Free Ramsay by Mia Sheridan Page B

had really cute swimsuits—I didn’t get to shop at all. There was no extra money for this year’s anything really. My new reality. At least I was prepared for what might be to come. And at least I now knew Target was great for swimsuits. And clothes. And purses. And home décor. Target was awesome. Anyway.
    I unpacked the groceries, opening cabinets to determine where the dry goods went. The kitchen was a large open area with custom white cabinets and white subway tile. There was a large island in the center and a breakfast nook off to the side with a pretty garden view. Brogan's home was luxurious, but it also managed to be very homey and comfortable, too. Despite growing up very close to here, in a luxurious home as well, it had never had the relaxed feel of this home. I looked around. Perhaps it was the décor—Ginny had always decorated using showpieces rather than anything you could actually use with any practicality. And even my mother, though she'd been warm and kind, had leaned toward formal furnishings. Brogan's home was decorated in just the opposite way—it seemed as if all the pieces, though beautiful, had been chosen specifically for comfort. But there was also a decidedly female influence—I wondered if he'd hired a decorator. Or perhaps he'd been married . . . I didn't really want to ponder on why that thought sat heavy in my belly.
    I headed toward the stairs to drop my purse in my room and noticed that the door to what I'd seen was Brogan's office was open and Brogan was gone. I called out his name softly and then waited, but there was no response. He must have gone out.
    After leaving my purse in my room, I returned to the kitchen and moved the kettle off the stove—a kettle! What man owned a kettle these days? I prepared a baked chicken, roasted Parmesan potatoes and green beans for our dinner, and then poured myself a glass of wine as I waited for Brogan to return.
    An hour later, I'd drunk two glasses of wine, my stomach was growling and there was no sign of him. Should I call him? I went and retrieved his business card from my purse and dialed his number. It went straight to voicemail. Sighing, I dished up my own plate and ate alone, sitting in the breakfast nook, staring out at the garden, colorful with summer flowers.
    I cleaned the kitchen and wrapped the plate I'd made for Brogan and left it on the counter.
    What in the world was going on here? Anger assaulted me as I climbed the stairs and put my pajamas on and climbed into bed. Didn't I even deserve some common courtesy? Apparently not. Despite my anger and although it was early, my lids began to close as soon as my head hit the pillow. I'd barely slept at all the night before and the two glasses of wine had done me in. I was asleep in mere moments.

CHAPTER SIX
     
    Lydia
     
    I woke early and showered and dressed before heading downstairs. Although I had slept hard and hadn't heard Brogan come in the night before, it was obvious that he'd been home. The food I'd left out was gone, there was some junk mail on the counter that hadn't been there yesterday, and a chair had been left pulled out from the table. I saw a note on the island and picked it up.
     
    Lydia,
    I'll be home at six with a guest. Please have dinner prepared for two.
     
    What. The. Hell? No explanation about why he hadn't bothered to turn up for dinner last night, no information about what I was supposed to do today, no plan for when we'd have a conversation about the terms of this ludicrous agreement, just . . . this? I crumpled the note up and threw it across the room. Picking up my phone, I dialed his number for the second time. Straight to voicemail again. I let out an angry growl and dropped my phone on the counter with a loud clack.
    Was his plan to bore me to death? Or maybe I should look at this as a nice little vacation? Perhaps I'd lie out on his deck and soak up some . . . a loud crack of thunder sounded out the window and rain began beating on the glass. I