Page 22 of Scarlet Angel

“Let’s wash it.”

“It’s fine. I think it’s just scratched.” It burns, but it can’t be a serious injury.

“Ah. Well, some drops will make it better.” He makes a whirling hand motion behind him, and the helicopter blades slowly spin.

“It’s going back up?”

“Not going to leave it in the pasture.” He places a hand on my shoulder, and I flinch. “Let’s go.”

The sound increases, as does the wind, and we both take off at a near jog.

Inside the house, I remove the Wellies.

“I borrowed these,” I say. “And this.” I hang the coat back up on the hook.

“Loads of those around the place. Take what you need. Have you had breakfast?”

“I don’t eat much in the morning, but I’m keen for coffee.”

“Did Lina not offer you coffee?”

“I haven’t run into her, and I haven’t come across the kitchen yet.” It’s a partial truth. There’s no reason not to mention that I saw Lina earlier, yet something holds me back.

“Kitchen’s this way. It was originally separate from the house. Back when people were redesigning homes and bringing the kitchen indoors, this family kept it in a separate building. It’s attached now through a covered breezeway.”

“If you hire a chef, I suppose a cloistered kitchen offers privacy to the family.”

“And we have a chef. She’s here five days a week. Not for breakfast, though.”

I follow him through the house, then through a narrow hall that feels like it was built this century with windows along the sides, and into a breathtaking chef’s kitchen with a domed ceiling, two spacious fireplaces, stainless steel refrigerators, stoves, and multiple islands.

“If I’d found it, I don’t think I would’ve had the nerve to hunt for coffee,” I comment, wide-eyed at the splendor. The kitchen at the Gagliano estate was similar in scale, but not nearly as grand.

“There’s room for a full staff if needed. Here’s the coffee.”

Off to the side is a room with a U-shaped counter with a French press, a La Marzocco espresso machine, and a Balmuda drip coffee machine. White coffee mugs and espresso cups line the top shelf. A small refrigerator with a glass door holds what appears to be a mix of dairy options and sparkling waters.

He sets about fixing us both lattes and I watch, somewhat mesmerized at his dexterity and ease with the equipment.

“You’re quite good at this.”

“About the only thing I know how to do. I wouldn’t venture into the rest of the kitchen if you paid me. I’m quite adept at takeaway.”

“But you don’t live near anything.”

“Hence, a chef. I’m also quite skilled at heating what she leaves.”

“Right, then. A man of many talents.”

When he passes me my latte, I whiff a strong flowery scent. Perfume.

He stayed away for the night. Perhaps he has a lover tucked away in London.

I could ask, but it’s not my business.

He leans against the counter, nostrils flaring as he inhales from the white mug, and then sips. His slim-fitting dark jeans, subdued black tee, and chocolate suede jacket could fit in most scenarios. The everyday casual look works for him. Last I saw him, he’d been in a tailored suit, or what the style icons would call a formal casual.

His hair is slightly ruffled from the helicopter, the skin on his angular jaw up to his goatee smooth and moisturized. He seems showered, so is the perfume from a woman he said goodbye to this morning?

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