We drive down the hill slowly, with our music now off, when Sam calls out to me from the back. “Is that Dad?”
“What? Where?” I gasp.
“Over there, behind the tree.”
I look over and see a man in a navy polo shirt who kind of looks like him. He’s taking a shot with his club.
“Shit, is that him, Will?”
She sits up and narrows her eyes as she studies the man in the distance.
“Look out!” Sammy yells from the back seat.
I snap my attention back to the path to see Mr. Masters standing directly in front of the cart. I swerve, trying my best to avoid him, but it’s too late, and I hit him full force, running him over.
The cart bounces twice as he goes under the wheel.
I screech to a stop.
Holy. Fucking Hell.
We all jump out of the cart, running to where Mr. Masters is sprawled on the ground. “Oh my God, Mr. Masters. Are-are you all right?” I stammer as I drop to the ground beside him.
“I’m fine.” He groans, slowly trying to push himself up. “Why weren’t you looking where you were going?”
“Why did you jump in front of the buggy?” I hit back.
“I was trying to get your attention.” He stands and dusts the dirt from his shirt.
Stupid man. Who runs out in front of a moving vehicle? I could have killed him.
“Dad.” Sam hugs him.
“It was an accident, Dad,” Willow mutters. “Brielle didn’t mean it.” Her nervous gaze flashes to me. “Did you?”
I shake my head. “No, no, I didn’t. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” I ask. I cannot believe I actually ran him over. “We need to take you to the hospital.”
“I’m not hurt.” He steps out and winces when his foot tries to take his weight for the first time.
My eyes widen. “You are hurt. Where did I hit you?”
“You just ran over my foot, but it’s fine.” He seems embarrassed, or perhaps just furious. Who can tell with this man?
A golf cart approaches us with two men riding in it. As they get closer I can see that they’re all splitting their sides laughing. The cart comes to a slow halt beside us. “Masters, funniest thing I’ve ever seen. I wish I’d filmed it.” One man laughs as he holds his stomach.
Mr. Masters looks at his friends. “Hilarious,” he mutters dryly. He tries to walk again and winces as his foot takes his weight.
I grab his arm to support him. “Please stay off it until we see a doctor.”
“I’m going to go home with these guys.” He digs around his pockets and hands one of his friends his set of keys. “Can somebody bring my car home, please?”
I glance up at the children who are both deathly silent. They watch on in shock.
Great, this is just great. We were having such a fun day, too. Honestly, I have never had so many things go wrong for me in one week in my entire life.
London is trying to bring me undone. Day by day my mistakes are getting bigger and bigger.
Mr. Masters waves his friends off and turns back to me.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Let’s get you to a doctor.” I sigh.
He nods, and Willow takes one arm, helping him as he limps back to the car. I return the buggy and climb into the driver seat. I glance over to see him sitting in the passenger seat, glaring out the front window.
I grip the steering wheel and drop my head. “I’m so sorry,” I say again.
Regret swirls around in me. Sorry seems to be the only word that I ever say to him. That’s it now. I know that’s it. And I’m okay with it being over. Some things just aren’t meant to be.
“You didn’t mean it,” Willow interrupts from the back seat. “It was an accident, Dad.”
Mr. Master’s jaw clenches as he looks out through the front windscreen. His anger is palpable.
“Tell Brielle you know it’s not her fault,” Willow demands.
“I said it was fine,” Mr. Masters growls. “I would like to go home now.”
The car falls silent and I start the car. I pull out of the parking lot and onto the road. “Can we go to the hospital and get some x-rays, please?”
“It’s not broken,” he says flatly.
“Fine.” I sigh. I turn onto the road that takes us home. “Have it your way.”
It’s 9:00 p. m. and I am washing the last of the dishes. Due to the fact that Mr. Masters is laid up on the lounge with an icepack on his foot, I cooked Italian for dinner, and I know I surprised everyone with my culinary skills. One thing I can do well is cook. They all devoured every last mouthful, and the kids even asked Mr. Masters if I can be the new cook from now on.
The silence is now deafening, though. He hasn’t said a word to me all afternoon other to say that his foot is fine. I’ve cooked and chatted and helped the children with their homework, all while he stayed solemn and stared at the television. I feel sorry for these kids. He’s miserable. He makes everyone around him miserable. Willow was right today; he doesn’t communicate at all other than to tell people off. It’s like he gets off on the power of reprimanding people around him. I know I deserved a spray about last night, but this is another level of coldness, and it’s grossly unfair when he knows I feel so bad about hitting him earlier. To be honest, I don’t even want him to talk to me now. My dream of having a boss that I can be friends with is long gone.
He’s not the kind of person I would want to be friends with. He has a mean streak. I may have made a string of errors since I started, but the way he is treating me is making me feel very uncomfortable.
The kids eventually say goodnight to us both and head up to their beds.
I finish cleaning the kitchen and my stomach churns. I’ve never lived in a house where I haven’t felt welcome before. I don’t like it-not one little bit.
He makes me feel inadequate. Just because I’m not a judge, it does not make me stupid. But he loves to insinuate that that’s exactly what I am, making me feel inferior.
I fluff around in the kitchen for fifteen minutes as I psyche myself up for this conversation.
Just do it.
“Mr. Masters, can I speak to you for a moment, please?” I ask.
His eyes rise to mine. “Of course.” He gestures to the sofa beside him. “Take a seat.”
I sit down, and my nervous eyes hold his. “I’m sorry about today, sir.”
He nods once.
“In fact, I’m sorry for everything, and I’m sorry I wasted your time when I applied for this job.”
His face remains emotionless.
“I would like to give you my three weeks notice.”
His eyebrows rise, eyes full of surprise. “You’re resigning?”
“I think it’s for the best.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious why?”
“Not to me.”
I stare at him for a moment. What is he playing at?
“I asked you when you started to let me know if there was a problem before you resigned. If it’s the children…” he says.
“It’s not the children. The children are angels.” A frown crosses my face. “Wait, what are you talking about? There has been nothing but problems since I arrived,” I splutter.
“It’s only been four days.”
“You fired me on the first day!”
“Because you were looking through my private things.”
I drop my head. “I know, and I don’t blame you for being upset about that. Look, you said I had eighteen days to find another job, and I just wanted to let you know that I will be doing just that.”
He stares at me for a moment. “Is this about last night?’
Regret hits me like a freight train. “Yes,” I exhale heavily. “I’m mortified that I came onto you. It’s not who I am, and every time I look at you I feel nothing but embarrassment.”
He watches me.
“I am not easy in any shape or form.”
He frowns.
“But…” I pause. “You really do make me feel inadequate.”
His face falls. “Of what?”
“Of this position. It’s like you look down on me all the time for being playful.”
His eyes search mine, and I feel like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.
“It’s just…” I shrug. “For the first time in a long time… I feel cheap and stupid.”
His eyes drop to the floor and he clenches his jaw.