"I have to tell him…"
The agitated twenty-eight-year-old chief Butler, traversing the width of the third storey, let his eyes dart to the floor where he saw heavy imprints of mud and wet. His orbs bugged out. He could only hope that the situation in the boss's bedroom wasn't what his mind was thinking.
"Sir," Simon said after he'd pushed the door open.
"You knocked," said Rochester as if caught in the act of doing something wrong.
"Y—yes," Simon drawled. "But I didn't expect to meet you…"
"Like this?" Rochester turned to unbutton his shirt, "looking so dirty and wet!"
"Yes," Simon blinked, "I didn't think I would meet you — was it the rain that—"
"What are you? — blind or something?" Rochester had undone his coat and was angrily taking off his boots. The bedroom floor was a mess. He would not sit his ass down on his bed to even get rid of his shoes.
"Simon?"
