Page 12 of Howl You Doin?
She saunters down the hall, pulling on her chef’s jacket as she walks.
What the hell happened in the last two weeks?
Whitley Whitt
“He said what?”George asks, his white-haired head tipping back. He pops a grape into his waiting mouth as he reclines at the large table in the dining room where I’m currently serving breakfast.
I laugh at the expression on Fifi’s furry face, his tail wiggling for a treat as he gets jealous of George’s snack. He smiles and reaches for Fifi’s breakfast, a small plate of chicken and brown rice and sets it on the ground under the table at his feet for the dog to eat.
“Allan said there is going to be an important dinner in a couple weeks,” I say, a repeat of what Allan told me yesterday as I top off his orange juice before putting his omelet in front of him.
I glance at George, wondering why his brows are pulled in a frown. George never frowns.
“Don’t you know anything about it?”
“Me? Why would I know about anything?” he asks, popping a forkful of egg into his mouth.
I smile at how his eyes flutter closed.
“Mmhm, sure,” I say with a laugh.
George seems to always know what’s happening before anyone else. I may have only been here a couple of weeks, but it’s true. He definitely knows more than he’s letting on, but I’m not fazed. As long as Mr. O’Doyle stays out of the kitchen, I couldn’t care less.
A bird landing on the windowsill catches my attention, its singing muffled by the thick glass.
“No, honest, I don’t know anything—yet, that is.” He winks, his fork clattering to his plate as the bird grabs his attention too. “My goodness its windy out there today.”
“Yeah, it is,” I agree, watching the tall trees at the edge of the garden dip with the wind. “I bet I’ll need a jacket on my walk this afternoon.”
George sips at his coffee as I kill time, enjoying the quiet morning while waiting on Maria to get back from straightening George’s room. I don’t even have to guess what’s taking her so long—I know what it’s like to be young and in love. Besides, it just means the dining room is a bit quieter than usual. Of course, with the castle only having two to three guests at a time, it makes it a really easy place to work, except for the amount of cleaning. The kitchen alone is a lot to clean, but the massive dining room is ridiculous. It took Maria four hours to clean the chandelier last week, bless her.
“When do you think Vlad will be back, George?” I ask as he types away on his phone.
Connor O’Doyle can be a pain in the ass if he wants to, but Mr. Tepesh will surely set things to rights when he returns—if I can ever have a talk with him.
“I don’t know. He and Aubrey are in Greece on vacation, but I can ask her.” What George tells me is nothing new.
After Mr. Tepesh and Connor left, one catastrophe after the other happened, including the bathroom water leak. Luckily only my room was affected, but it took ages for one of the workers to find the right shut-off valve for the servants’ quarters. Lucky, because if it hadn’t caused the ceiling leak over my bed, I’m not sure how long it would have been before someone noticed. The castle needs some major repairs, and although some work has been done, I don’t think anyone has taken ongoing care of it. Most of the gothic structure is beautiful, but the servants’ rooms are, sadly, in disrepair.
George raises his head and gives me a pointed look. “Have you talked to Connor yet?”
“We spoke,” I say, wiping at a nonexistent speck on a nearby table and making my way toward the kitchen door to escape.
“Oh? And what did he have to say?” He wiggles his eyebrows for effect and scoots closer. “Tell me or I will just go ask him, and the way you tell it is so much better, so spill.”
I groan.
“Pleeeease, Whitley?” He pouts and I know he isn’t going to let it go until I tell him something. “I haven’t had any juicy gossip inages.”
With Aubrey and Vlad gone, George tries to visit me at least once a day now, and the poor man lives for gossip. If he knew about our conversation earlier this morning while Connor was wearing only a towel, he would start trying to plan the wedding.
I roll my eyes and grab the large linen napkin and unfurl it, then throw it over my arm like Connor does. That silly cloth he’s always holding, along with his phone in his hand. I scrunch mybrows together and purse my lips to look disgruntled and throw a finger under my nose to act as a mustache.
“Miss Whitt, you are but a low servant, and I have no intentions of telling you anything. Why don’t you make like a tree andfuck off,” I say in my best male voice.
George gasps and brings his hand up to his chest over his striped button-up shirt. “No, he didnotsay that.”
“He did.” I drop the napkin back onto the table and prop my hand on my hip. “Almost verbatim. You know, I think he’s actually worse than Allan.”
