Page 8 of Oz (Finding Home #1)

I shrug, feeling something twang in my chest at the look of disappointment on his face.

I don’t know why, but I don’t like the idea of someone hurting this man.

My earlier judgement is fast vanishing. This is not an uncaring posh bloke at all.

He has a warmth and a genuineness to him that’s almost palpable.

“Never mind.” I make myself wave my hand carelessly and his gaze seems caught on the black polish on my nails. For the first time I feel almost self-conscious at what someone thinks of my eyeliner and nail varnish.

He looks up at me. “I like that black. It’s glittery.”

I stare back at him for a long second, feeling astonishment swirl through me before bursting into laughter. “Yes. It’s as black as my soul and you’ll be glad of it because I’m going to ride roughshod all over the arrangements here. It’ll suit my image of being the Dark Destroyer.”

He laughs, and when it dies away, we stare at each other. Then he clears his throat and gets to his feet. Offering his hand, he smiles gently. “Welcome to the madhouse, Oz.”

I shake it, feeling that warm tingle run lazily through my blood again. “May God help us.”

He chuckles and I smile helplessly as the sun lays lazy stripes over our clasped hands, making my polish sparkle and pop.

The next morning, I wander out of my bathroom and over to the window in my bedroom. I switch the toothbrush around in my mouth and carry on brushing as I look down at my view of the lavender garden.

Milo had shown me to my room last night, apologising for its smallness and plainness in a way I can’t comprehend.

I grew up sleeping in a bedroom that was smaller than the en-suite bathroom I’ve been given, and the clean pure lines of the room and the large window showing a view of the gardens seem like something I’ve seen in a hotel brochure.

Not to mention the softness of the mattress.

I’d slept like a baby cocooned in a nest of soft, scented covers, the only sound in the night the rustle of the trees and the distant sound of the sea.

Ten minutes later, dressed in skinny jeans, an old denim shirt, and my navy Converse, I trot down the stairs.

Ten minutes after that, I trot down another set of fucking stairs, and then another.

The place is like a bloody rabbit warren.

Staircases run here and there with no rhyme or reason.

By the end of the six months I’ll definitely have lost weight because I’ll have missed every fucking meal.

Finally, I reach the ground floor and follow the scent of coffee and sound of clinking cutlery.

It leads me to the dining room which is a light-filled room set at the back of the house.

Sun streams through the tall windows highlighting the old furniture that looks like it’s been here since the house was built.

My eye catches on threadbare faded fabric and the thinness of the carpet.

At a huge oak table Milo is sitting eating toast and reading The Times . I mentally roll my eyes and saunter in.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say cheerfully. “Took the wrong staircase a few times.” I look at his paper. “You’re like a walking, talking advertisement for private school, Milo.”

He smiles up at me, which is a nice change from the startled rabbit look of yesterday.

“Help yourself to breakfast,” he says, pointing to a huge sideboard on which are set silver warming dishes.

I lift the lids, seeing bacon and eggs. The bacon is grey and congealed in grease and when I prod the eggs with a fork they don’t move.

“I’d have a better breakfast at a service station,” I muse. I lift another lid and cringe. “What the hell is this ?” I mutter, pointing at the offending item.

Milo obligingly cranes his neck. “Kidneys,” he says happily.

“What the fuck?” I mutter. “ Kidneys . Who eats kidneys apart from Hannibal Lecter and Jeffrey Dahmer?”

There’s a low chuckle behind me and I don’t need to turn around to identify who has just come in.

I just need to feel the tightening in my balls to know Silas is standing behind me.

I cast a look over my shoulder and see him there looking fresh and fantastic in battered old jeans and a green and white striped shirt that makes his hazel eyes gleam greenly.

Becoming aware that silence has fallen and his lip is twitching, I shake my head. “Kidneys,” I mutter.

“They were my father’s favourite food. I’m not actually sure why Mrs Granger keeps serving them unless it’s tradition,” he says, coming up next to me and grabbing some of the least charred toast.

I inhale his scent. It’s sharply sweet and smells like the ocean. I then try to ignore the fact that I just did that. “Aren’t you eating anything else?”

He shudders slightly at the limp breakfast offerings.

“Fuck no,” he mutters. “I don’t need an ulcer on top of everything else.

” He smiles. “Anyway, I find the less I have to do with my father’s habits, the better for everyone,” he says solemnly which is slightly spoiled by the twinkle in his eyes.

A twinkle that Milo obviously misses because he looks highly uncomfortable.

“Good morning, Lord Ashworth,” he says quickly.

“Not Lord Ashworth,” Silas says patiently in a way that suggests they’ve had this conversation a few times. “Please just call me Silas. Lord Ashworth was my father and we don’t want a Lord Ashworth standing behind us.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say flirtily and then want to slap myself as Silas looks at me assessingly. I catch and hold his gaze, but the moment is quickly broken by Milo choking slightly on his toast.

I pat him on the back and smile affectionately at him. He’s growing on me very quickly. I look up to find Silas’s eyes on me so I immediately grab some toast and pour myself a very large cup of tea.

I throw myself into the seat next to Milo and become involved in scraping the burnt bits.

When I’ve finished, I look assessingly at the three-inch piece of toast I’m left with.

“Hmm,” I say and Silas coughs. I look at him suspiciously but he grabs one of the supplements from Milo’s paper and buries himself in it.

I turn to Milo. “So, am I going to have the full tour of doom this morning?” I ask cheerfully.

Milo blanches slightly and shoots a look at Silas who immediately pretends he isn’t listening. “Oh. Erm yes, I’ll show you around the house and you can get an idea of the scale of the work needed.”

“I’ve already got that,” I say darkly. “It’s hovering somewhere between disastrous and utterly fucking calamitous.”

“Oh no,” Milo groans, but Silas throws his head back and laughs loudly.

“Surely there must be something worse on the scale?” he says.

I bite my lip. “I feel we’ll all be inventing new names by the time these six months are finished.”

He shakes his head and throws his napkin down before giving a low whistle. A few seconds later a shaggy golden retriever dances into the room. He looks fairly young and he prances about, almost dancing on his paws.

“He’s lovely,” I say, putting my hand out to the dog. “What’s his name?”

“Boris Johnson.”

I blink. “Pardon?”

He smiles. “Because he’s blond and stupid and makes very questionable decisions.”

I throw my head back and laugh loudly. “That’s so good,” I say, looking up and stilling because he’s gazing at me in a very focused way.

Milo breaks in quickly. “I’ll show you the house and the collections and the grounds.”

“No need,” Silas says casually, taking a sip of his tea. “I’ll show Oz around.”

Milo looks startled. “Oh, really?”

“There’s no need,” I say quickly.

I’m not sure it’s a good thing for me to be near him. I seem to have a knack of opening my mouth and saying really stupid things around him. I’d be a lot more at ease with Milo.

“Not at all,” Silas says slowly, his eyes sparkling with mirth at my probably poorly concealed horror. “I need to show you the awful story in all its technicolour glory.”

“Lovely,” I say faintly.

Ten minutes later, I follow him out of the dining room, trying not to look at his arse in front of me which is tight and rounded in his old jeans.

There’s a slight rip on the back of the upper thigh and it offers a tantalising glimpse of white cotton.

I swallow hard and immediately try to look innocent when he turns back suddenly.

I’m not sure I manage it, judging by the quirk on his lips.

I open my mouth to say something that will probably be very stupid, but I’m saved by the sound of heavy padding footsteps.

The next second a huge brown and white dog comes around the corner and walks straight to Silas’s side.

He easily reaches Silas’s hips and has massive paws.

His face is mournful looking with long ears and a droopy moustache and his eyes look extraordinarily human.

He looks up at Silas and gives what sounds like a miserable sigh before nudging Silas’s thigh strongly enough to make him stagger.

“Oh my God,” I breathe. “What is that?”

Silas grins and pats the dog affectionately, pulling gently on his ears and leaning down to drop a gentle kiss on the giant’s nose. The dog looks even more mournful, if that’s possible.

“He’s an Italian Spinone,” he says grinning up at me. “I know he’s big, but he’s a total sweetheart. He’s really gentle.”

I put my fingers out and the dog noses them before giving another sigh which is strong enough to be labelled a breeze. “What’s his name?”

“Chewwy.”

I look down at the dog’s furry face, big bones, and depressed demeanour. “Oh my God. It’s Chewbacca.”

He laughs. “When he yawns he even makes the same noise.”

“That’s amazing.” He smiles at me and he looks rumpled and handsome. Our eyes meet and seem to catch.

“Where do you want the public to go?” I ask quickly, and he looks startled. I pause before ploughing on. “What I mean is, in an ideal world, where would you like the public to be able to go because we both know they’ll wander all over the bloody house regardless?”