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“Oh no, you like her, don’t you,” Rem pipes up with a big smile.
“I can’t like her. She is too young, ready to start her life adventure, and works for me. End of story,” I say, turning my head to the side and glancing out at the two horses in the field closest to the house. Occasionally I will ride one, but it’s not a hobby of mine. They were here when I took over the estate, and Henry, my manager, rides them and keeps them happy.
“Please tell me you left on good terms, so we don’t get our asses sued off for you taking advantage of her,” Forrest cautions me.
“I wouldn’t say good, but we definitely left on some sort of terms,” I say slowly, alluding to what happened.
“Great! So, in other words, you left her seething at you from your usual happy demeanor. We are screwed then.” Forrest is always the one who worries about the things that can go wrong.
“That’s why I asked her to deal with Flynn from next week, until the final meeting with her new proposal.”
“Like I’ve got time to babysit your fuck-up on top of everything else.” Flynn walks around the island counter and thumps me in the arm as he sits beside me.
“Victoria is not a fuck-up!” I stress to him. “And if you make her feel that way, you will have me to deal with!” My anger is simmering, and I’m trying to keep it under control so they can’t see what I really feel about her.
“Oh, boss man is a little touchy.” Rem sniggers.
“Can we just end this? I’m sure you didn’t come all the way out here to talk work.” Jumping down from the counter, I change the subject. “Who’s coming to the soccer match next weekend?”
“You mean football?” Rem laughs.
“Same thing.” The difference is that in Australia, we play three different codes of football, and soccer is the fourth. It gets confusing.
“I’m in. I mean, if I have any spare time left, after Mr. Darby here has filled up my schedule,” Flynn says, pointing his thumb at me.
Both Forrest and Rem are keen to come as well, to the corporate box we have at Old Trafford. I must admit, I do love the atmosphere at the historic site. My grandfather and father were Man U supporters, so it only made sense to carry it on.
After the first beer has gone down, we grab another round and head back outside onto the outdoor deck to enjoy them. This is one of my favorite spots on the estate, where I can just sit and be me. Take in the sunset over the fields and green for as far as the eye can see.
The conversation started flowing about other things thankfully, and the afternoon that ran into the night is just what I needed. I always have plenty of meat in the freezer, and my vegetable garden is full of fresh produce thanks to Henry. So, between Flynn and I, we whipped up dinner and continued to drink into the night.
The guys stay over in the guest rooms, because everyone has had too much to drink to allow them to drive home.
* * *
The next morning, while having breakfast with them, I hear the crunching sound of wheels on the driveway. Who else could be here? It’s not like this is a place that people just drop in.
The weather a bit warmer today, I’m just in a pair of jeans and white t-shirt, feet bare as I head to the door to greet whoever it is.
Opening the big front door, to my surprise, there are two police officers standing there looking at me.
“Good morning, sir, we are looking for Mr. Richard Darby,” one asks, with no emotion or indication of what they are doing here.
“You found him. What can I do for you?” I ask, standing a little taller now, straightening my shoulders and holding my breath. Part of me is panicking that something has happened to Mum.
“I’m Sergeant Collins, and this is Constable Smith. May we come in to talk for a moment?” The straight poker face they are both wearing is starting to concern me.
“Of course, come through. Just having breakfast with some friends, so I’ll take you into the lounge room.”
I can hear the guys still carrying on in the kitchen, oblivious to who is in the house.
My heart is racing slightly as to what this is about. “Please, take a seat,” I offer, pointing to the couch behind them.
The older one shakes his head. “No, we’ll stand, thank you.” Okay, it’s one of those conversations then, one that is not a friendly one.
“What can I do for you then?” I stand with my arms crossed, more defensive now.
“Mr. Darby, are you the owner of a Maserati, registration plate DH 0012 stored in The Darby Hotel in Rome?” the younger less-aggressive cop, Smith, starts.
