Chapter 5 - The Cost of Drenched Leather
Declan Falcone marched through the threshold like an oncoming hurricane.
His face was flushed, his dark hair disheveled from the bitter sea wind outside, and his jaw set in a line of pure, unadulterated fury. But it wasn't a weapon in his hands; it was a pair of soaked, dark-brown designer leather boots.
Water poured from the soles, leaving a heavy, continuous puddle across the slate tiles Maeve had spent forty-five minutes degreasing. Thick droplets of brine and mud splashed against the immaculate white cabinets as he swung them violently through the air.
He crossed the kitchen in four massive strides, slamming the dripping boots onto the stainless-steel prep island directly in front of Maeve. The impact sent a spray of muddy saltwater flying, speckling the front of her white apron and narrowly missing her chin.
“You ruined these!” Declan roared, his chest heaving, his tattooed throat corded with tension.
Maeve stood motionless. Slowly, methodically, she lowered the towel she had been holding. She looked down at the island. The boots were custom-made, hand-stitched Italian calfskin, now bloated, warped, and dripping with frigid seawater. A trail of mud snaked from the doorway all the way to the counter.
Maeve’s hazel eyes flicked from the boots back to Declan’s face. She didn't look impressed. She didn't even look startled. She simply tilted her head, her expression settling into that same, maddening wall of deadpan indifference.
“You left them where they didn’t belong,” Maeve said flatly.
Declan leaned over the island, his massive palms planting themselves flat on either side of the soaked leather, bringing his face inches from hers. The veins in his temples pulsed violently.
“They were on the rear terrace!” he shouted, his voice echoing off the stainless steel hoods. “Under the covered overhang! I left them there so the mud wouldn't track into the house!”
“The wind off the bay shifted to the east at dawn,” Maeve replied calmly, crossing her arms over her chest and looking him right in the eye. “The overhang was facing the squall. I moved the patio furniture into the shed at six-thirty. Your boots were sitting on the low retaining wall. If I hadn’t brought them under the portico, they would have been blown off the cliff and into the surf.”
Declan’s nostrils flared. “They’re waterlogged! The leather is salt-rotted!” He snatched one of the boots up by the laces, thrusting the dripping sole into her face. “They cost nine hundred dollars.”
Maeve finally looked at the boot, inspecting the ruined stitching, then let her gaze drift back to Declan’s enraged eyes.
She didn't raise her voice. She didn't stammer. Her tone was as calm and dismissive as if she were telling a toddler to stop whining about spilled milk.
“Buy waterproof ones.”
The kitchen went dead still.
Declan stood frozen, his arm extended, the nine-hundred-dollar boot dripping steady, rhythmic drops of muddy brine onto the slate floor. *Drip. Plop. Drip.*
His mouth parted, but no sound came out. His mind seemed to short-circuit entirely. He was a man accustomed to threats, to broken bones, to men pleading for their lives, to women hanging on his every word or trembling when his voice rose. To have his fury reduced to a matter of practical outdoor apparel—by a maid holding a kitchen rag—left him completely, spectacularly without an answer.
From the shadow of the pantry hallway, a low, smooth chuckle broke the silence.
Gabriel leaned against the doorframe, a mug of black coffee cradled in his hands, his dark eyes sparkling with wicked delight. He had clearly watched the entire exchange.
“She’s got a point, Dec,” Gabriel said smoothly, taking a slow sip. “Loro Piana doesn't mix well with a North Atlantic gale. Should’ve worn your Bean Boots.”
Declan slowly lowered the soaked boot. He turned a lethal glare on Gabriel, then back to Maeve. For five agonizing seconds, Maeve could see the war raging behind his dark eyes—the primal urge to smash the kitchen island to splinters battling against the realization that reacting further would only make him look more foolish.
Without a single word, Declan grabbed both boots by the laces, spun on his heel, and stormed out through the swing doors, leaving a jagged trail of muddy water behind him.
May you like
Maeve let out a quiet, controlled sigh. She reached for the mop.
***
