. The iPhone still lies on his lap. “Summoning Fiona?”
“It’s my communication tool for the house staff— not my personal phone.” A man like him probably has lots of phones.
