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After giving me a few instructions, he grabs a fishing rod that leans against the side of the house and gets into the boat. The engine sounds when I usher Sophie inside the house. The space smells of pipe smoke and cabbage.
Wrinkling my nose, I open a window. Mud is caked on the tile floor of the kitchen, and the dust lies thick on the furniture in the lounge. The windows are grubby, the view outside obscured. I don’t have much experience in cleaning, only the little I’ve done at the new house, but there’s only one way to learn.
After installing Sophie in the lounge where she plays with Beatrice, I roll up my sleeves and dive into the deep end. I start with the dusting and polishing the wooden furniture. Then I tackle the stove and counters in the kitchen. After changing the linen on the bed in the upstairs bedroom, I put the washing in the machine. While I’m vacuuming, Sophie waters the plants. She walks ahead as I’m mopping, pointing out the spots I miss. After I scrub the bathroom, we eat the sandwiches I packed for lunch in the kitchen while we wait for the floors to dry. Sophie has the cookies for dessert. Lastly, I put the linen in the dryer and wash the windows.
Four hours later, the house is sparkling clean and smells like lemon-scented floor wash instead of stale smoke. Even if I have to say so myself, I did a good job.
Mr. Martin returns just as I’m closing the windows and switching on the central heating to warm up the place.
“My golly,” he exclaims, standing in the open door of the kitchen. “I dare say this place hasn’t seen such a shine since the days my Patricia was alive.”
He lifts his foot, making to take a step, but I stop him with a palm poised in the air.
“Uh-uh. Take off your boots. You’re not going to walk mud onto the clean floors again.”
He grumbles something about me sounding just like his late wife but takes his rubber boots off and leaves them by the door.
“That’s better,” I say when he walks into the room on his socks.
Sophie comes charging down the stairs with a pair of slippers that she puts in front of him. “Here, mister. So that your feet don’t get cold.”
“Thank you, child.” He brushes a hand over her head. “You’re most considerate.”
“It’s a pleasure,” she says, imitating Mrs. Paoli’s words and tone. “My name is Sophie.”
“Thank you, Sophie,” he says. “You’re a sweet child.”
He pays me, and then we’re on our way. I’m worried that Sophie will be exhausted by the time we reach the house, but she’s still skipping and humming as if she has no cares in the world.
“How about a hot chocolate?” I ask when we’ve washed up. “I think we earned one.”
“With marshmallows like in the picture on the tin,” she exclaims, clapping her hands.
We’re sitting at the table with a mug of hot chocolate in front of each of us when the front door opens.
Sophie has been talking non-stop about the day, her excitement palpable, so I didn’t hear the car arrive. Sophie stills when Angelo appears in the kitchen door, carrying a big shopping bag in each hand.
“Hi, girls,” he says, smiling with disarming warmth.
The jeans and leather jacket he wears make him look unfairly sexy in a bad boy kind of way. When he smiles like that, the harshness of his male beauty is softer. If possible, it makes him look even more handsome, and the potency of that appeal hits me like an arrow in the gut. I’ve always been attracted to his physical looks, right from the moment I met him, but it’s not only the superficial quality that drew me to him. It was his darkness and his dangerous side, those elements that reminded me so much of water.
A spark of heat ignites in his black eyes when he catches me staring. He holds my gaze for a couple of seconds too long. Clearing my throat, I turn my face away.
A strained note slips into his voice as he directs his question at me. “How was your day?”
It almost sounds like an accusation, although it may just be my guilty conscience playing tricks on me.
Sophie looks at me and winks.
Angelo’s eyes tighten, telling me he didn’t miss the gesture, but he doesn’t question the meaning of it.
He lifts the bags onto the counter. “Heidi sent groceries and an extra set of linen for the spare bedroom.”
“Who’s Heidi?” Sophie asks.
“My housekeeper.” He turns to Sophie before continuing carefully. “You’ll meet her tomorrow night.”
“Why?” Sophie asks, grabbing Beatrice from the table.
