Six stone steps lead to a double-door entrance. The scent of fresh flowers bombards my nose as soon as I trip over the threshold. Dax’s arm shoots out to steady me, but I’ve already caught my balance and righted myself. Sylvie vanishes up the stairs, leaving us alone again.
“I’m fine. Thanks,” I say stiffly and avoid eye contact, choosing to stare at his hand instead of risking the amusement I know I’ll find on his face. Three small scars glisten like silver threads across the back of his thumb. I hadn’t noticed those before.
“Straight up the stairs, Jules,” he instructs, hiding a chuckle behind a fake cough. The more he laughs, the tighter my muscles get. “Do you want to take my arm?” he chuckles.
“I’m clumsy, I don’t see how that’s funny.”
“It’s not your two left feet I’m laughing at, sweetheart. It’s the look on your face.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my face. I’m fine.”
“You’re pissed and adorable, but you are not fine.”
I don’t give him a response, mostly because I know he’s right. I’m the furthest thing from fine. I climb an ornate stairway that swoops around in a curve, and up to an open corridor looking down over the foyer. To the left, a large open archway leads through to a huge dining room. The landing curls around to the right and a pair of doors; one is open and the other closed. The walls are bright. A cream, taupe, and gold palette dominate both floors. It’s luxurious, if a little ostentatious, and tries too hard to fit the ideal of what a manor should look like.
It isn’t Dax. I don’t really know him that well, but this doesn’t fit his image. It’s a façade of wealth.
“Which one?” I ask, nodding my head to each door.
“The one at the end,” he directs, but stops at the first door and raps his knuckles on the wood twice. It swings open but I can’t see inside. “Have you heard anything yet?”
“No, Sir. We expect we won’t hear from him until tomorrow at the earliest.”
“Understood. Let me know as soon as he makes contact. Is everything else in hand?”
“Yes, Sir. The perimeter is secure. We have additional men downstairs and on the roof. The apartments are all checked and safe. A room has been readied for your guest. Mrs. Granger has retired to her apartment and Miss Trevainne is already in her room.”
Miss Trevainne? Sylvie?
“Thank you.”
“Sir.”
The door closes as soon as Dax steps away. He reaches into his pocket and produces a small set of keys. Singling out an old-fashioned brass key with a long shaft, he inserts it into the lock plate of the next door along and turns. It swings open soundlessly.
Beyond, I discover another enormous staircase. Though not as grand as the main stair, it’s no less pretty. Directly across the way is an identical door to the one we’ve just entered. Dax walks over and checks it. Finding it unlocked, he slides the key in and secures it before gesturing for me to climb to the floor above. A dominating window looms over the stairway. Ten panes high, it offers a view of the driveway. The curving lines of lights look like a trail of starlight.
“This way,” he instructs, passing me as I hover to take in the view. I follow him, three stairs behind, and try not to notice that his perfectly formed arse is directly in my eyeline.Did he work for a backside like that?Probably not. He’s probably just blessed with a perfect body along with a perfect life, more money than he needs, and a vast manor house with rooms he’s probably never used, no matter seen.
He turns at the top of the stair and the open-plan room comes into view. The stairs to the fourth floor continue to my left and curl almost full circle, but the room we stand in is enormous. Open-plan styled living is the last thing I expect in a house like this. Thick cream rugs are strewn around the floor. I count five that I can see. To my right, a row of high gloss, black cabinets are built in a horseshoe shape. A central island counter holds a huge six-ringedhob and separate flat-griddle. A modern glass dining table sits some little ways away with a vase full of the prettiest coloured tulips. A seating area, office workspace, reading space surrounded by floor to ceiling bookshelves, and even a gorgeous piano decorates the carefully structured zones in this huge living space. Despite being in a building that reminds me of regency novels, Dax seems to live in a loft-style apartment, and I wonder why he didn’t just buy one of those instead.
“Not what I was expecting,” I offer when I realise he’s waiting for me to say something.
“I had this portion of the building renovated to accommodate it.”
But why? Why live in a place like this when you clearly prefer something else? I can’t discern anything from Dax. His answer is so direct, I can tell I’m not the first person shocked by the disparity.
“Hungry?” he asks, reaching into the refrigerator and pulling out tray after tray of food: ham, turkey, sausage, salad, dressing, slaw, and a large carton of orange juice. The food keeps coming. He reaches into a cupboard for bread and then another for glasses. By the drainer, he grabs a large cutting board and a sharp knife. Pulling out a handful of slices, he butters the bread with what I can only describe as a carving knife and begins loading the sandwiches. Each time he adds an ingredient, he holds it up for approval.
“Come and sit.” He taps the pointy end of the knife on the edge of the dark counter with a row of stools tucked underneath. I pull one out and hop up, all without removing my eyes from the expert way Dax assembles the food. He holds the slaw in one hand and the salad dressing in the other. I point to the slaw and watch as he digs the knife in and slaps a generous helping onto each sandwich.
“When was the last time you ate?” he asks.
“Um. Today? I had a burger at lunch.” I’d intended to stuff my face with takeout too, but that plan went to shit the second we hitCarlito’s.
“And before that?”
“I ate the food Aiden bought for me yesterday.”
