You call this fate?

Chapter 30

Okay, seeing his face was worse than a punch in the gut. Goodness, but he could clean up well... His hair lay in a perfectly delectable sweep over his head and my fingers twitched, as if eager to bury themselves in it and pull his bloody face closer. The navy suit brought out the blue in his eyes like that of a fresh water stream bubbling untouched down the mountains. Suddenly, his high cheekbones, the kind you see only on magazine covers and in dreams, seemed so much more prominent, beautifully defined. I had a feeling I would never be able to see his face the same way again.

I think Mr. Rodwell and I won't have come out of our trances if the glass hadn't fallen. The shattering sound shook the two of us so hard I almost shrieked. For a moment the room had felt so quiet that the sudden cataclysm felt like a train ramming into my eardrums.

Mr. Rodwell's face flushed (he was really doing a lot of that, nowadays). "I-I apologise," he said. Did he just stammer?

I stared at him. And it was during the course of this particular staring that I noticed that hanging over his pristine white shirt was a cream tie. Cream. And there were gold cuff links on his shirt cuffs. Crikey... Please, please, god, don't tell me we match. Don't you dare tell me we match...

We matched.

I suddenly felt for the first time that I didn't have a made up curse for this particular occasion. If I had had anything navy in my dress, I would have thrown myself out the window.

There was a rushing sound from behind me and I found Tasha popping out the room, a panicked look on her face. When she saw me, she immediately asked, "He shot you?" But after a moment, when she had time to actually see what she was looking at, a sigh escaped her. "Oh, sorry. What was that sound?"

"Mr. Rodwell dropped a glass," I told her, motioning towards where the said individual stood, looking down at the mess at his feet with a frown, like he couldn't figure out where exactly to start the cleaning up process from. Or, I guess, he was just waiting for someone to materialise at his side and do it for him.

Tasha's eyebrows shot upwards as she took in the disaster. A small smiled played somewhere on her lips. "Did he now?" she said softly, almost to herself.

Eliza, who had followed Tasha out the door, looked at the pieces of glass on the carpet and glanced up. "Would you like me to clean that, ma'am?"

"Eliza," Tasha said, sounding exasperated. "You don't have to jump to help every time some rich snob drops something. I am sure Mr. Rodwell can pick it up himself."

Mr. Rodwell send Tasha a dry look. "Someone will be here to pick it up. We don't have time. Or do you plan to get to the event when the cleaning crews arrive?" he asked me, avoiding my gaze.

"No, I'm ready," I said. "Just-Tasha, make sure Ella, Hannah and Granny don't go near that, please."

"Granny can take care of herself," Tasha protested.

"One day I caught her trying to eat glass because she thought it would help with her digestion," I informed her.

Tasha sighed. "Okay, I will tie her up the moment she walks through the door."

"Right, then," I said, glancing at Mr. Rodwell. He was studiously adjusting his cuffs. "Shall we go?"

He grunted in response. I guess that was supposed to be yes in yeti-language. I wondered who taught him that.

"Where's Christopher?" Tasha asked.

"In position," he said. "Don't try to contact him. It won't work." Then he pressed the elevator button and, when it dinged and the chrome doors opened, stepped inside and stood tapping his boot on the carpeted floor.