Under Pressure by Isobella Crowley & Michael Anderle

Author:Isobella Crowley & Michael Anderle [Crowley, Isobella & Anderle, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781642026214
Publisher: LMBPN Publishing
Published: 2019-12-09T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Taylor’s House, Harrison, Westchester County, New York

Presley had found since Remington had moved in that his life and duties had grown more complex.

This wasn’t only because he constantly had to remind the young man not to trash the place, not to disturb or annoy Miss Steele, and so forth but also because of the necessity of, for example, increasing the grocery budget and remembering to buy accordingly.

Remington often ate takeout of some kind, which simplified matters, but he also consumed extra milk and coffee, not to mention hand soap, toilet paper, and the like. After years of these things remaining perfectly static, it had required some adjustment.

Now, he walked down the main first-floor hallway toward the garage, intending to examine Miss Steele’s cars. It would be prudent to see how suitable they were to have enhanced anti-theft devices installed. Perhaps a palm-scanner associated with the key rack.

He knew that things had escalated considerably of late and had even personally participated in a battle mere weeks before. And yet, on some level, his first responsibility was still to the estate. Caring for the house’s vehicles was as important to him as ensuring that Moswen and her loathsome allies did not take over the city.

As he approached the door leading to Miss Steele’s crypt, footsteps—too heavy to be hers—ascended the cellar stairs. The door opened.

“Hiya, Jeeves,” Remy said in a dull, inattentive way. He was clearly tired and distracted.

Presley noted that the young man’s tie was loose, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his hair mussed, and that his body smelled of relatively recent sweat.

Also, the butler thought it curious that Miss Steele had invited Remington into her personal sanctum and that they’d been there for a fair amount of time. Although hardly any major concern of his, he had to wonder exactly what they’d been doing.

“Good evening, sir. I can see that you’ve exerted yourself of late. I take it you’ll retire shortly? Oh, and my name is Presley.”

The old lycanthrope recalled Taylor’s recent words about “lingering smell” but she’d been known to reverse her decisions on things before—she was still a woman, after all. Besides, her private activities were not something he’d allowed to interest him beyond what was necessary for his professional duties.

Remy blinked. “Uh…”

The young man suddenly looked a tad flustered. His hand shot up to button his shirt and straighten his tie and for a moment, it almost seemed he would say, “It’s not what it looks like,” or something similar.

Instead, he blurted awkwardly, “I only—it’s way bigger down there than you’d think—in terms of both volume and depth. I had no idea.”

The butler nodded slowly, his face devoid of any indication whatsoever that he might have attached more than one potential meaning to the words.

“Yes, sir,” he acknowledged, his voice as dry as his face was impassive. “Of course. The hidden nether regions sometimes are. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He walked past the rumpled young human toward the garage to complete his duties before he called it a night.

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