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Bloody hell, what is this man eating?
There was little or no fresh produce in evidence, but plenty of processed food, dried soups, noodles…
yuck!
On one cabinet door someone had taped a list of Adam’s dietary requirements and Paul scanned this quickly. To his relief, there was hardly anything that Adam didn’t eat but he did note an allergy to bananas. The contents of Paul’s shopping bag were safe, at any rate.

He spied the coffee machine and heaved a sigh of relief.
There’s hope for this job yet
. He’d brought along a packet of ground coffee in the hope that there’d be something to make it in. His search of the cabinets had revealed a packet of tea bags and a jar of congealed instant coffee. Just looking at it made Paul shudder. But before the coffee went on, there was something even more pressing that needed to be done.

God, this place needs a clean
. He had visions of giant dust bunnies seizing him with huge paws and dragging him down, kicking and screaming, into their lair, never again to see the light of day. And there was still the matter of that closed door….

Paul reached into his backpack and took out his iPod and docking station. He’d thought long and hard about this, and it had taken an hour or two on Sunday to find what he’d been looking for, but he was pleased with the results. He walked back into the hallway and searched for the nearest electrical socket. He found one beside a display cabinet between two doors. After setting down the docking station and iPod, he scrolled through to find his compilation. Once he’d switched it on and made sure the volume was high enough, Paul returned to the kitchen and set about giving it a thorough cleaning. Through the open door he could hear voices pouring out of the iPod: Martin Luther King, Richard Nixon, Bill Clinton, Barack Obama, Enoch Powell, Winston Churchill… Paul had downloaded excerpts from key political speeches and put them together. The whole thing lasted about thirty minutes.

Let’s see if this piques his interest…

Ten minutes before it was due to finish, he set up the coffee machine, and soon the air was filled with the rich aroma. By the time the last drop had dripped into the pot and the recording was coming to an end, Paul was outside the door to Adam’s room. He tapped quietly on the door with his knuckles.

“Mr. Kent, I’ve made some fresh coffee. Would you like some?”

Silence met his words and Paul’s heart sank.
And there was me thinking I deserved at least a Nobel prize for my ingenuity.
He turned to go back to the kitchen but stiffened when he heard movement behind the door.

“Yes.” The voice was deep with a husky edge to it.

Paul grinned.
Still in the running for that prize, after all.
When it became clear that the one syllable was all he was getting, he scurried into the kitchen to pour out two mugs. He picked up one of them and took it into the hallway, pausing at the door. Without knocking this time, he pushed open the door and entered.

The room took up a corner of the house, with windows on two sides. Sunlight played through the glass, spilling into every corner. His attention was captured by the books, however. There were books
everywhere
: on the shelves that filled every inch of available wall space, populating every flat surface, even standing on the floor in upright piles, creating little skyscrapers or even cities. Books of all sizes, ranging from paperbacks to large coffee table books and thick volumes that looked as if no one had read them for years.

S
omeone loves to read.
It struck him forcibly that the owner of these books was no longer able to enjoy them. Paul’s chest felt tight, his heart aching. He couldn’t even begin to imagine a world without books. Such a world would be soulless without the beauty that words painted.

Adam was sitting in the armchair by the window, facing in that direction. The only thing that had changed from the previous Friday was his T-shirt.

Here we go again.

Paul walked up to the small table beside the chair and placed the mug on a coaster. “I’ve put your mug on the table here, about six inches from the edge,” he informed Adam. He straightened, waiting to see if there would be a reaction. When Adam said nothing, Paul repressed the sigh he was dying to let out and turned to leave the room. When he reached the door, Adam cleared his throat.

“I met Nixon once, y’know. About six years ago.” A slight pause. “He was a real charmer.”

Paul wanted to shout out in triumph at the sound of that voice. Instead, he turned slowly to face Adam. The writer had twisted in his armchair and was peering in Paul’s general direction, his expression neutral, eyes hidden behind those dark glasses, his hand gripping the arm of the chair.

Paul smiled. “No, you didn’t,” he chided gently. “Nixon died in ninety-four.”

Adam arched his eyebrows. The merest hint of a sardonic smile flashed across his face. “Just testing.” Then he resumed his position, staring out of the window.

You cheeky sod.
In spite of Adam’s disdain, Paul couldn’t stop smiling at the breakthrough. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. He waited to see if anything else was forthcoming. When silence resumed he went back into the kitchen.

Time for phase two of my cunning plan. After all, the way to a man’s heart and all that.

That made him pause.
What do I want with his heart?

He switched on the newly cleaned oven and took the fresh chicken from the fridge. It didn’t take long to ready it for roasting. He shoved a couple of lemons into its cavity, and rubbed over the skin with butter and thyme. A sprinkling of chopped rosemary to finish it off. Then he took out the bread flour, yeast and other ingredients he’d need. Paul exited the house and went to the trunk of his car to take out his secret weapon, on a sort of permanent loan from his mum. She’d never miss it: she rarely used it anyway and dad had been pleased to gain some more space in the kitchen cabinet.

In the kitchen Paul measured out the ingredients and switched on the bread maker, choosing the correct program. He’d brought bread flour with different seeds in it, on Taylor’s recommendation. He and David hadn’t eaten store-bought bread since David had discovered that Taylor made his own. Soon the machine was chugging away, alternating between periods of kneading and proving the dough. Once the chicken was in the oven, it was time for Paul to finally get to see his bedroom. He planned on returning home in a day or two to pick up the rest of his things, once he’d seen how much space was available for clothes and belongings. As he passed through the hallway, he was pleased to see the door had remained open.

Well, that’s a good sign.

He went upstairs and pushed open the door to his room, entered and stopped dead in the middle of the floor. A large bay window ahead of him looked out over Steephill Cove. He could see the Lighthouse, the houses nestled around the small bay; he could even see across to the Beach Shack, the café at the opposite end of the bay. He squinted at it, trying to see if he could make out the figures moving around. Below the café stood a single figure, a fishing rod in his hand, flung out into the incoming tide. Paul didn’t need binoculars to tell him it was Andy, the owner of the café. He was often seen on the steps below the Beach Shack, reeling in a bass or two.

Paul walked to the window and pulled up the bottom half, allowing the fresh sea air to waft in. He could taste the salt. Seagulls circled above, their cries loud and strident. A sea view—heaven. “Doesn’t get any better than this,” he murmured quietly to himself before looking around. A wide bed with a brass headboard dominated the space with items of furniture around it: an empty bookcase, a table and chair in front of the window and a tall oak wardrobe. Next to the bed was a small oak cabinet with a lamp upon it. A chest of drawers faced the foot of the bed, a mirror across the top of it. The floor was covered in a thick carpet and the curtains hanging at the window looked heavy enough to shut out all light. It wasn’t a small room by any means, and Paul felt he could be comfortable there.

Next stop was the bathroom. It was large, with a toilet, washbasin, large pedestal bath and a spacious, walk-in shower. What puzzled Paul was the layer of dust. It was as if the room was never used. One look in the cabinet under the washbasin revealed the cleaning products, and Paul set to work. It wasn’t long before every surface was gleaming. Satisfied with his efforts, Paul descended the stairs and re-entered the kitchen. He could already detect the aroma of roasting chicken and baking bread.

Come on,
he told Adam silently in his head,
how can you resist the smell of freshly baked bread and roasting chicken?
So much for his secret weapon. He’d really thought the tempting aromas would have brought Adam out of his cave, but clearly the mountain had to go to Mohamed.

It was time to break the ice.

Paul exited the kitchen and paused in the doorway of Adam’s room, watching him turn slightly in his direction, his eyebrows knitted.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Adam snapped. “Either come in or leave me alone.”

Any points Paul felt he’d scored with the compilation were lost, and his optimism wilted. He was rooted to the spot, uncertain of what to do or say.

Adam let out a harsh sigh. “This does
not
bode well.” He made an impatient noise at the back of his throat. “I seem to recall you telling me your name last Friday, but I obviously thought it of no consequence because I’ve forgotten it.” Before Paul could utter a word, Adam scowled. “Well, what’s your name, boy? I’ll have to address you at some point, even if your stay here will be short-lived.” There was no hint of a smile playing about those pink, full lips.

Why the hell am I noticing his lips?
Paul gave himself an angry shake and then stiffened as Adam’s words took root.
Boy?
He shivered at the memory of a hand on the back of his neck, the palm warm, the fingers strong. That imperious voice…

Indignation flooded through him.

“My name is Paul Vaughan, and far from being a boy, I’m twenty-three,” he flung back. No sooner had the words left his lips than he froze.
Talk about brain disengaged while mouth in operation.
There was something about Adam that definitely rubbed him up the wrong way.

Those black eyebrows arched. “Oh, I seem to have ruffled your feathers. My apologies.” He didn’t seem the slightest bit apologetic. Adam straightened in his chair. “You have more backbone than some of your predecessors, that’s for certain.”

“I didn’t realize being able to stand up for myself was a required skill for this position.” Paul made an effort to breathe more evenly. This was
not
how he’d wanted their first day together to go.

“Speaking of skills, what are your qualifications? I’m assuming you have some,” Adam said dryly.

In a burst of clarity, Paul realized Adam was trying to deliberately push his buttons. Mrs. Lambton had done well to share about Paul’s predecessors.
Forewarned is forearmed.

“I qualified a year ago as a physiotherapist.”

Adam’s face fell. “Ah, that explains why Caroline has hired you. My dear sister is clearly anticipating my being in need of assistance after yet another fall.” There was such an air of dejection about him that for a moment Paul actually felt some sympathy for the man. That emotion withered when Adam’s jaw firmed up again. “Let’s get something straight right from the start. My sister may have hired you, but it is I who will be paying you. I will be doing so under protest. I do
not
need a companion. I am not an invalid, I am simply blind.”

“Understood.” Paul thought it best to let Adam get his feelings out into the open. Maybe then they could move on.

“And as for you living here, that is totally unacceptable.”

Paul became still.
What the fuck?
His head was beginning to ache from all the twists and turns. “But your sister said—”

“I
do not care
what Caroline said, I
do not
want you living here. If I must endure your company, it will be during the day. When the evening comes, you will leave.” He paused before continuing. “But as far as my sister is concerned, you live here. She won’t find out. She has been an infrequent visitor, which is just how I like it. In truth, I do my utmost to discourage her from coming here. Recently, however, she has seemed to grow immune to my efforts.” His jaw unclenched and his brow smoothed out. “So if she does visit, she is not to learn the truth, is that understood?”

“Yes.” There was little else Paul could say in the circumstances. His heart sank at the thought of not living in the house. It had been a very pleasant prospect.

“I’m assuming you wanted something, Phil—
boy
.” Adam sounded thoroughly bored.

Paul couldn’t decide whether the error was deliberate or not.
And there’s that bloody word again.
It took him a moment to regain his composure. “I came to find out if you wanted chicken salad or chicken sandwiches for your lunch.” It sounded really trite after the vitriol Adam had spouted.

Adam gave a derisive huff. “Maybe I’m not capable of making decisions of such huge import. Maybe I could get some ex-presidents on the phone to advise me? Or failing that, maybe some other intellectual colossus, like maybe, a live-in companion. What do
you
think, Paul? Share with me the wisdom of your twenty-three years. Which is going to have a greater impact on my long-term well-being, the salad or the sandwich?”

Paul stared at him, unable to speak, his cheeks hot.

Adam snapped his fingers. “Quickly, boy, quickly. This may not be the Cuban missile crisis but the fate of the world may quite possibly hang on your decision.” Before Paul could come back with a retort, Adam sagged into his armchair. “You know what?” he ground out. “I don’t. Fucking. Care. Just bring me something so this day will be closer to ending.”

“Fine.” Paul choked out the word. “I’ll bring you your lunch and then keep out of your way.”

“At last! The eagle has landed!”

Paul couldn’t stand there another second and listen to that voice. He did the only thing he could think of—he fled to the safety of the kitchen.