Secretly Yours
Author
Gina Wilkins
Reads
18,3K
Chapters
12
1
“YOU’VE DONE WHAT?” Trent McBride asked, in a voice that had been known to make his peers quake.
But Bobbie McBride had never been easily intimidated—and especially not by one of her own three offspring. She faced her youngest without flinching. “I’ve hired a housekeeper for you. You’ve heard us mention Annie Stewart, who’s been cleaning the McBride Law Firm offices since she moved to town six weeks ago. She’s very conscientious and she’s already got quite a few clients, but she still needs steady work.”
“I don’t need a housekeeper.”
“You most certainly do. You keep this place tidy enough, I’ll admit, but Annie will take care of the little details you never even notice. She’ll do your laundry, too.”
“I can wash my own underwear.”
His mother continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “She’ll come twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays, and stay a couple of hours each time. I’ve arranged to have her start next week.”
Though he, better than most, knew the futility of trying to argue with his mother, Trent made the effort, anyway. “I don’t want her to start next week. How am I supposed to pay a housekeeper on what’s left of my insurance settlement? And before you even suggest it, I’m not letting you and Dad pay for this.”
“You never let us pay for anything,” Bobbie replied matter-of-factly. “All three of my children are stubborn as mules and irritatingly independent. But you, my dear Trent, have always taken first place. As it happens, I’ve worked out all the details regarding payment, too. I’m sure you’ve heard that Annie moved into the old Stewart place just down the road from here. Turns out strange old Carney Stewart was her great-uncle, and he left the house and property to her when he died last year. No one even knew Carney had family until then. Anyway, the place is in terrible shape, and it needs a lot of repairs. I told Annie you’re a skilled woodworker, and she’s willing to trade her services in exchange for yours.”
“I am not a handyman.”
“Perhaps not, but you’re certainly available. And it will be good for you to get out of the house more. As long as you’re reasonably careful, the exercise will be good for you, too. Not to mention the fact that you’ll be doing a big favor to a very nice young woman.”
“I don’t do favors.”
“You’ll do this one.” Her voice was as soft as his—and just as unyielding.
Bobbie McBride had been a schoolteacher for more than thirty years. When she got started on one of her famous lectures, there was no stopping her. And when that lecture was directed toward one of her three adult children, there was no point in trying to interrupt. Though Trent had recently turned twenty-six, his mother could still reduce him to a sullen adolescent.
“If you think for one minute that I’m going to let you live out the rest of your life brooding in this cottage like some sort of crusty old hermit, you are very mistaken,” she said flatly. “Do you want to end up like Carney Stewart, old and alone? I’ve given you more than a year to pull yourself together. It’s been eighteen months since the accident. It’s time for you to stop sulking and get on with your life.”
Trent kept his gaze focused on the unadorned wall in front of him. “I’m not sulking. I’m living exactly the way I choose.”
“You sit here alone for days. You rarely go out in public. You neglect your family and rebuff your friends. You aren’t eating right and you aren’t doing the exercises you were given. This is the way you choose to live?”
“Yes,” he answered simply.
She shook her gray head in exasperation. “Well, I’m not going to stand by quietly while you ruin your life.”
“Too late, Mother.” He tried to sound bored, but he was aware of the undertones of self-pity. “I did that eighteen months ago.”
“Sometimes,” she said after a moment, “what I think you need most is to be taken behind the wood-shed.”
He was surprised to feel one corner of his mouth twitch in what was almost a smile. “You just might be right.”
Bobbie reached for her coat. “I have to be going. Annie will be here Tuesday morning at nine. You two can work out the details of this arrangement then.”
As tempted as he was to refuse, he knew it wouldn’t be worth the effort. “All right. I’ll give it a month, but that’s it, Mother.”
Satisfied with her limited victory, Bobbie allowed him to usher her out of his house. Closing the door behind her, Trent growled and shoved a hand through his shaggy blond hair—his usual reaction to a visit from his mother. Now what had she gotten him into?
IT WAS A GLOOMY February morning, windy and gray, the heavy clouds overhead threatening a cold winter rain. Looking from the glowering sky to the darkened cottage in front of her, Annie Stewart tried to decide which seemed the most sinister.
She almost chose to risk the elements. Judging from the whispers she’d heard about Trent McBride during the past six weeks, she wasn’t at all sure what she would find inside his cottage.
Rumor had it that he’d been injured in a plane crash—one he had barely survived. They said the crash had left him scarred, physically and emotionally. He’d changed, they whispered, from the town’s golden boy to an angry, withdrawn hermit. Martha Godwin, one of Annie’s new clients who was known as the town’s primary source of inside information, had hinted that Trent hadn’t been “quite right” since the accident.
“Sits in that house out in the woods all by himself,” she had elaborated darkly. “Doesn’t go anywhere, doesn’t see anyone but family. Every time I ask his parents about him, they just shake their heads. There were plenty of local single women who were more than willing to nurse him back to health. Heck, there was a regular parade of them trotting out to his place with casseroles and silly smiles, but he sent them all packing. I tried to visit him once myself—just to be neighborly—but he wouldn’t let me in. Said he was busy, though I can’t imagine what he was doing.”
Since Annie had experience with Martha’s relentless prying, having fielded quite a few personal questions of her own, she didn’t blame the guy. But it did seem strange to her that a young man, not even thirty yet, would isolate himself from everyone this way.
Reaching his front door, she looked for a doorbell, but didn’t see one. Her hand was actually shaking when she lifted it to knock. She sighed in exasperation. What was wrong with her today? Why did she have this weird feeling that her life was going to change when she knocked on this door? She had made a lot of changes during the past couple of months. How hard could it be to add a new name to her growing client list—even if she had been warned that this client was different?
Gathering her courage, and castigating herself for her cowardice, she knocked. She was being ridiculous to let her imagination run away with her this way. Whatever Trent McBride’s problems, this was hardly a scene from Beauty and the Beast. For one thing, she didn’t consider herself any great beauty. And Trent might be wounded, but he certainly wasn’t a beast.
She knew his family, and they were all nice, normal people. How different could he be?
She knocked again, thinking perhaps he hadn’t heard her first timid effort. After another moment, the door opened.
A man she assumed to be Trent McBride stood in the shadows inside the darkened house, so that she couldn’t quite make out his features. She could see that he was tall—around six feet—and thin, perhaps a bit too thin. Blond, she decided, catching a glimmer of gold in the shadows. “Mr. McBride?”
“You’re the housekeeper?” His voice was deep, and slightly rough.
Though it still felt strange to hear herself identified that way, Annie answered simply, “Yes. I’m Annie Stewart.”
After another pause, he stepped out of the doorway. “Come in.”
When she instinctively hesitated, he reached out to snap on the overhead light. The cavelike room was instantly transformed into a more welcoming environment. The few pieces of furniture were very nice, she noted as she walked slowly inside, but the room had a spartan air to it. Even motel rooms had more personality.
Having procrastinated as long as she could, she turned to face Trent. She thought she had prepared herself for anything—scars, disfigurement, whatever evidence a plane crash might have left. She certainly hadn’t expected to be facing sheer masculine perfection.
Thick golden hair framed a face that Annie suspected had received more than its fair share of feminine attention. No wonder so many local women had been anxious to visit him after his accident. Behind the lenses of a pair of gold-tone metal glasses, his eyes were very blue. If he ever smiled—which she saw no evidence of at that moment—she imagined that his angled cheeks would crease appealingly. Whatever damage his accident had caused—and Martha Godwin had led her to believe it was extensive—it certainly hadn’t been done to his face.
If they had been playing a scene from Beauty and the Beast, she thought wryly, she suspected she knew who would be cast as the beauty—and it wasn’t her.
“You’re younger than I expected,” he said, studying her with an intensity that unnerved her.
You’re prettier than I expected, she would have liked to respond, but that sort of flipness didn’t fit her new position. “Is that a problem?” she asked instead.
He shrugged. “My mother said you need some repairs done.”
“Yes. My great-uncle’s house was in worse shape than I thought when I first moved in, and I’m afraid I can’t afford a lot of improvements just yet. She suggested that you could take care of some of the most pressing problems while I work for you, and I told her it seemed a fair trade, if you’re agreeable.”
She couldn’t help noticing that he didn’t look overly enthused by the arrangement, but he nodded. “I’ll head over to your place now. Anything you want done there first?”
“I’d really appreciate it if you could fix the front step,” she answered tentatively. “I’ve almost tripped a couple of times because it’s loose. I tried to stabilize it, but I’m afraid I’m not very good with that sort of thing.”
Another nod. “Do whatever you want around here—dust, vacuum, fluff—but don’t rearrange the furniture. I like everything where it is.”
She almost imitated him and nodded. Resisting, she said instead, “Of course. Any other instructions?”
“No.” He turned and moved toward the door, apparently intending to leave without another word.
She felt as though she should say something. “Mr. McBride?”
He glanced over his shoulder, looking impatient. “What?”
“If you need to go inside my house, there’s a key hidden beneath the big rock beside the front step.”
She certainly wasn’t surprised that his only response was a nod.
“Definitely an odd man,” she murmured when the front door had closed behind him. By the time she went out to her car to collect her cleaning supplies, both he and the old truck that had been parked outside when she’d arrived were gone. Carrying her things into his house, she found herself comparing him to the other McBrides she had met.
The McBride Law Firm had been one of her first clients, one she’d found only days after she’d arrived in town. Trent’s brother, Trevor, the man who’d hired her after a brief interview, was polished, charming, personable. Their father, Caleb, the senior partner of the firm, was the personification of a soft-spoken, good-humored Southern lawyer. It was through that custodial job that Annie had met Trent’s mother, Bobbie, who was talkative, well-intentioned and seemed to have an almost compulsive need to take care of everyone around her.
From her first impression, it was hard to believe Trent was related to any of the McBrides.
Not that she really cared whether he was unfriendly or even downright surly, she assured herself. Her only interest in Trent was that he had agreed—whether willingly or not—to do some much-needed repairs on her house in exchange for her cleaning his. A fair trade of services, no personal relationship implied. Which was exactly the way she wanted it to remain. Annie had no interest in forming a personal relationship with anyone in Honoria, Georgia, for now. After her recent debacle of an engagement, she certainly wasn’t interested in getting involved with another man for a while—especially one as difficult as Trent McBride seemed to be.
Even if he was gorgeous.
She pulled a spray bottle of kitchen cleaner out of her supplies and started to work on Trent McBride’s already-neat kitchen. No one would ever claim that Annie Stewart didn’t fully earn her pay.
THOUGH HE HADN’T SEEN it in years, the old Stewart place was in even worse shape than Trent had remembered. Even the lot had gotten smaller as the surrounding woods had been allowed to encroach on what had once been a decent-size yard. It wasn’t a bad house—good, solid structure overall—but it had been allowed to deteriorate before old Stewart had died, and had been vacant for almost a year since. The place needed a lot more than he could do in a month, he decided, pushing his glasses up on his nose, but he could at least make it reasonably safe for its present occupant.
Okay, maybe he had been a little bored lately—though he wouldn’t have admitted it to his mother for any reason.
Remembering what Annie had said about the front step, he set his toolbox beside it. He noted immediately that the step was not only broken, it was actually dangerous. It was a wonder Annie hadn’t fallen, landing on the oversize rocks that had been used to outline the unplanted flower beds on either side of the front door. He frowned as he recalled her saying that she’d almost tripped several times. She was very lucky she hadn’t.
Pulling out a hammer, a handful of nails and a level, he found himself thinking about Annie Stewart. She hadn’t been at all what he’d expected. For some reason, he thought she’d be older—much older. But she’d looked even younger than his own twenty-six years—and was so small and delicate he could hardly imagine her tackling heavy cleaning every day.
He supposed she could be considered pretty—if he had a taste for a heart-shaped face dominated by big, long-lashed brown eyes. Or a tip-tilted nose and a full, soft mouth bracketed by shallow dimples. Add to those attributes her glossy, shoulder-length, chestnut-brown hair and a petite, but definitely feminine figure, and most men would probably start fantasizing about getting to know her better. Trent, on the other hand, had taken one look at her and made a silent vow to keep his distance.
If there was one thing he didn’t need in his life now, it was a sweet young thing who seemed to be in even worse shape than he was, judging from what his mother had told him. Annie apparently had no family, no friends in town yet and obviously no money if she was forced to live in this dump. He, on the other hand, had more family than he knew what to do with, old friends who were determined to stay involved in his life even though he had tried his best to push them away, and a nagging uncertainty about his future that seemed to have no workable solution.
He definitely had no interest in getting involved in Annie Stewart’s problems—whatever they were. He would make this house reasonably safe for her to live in—at least as much as he could accomplish in the four weeks he’d granted her—and then he would sequester himself into his own sanctuary again. No matter how hard his mother and others tried to drag him out.
BY THE TIME Annie finished cleaning Trent’s place, she was in love—with his furniture. Polishing his wood was the most sensual experience she’d had in ages, she thought ironically, slowly stroking a hand over a satiny-smooth cherry tabletop.
The solid wood, raised panel cabinets in his kitchen were works of art. The tables and chairs were solid, exquisitely crafted and so beautiful she found herself wasting several minutes just admiring them. An oversize rocker beside the stone fireplace in his cozy living room proved an irresistible temptation; she was unable to deny herself the pleasure of sinking into it, putting her head back and slowly rocking for ten blissfully lazy minutes.
The hand-crafted furniture was the only evidence of personality she found anywhere in Trent’s four-room cottage.
Bobbie McBride had claimed her son was a skilled woodworker. If these pieces were examples of his work, Bobbie had been guilty of major understatement.
Before she left, she wrote Trent a note and stuck it to the refrigerator with a magnet. It was simple and to the point: “Mr. McBride, the lightbulb in the bedroom blew out. I don’t know where you keep the replacement bulbs.” She wasn’t able to resist adding, “Your furniture is beautiful.”
Long after she left his house, while she was cleaning and scrubbing other places, Annie regretted that impulsive postscript. He’d made it clear he wanted to keep their arrangement strictly professional. She wouldn’t be the one to cross that line again.
THE FIRST THING Trent noticed when he limped into his house four hours after he’d left Annie there was the faint, fresh scent of lemon. It smelled clean, he thought.
The scent reminded him of Saturday afternoons from his childhood; his mother had spent nearly every Saturday morning cleaning and polishing. Because he didn’t like to dwell on the carefree days of his youth, days he wouldn’t see again, he pushed the memories away and headed for the kitchen in search of a cold drink and a pain pill. His back ached, letting him know he’d done too much today. He hated being nagged—even by his own abused body.
He spotted Annie’s note as soon as he entered the room. Prissy handwriting, he thought, deciding it looked like her. He could still hear the prim, polite way she’d called him “Mr. McBride.” He read the note, his attention lingering on the last line.
She thought his furniture was beautiful. Had she guessed that he’d made most of it himself? Had she somehow known that his woodworking was the only thing he took any pride or satisfaction from these days? It annoyed him that her compliment pleased him.
Scowling, he pulled the note from the refrigerator and tossed it into the trash.
ANNIE CLEANED the McBride Law Firm offices three afternoons a week—Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She usually arrived just as everyone else was leaving and then locked up when she finished. She was running a bit late on Wednesday, the day after she’d cleaned Trent’s house, and everyone was already gone except Trevor McBride, who was working late in his office behind a pile of papers. A still-steaming mug of coffee sat at his elbow. Photos of his wife and his two young children lined the credenza behind him, giving a sweetly personal touch to the otherwise ultraprofessional office.
He looked up with a smile when she entered. “Hello, Annie. How are you?”
“Fine, thank you, Mr. McBride.” She pushed a limp, damp strand of hair away from her face and returned the smile ruefully. “Except for resembling a drowned rat, of course. It’s really pouring out there.”
He cocked his head, listening to the rain hitting the windows. “So I hear. It doesn’t seem to be letting up.”
“I hope it stops before I get home. The way my bedroom roof leaks, I’d hate to drown in my sleep,” she said with a wry smile.
“Would you like some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
“No, thank you.” Having left her wet raincoat in the rest room off the lobby, Annie felt confident that she wasn’t dripping on the carpet when she crossed the room to empty his wastebasket. “I’ll be working in the other rooms. Let me know when you’re ready for me to clean in here.”
“All right. By the way…”
She paused in the doorway, studying him. Blond and blue-eyed like his younger brother, Trevor was an attractive man, though perhaps not as breathtakingly spectacular as Trent—at least in Annie’s opinion. She imagined his wife would probably disagree about which McBride brother was the most appealing. “Yes?”
He seemed to choose his words carefully. “Mother told me about the service-swapping deal she made between you and Trent. That’s a satisfactory arrangement for you? You didn’t let my mother railroad you into it, I hope.”
She smiled. “It’s a very satisfactory arrangement for me. I actually feel as though I’m getting the better end of the bargain. Your brother’s house is small, and he keeps it very neat. It definitely doesn’t need much cleaning. But he worked very hard at my place yesterday. I couldn’t believe how much he’d gotten done in just one morning.”
Trent had repaired her precarious front step, replaced a broken board on the small porch and tightened a shutter that had hung loose at one window. He’d even mended the screen door, which had previously hung crookedly from a broken hinge.
“Trent needs something to do to get him out of the rut he’s got himself into,” Trevor said. “This will be good for him.”
“I don’t know about that, but it’s certainly helpful to me. It’s really sweet of your brother to do this.”
Trevor choked on a sip of coffee. “Sweet?” he repeated, recovering his voice. “Trent? Er…have you actually met him, by any chance?”
“Only briefly, yesterday morning.”
“And you thought he was, um, sweet?”
“I said what he’s doing is sweet,” she corrected, hesitant to apply the word to Trent, himself. “Helping me with the repairs, I mean.”
“I see.” He chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“Prior to his accident, I heard my brother referred to as wild, cocky and reckless. During the past year or so he’s been called sullen, surly and rude. I’m not sure anyone has ever called him ‘sweet.”’
Though she was intrigued, Annie didn’t think she should be gossiping about one of her clients, even with his brother. “Still, I appreciate having my front step fixed so I won’t break my neck. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a job to do.”
She heard him laughing softly behind her when she left his office. It seemed that Trent wasn’t the only odd brother in the McBride family, she thought with a bemused shake of her head.
TRENT WAS in his workshop Thursday night, rubbing wood stain onto a newly finished shelf, when the cellular telephone he’d brought in with him rang. He glared at the intrusive instrument, wishing he could simply ignore it, but it was probably his mother. If he didn’t answer, she would come charging over to find out what was wrong. He lifted the receiver to his ear. “What?”
“Hello to you, too,” Trevor said, apparently amused rather than offended by his younger brother’s curtness.
“What do you want, Trevor? I’m busy.”
“I’m fine, thanks, and so are the wife and kids. Nice of you to ask.”
“If you only called to needle me…”
“No, wait. Don’t hang up. I really do have a reason for calling.”
“Well?”
“Jamie wants you to come to dinner tomorrow evening. She’s trying out a new recipe for gumbo.”
Trevor swallowed a sigh. He didn’t want to hurt his sister-in-law’s feelings, but he really hadn’t been in the mood lately for cozy family dinners. He’d made that clear enough to his relatives, and they generally respected his wishes, but every so often they felt compelled to drag him out again. He understood, sort of, but he wished they could just accept his need for more time and space to come to terms with what had happened to him. “All right. I’ll come.”
“Try to contain your enthusiasm, will you?”
“Is there anything else you want?” Trent asked pointedly.
“No, but it was ‘sweet’ of you to ask. Of course, I’ve been told recently that you’re a very ‘sweet’ man.”
“Who the hell told you that?” he asked, startled.
Trevor laughed. “Your housekeeper. Apparently, you’ve earned her undying gratitude by fixing her front step.”
“It’s a wonder she hasn’t broken a leg on it—or worse,” Trent muttered.
“Pretty, isn’t she? Intriguing, too. I haven’t figured her out yet.”
“You shouldn’t be trying. You’re a married man.”
“Mmm. But you’re not.”
“Forget it. Not interested.”
“Then you’re even more of a cretin than I gave you credit for.”
“Goodbye, Trevor.”
“One more thing,” his brother said quickly, hearing the finality in Trent’s tone. “Annie mentioned that her roof is leaking. You might want to look into it, but don’t take any unnecessary risks. If you need help, give me a call and I’ll—”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“All right. We’ll expect you for dinner tomorrow.”
“I’ll be there,” Trent grumbled, then hung up before his brother could prolong the conversation.
Pushing the lid onto the can of stain, he considered what he knew about Annie Stewart. She thought he was sweet. And she liked his furniture. And something about her shy smile made his stomach muscles quiver, damn it.
This was going to be a long month.
