I sipped at my iced tea and thought about that. Timothy was holding something back, acting secretive again. I stared at the mug for a moment, pondering that.
“How long has Ben worked for you?”
“I’ve only been here a short time, Penelope,” Timothy said
“Evasiveness! I knew it. Tell me. Did he follow you from your last place of residence?”
Timothy eyed me worriedly. “You’re going to gnaw on this, aren’t you? Are you going to marry me? Because that’s what it will take before I offer up any secrets concerning my employees, and that, only with their permission.”
“So, if I went into the kitchen and asked Chef Stevens, would he answer me truthfully?”
“Are you going to marry me?” Timothy asked again.
“URGH,” I shouted, which brought the person we’d been discussing back into the room.
“Is there a problem, young miss?” the chef asked, the lines of concern a definite pattern across his rather handsome face.
I stood up, pushing my chair back in a very unladylike manner that my grandmother would have scolded me for. “Yes, I abhor secrets, and when people tell me half-truths, it irritates the heck out of me. How long have you worked for Timothy, Chef Stevens?”
The man shot a glance at Timothy, who irritatingly shook his head with a single, very subdued gesture, but one I picked up on. I glared at the pooka.
The chef sighed softly, then smiled. “I have worked for the man you call Timothy for only a few months,” he told me. His robin’s egg blue eyes displayed a hint of laughter.
“The man I call Timothy?” I That means, you’ve used different aliases, right,” I asked, glowering down at the pooka I’d just spent such a lovely interlude with upstairs in his bedroom, the man I’d showered with, and kissed, and . . .
I stamped my foot, something I’d only done as a rebellious teenager ONCE. My grandmother had quickly put an end to such rebelliousness. She’d been invaded with cancer. Funny how defiant teenager uprisings pale under serious issues.