He spun on his heel and stomped from the room, not trusting himself to say anything. He walked purposely down the stairs and back into the kitchen where he grabbed the bottle of scotch from the welcome basket Patricia had left him. He didn’t bother with a glass, taking a healthy slug straight from the bottle, the liquor burning a path down his throat and into his gut.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, gripping the bottle in one hand and the marble bench in the other. He was teetering ...