Page 26 of The Top of Admiration
“Randa,” I said, setting it down gently. “Let me.”
She looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. Then she whispered, “Thanks. Really. For all of this.”
I shoved my hands in my pockets, fighting the urge to say more than I should. Fighting the urge to tell her she deserved this, every small kindness, every thoughtful gesture, because she was worth it.
Instead, I just smiled. “Anytime.”
Miranda lingered for a beat too long, like she wanted to say something else. Then she nodded, mumbled goodnight, and slipped inside. I slipped into the driver’s seat, noting that Jules had given up the fake sleep ploy.
“I hope you never play poker, Cam. You’re terrible at subtlety. But don’t worry, Miranda’s got no patience for slick, and you’re refreshingly… not slick. Epically not slick.”
I smiled sheepishly, already looking forward to the next time Miranda would let me close enough to try again.
Chapter 21: Miranda — The accidental mistress
Shame, and eternal shame, nothing but shame!
Henry V, William Shakespeare
I clutched the framed painting like it was a shield against awkwardness. Seamus has blown off every attempt I’d made to thank his boss for his huge donation, but it just felt plain rude to not thank him in person. My Facebook stalking had produced a family photograph of Ian Bishop, his wife and two adult children. I’d created a soft, more surreal version of the image, but ensured it wasn’t too far out for the owner of an accounting company. I marched into the office, bright smile in place.
“Mr. Bishop?” I asked. “Hi, I’m Miranda. I just wanted to thank you for your incredibly generous support for my art retreat. It meant the world. I made this for you.”
I presented the painting proudly.
Mr. Bishop blinked at me, confused. “I’m sorry … your what?” His assistant had ushered me in and informed me he had ten minutes to spare before his next meeting.
My smile faltered. “The … retreat? The one you funded?”
“I don’t believe I …”
Before he could finish, the office door clicked open again. A sharp-heeled figure entered—Mrs. Bishop presumably, given her likeness to the woman in the portrait—perfectly coiffed, eyes narrowing at the sight of a young woman standing in her husband’s office, presenting him with what looked suspiciously like a love token.
“What’s this?” she asked coolly. “And why is she here?”
Caught mid-babble, I stammered. “Oh! No—it’s nothing like that! I just wanted to—um—thank him for—uh—helping me.”
Mrs. Bishop’s gaze sharpened. “Helping you.” Uh oh. This sharp-looking woman was either paranoid, or Mr. Bishop had given her reason not to trust him at some point.
The balding accountant raised his hands, panicked. “I have no idea what she’s talking about! I didn’t help her with anything. This is a … misunderstanding.”
“Convenient,” Mrs. Bishop muttered, crossing her arms.
I turned red from the neck up. “No, really, this isn’t—oh God. This is coming out all wrong.”
Mr. Bishop was floundering. “Darling, I swear—”
And then, like a sitcom character arriving to put out a fire with gasoline, Seamus rushed in.
“Miranda!” His voice was too bright, too desperate. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you. Siobhan told me you were here.” He plastered on a smile for his boss and his boss’s fuming wife. “This is my sister-in-law. She’s an artist. Sometimes she … uh … mixes things up.”
My mortification deepened. “I thought—he was the one … The fifteen thousand …”
“Fifteen thousand? You’re spending more and they’re getting younger,” the angry older woman fumed, throwing a death glare at her husband.
“Not him,” Seamus hissed through gritted teeth, still smiling for the Bishops. “Outside. Now.”
But Mrs. Bishop wasn’t done. She eyed the painting suspiciously. “So this is what? Some kind of … personal gift? Where did you get our photo?”
