Six and Counting

Chapter 3

          

          Sidling into the kitchen as soon as the interior garage door shut behind Emily and her brood several days later, Shane felt momentarily ashamed for waiting until all the Wakelands disappeared before making his own appearance. But hell, a man needed his solitude in the morning. Especially a wealthy single man. Shane realized he was not quite ready to live with six other people on a day to day basis. He was almost ready to throw in the towel. Almost. Regrettably, that kind streak of his kept Shane from speaking up, for he was sure he'd get used to his lack of solitude. Oh, his suite on the top floor, or the “penthouse” (as he'd heard ten-year-old Dana call it), was off-limits to the Wakeland clan and therefore secluded; however, any time he went into the living areas of his home, he had company. Noisy company. As Shane poured coffee and sipped the delicious brew this morning, he admitted there was another strong reason for keeping the Wakelands around: the woman made damn fine coffee.

                Smiling, Shane stepped out on the deck into the cool, foggy California beach morning and took a seat at the table. His phone chirped, signaling a text, and soon Shane was engrossed in a long, written conversation with his literary agent. Shane often wondered why he didn’t just pick up the phone and call Angie, his agent. But being a writer, he figured writing just came with the territory.

                About an hour later Shane surfaced from his texted conversation, closed his phone, and glanced around at the retreating clouds and gray ocean. Awake and ready to work, he went back inside the still silent house. Usually he had one hour on his own in the morning while Emily Wakeland chauffeured her children to their various schools. Since it was so quiet inside it looked like Shane was catching an extra break today, so he took the stairs two at a time up to his suite, eager to begin the plot spinning around in his head for his next thriller.

                Throwing the door to his office open, no one was more startled than he to stumble upon a bent-over Emily Wakeland as she swept the floor. She must have returned while he’d been outside texting. Before him was a fine rear end, and normally Shane would have stepped back to admire it, but her shriek  returned him to the doorway, hands up in supplication.

                "Hey, it's just me!" he cried, eyes bugging wide behind his tortoise-rimmed glasses.

                Emily's hand rose to her throat at his entrance, but at least she now recognized him and took a deep breath. Before she could speak, Shane glanced at the desk and realized she had shuffled his papers around.

                Unreasonable irritation prodded him to say sharply, "Why are you in here? No one but me goes in here, and you don't—you never-- touch the desk, or anything on it. Understood?" As soon as the words left his mouth Shane wanted to snatch them back; he knew he'd spoken too sharply. Too late; Mrs. Wakeland stood ramrod straight, staring frostily into his eyes.

                "Completely, Mr. McNeal. I apologize. It won't happen again. If you'll excuse me," and Emily made to pass him in the doorway. Growling under his breath, irritated at his uncalled for crossness, Shane grabbed her forearm. Oops. Emily's eyes dropped to his hand pointedly, and then met his gaze with no emotion whatsoever.

                "Excuse me," she repeated, pulling away to hustle down the stairs faster than Shane could gather his thoughts. The author watched his housekeeper disappear, wondering again who really was in charge in this arrangement.

                "Shit," he sighed, running a hand through his mop of hair and entering his now spotless office, resigned to apologizing, but not yet ready. He needed a few moments to swallow his pride, after all.