I close the door behind me and face him, crossing my arms over my chest.
The morning is cool, the kind of bright May cool that makes Saltford Bay look like a postcard. Demetrius Thornwood stands there like he walked out of an advertisement for something aspirational, some cologne or private jet membership or other product I will never in my life have the option to buy. The Rolls gleams in the driveway beside my car, which, now that I'm looking at them side by side, appears to be visibly embarrassed.
"Nice car," I say. "Is it new or is the Batmobile in the garage?"
"Good to see some things don't change." He holds my gaze, but his eyes narrow down to slits. "I see you're still a smart-ass with a big mouth."
"Takes one to know one." I fold my arms. "What do you want, Demetrius?"
Something shifts in his expression. Not annoyance, exactly. More like the recalibration of someone who came prepared for a conversation and is now doing math in his head to approach it just the right way. And I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.
"I'm here to offer you a job," he says the same way I imagine rich people like him probably say most things. The way of someone who is used to getting their way. "To care for Agatha during her recovery."
I blink at him. He can't be serious.
"I can't," I answer flatly, because it's the truth. "I received an offer from Elven Mercy."
This time, it's him who crosses his arms over his expansive chest. I have a fleeting thought about his dry cleaning bill, then decide he probably doesn't even know how much it costs.
"When are you moving?"
God, he's fast. The question lands like a sprung trap. I could lie, but he'd see it, and something about being caught in a lie by Demetrius Thornwood doesn't sit well with me.
"I'm not," I say. "I'll just commute."
He gives me a look.
"That's a ridiculous plan, even for you."
"Is it as ridiculous as parking that car in someone's driveway without warning?" I ask, cocking my head to the side and giving him my biggest, fakest impression of a smile.
"You'll break down. Sooner or later, probably sooner," he says without cruelty, but also without sugarcoating it. "I'm offering you a better option. Full-time, residential care at Stronghold. You'd be on-site for the duration of her recovery."
"I told you. I already have a job."
"You have a commute that's going to grind you down inside of six weeks." He pauses, uncrosses his arms and then runs his hand through his thick black mane. I watch him do it and my stomach plays its dumb trick on me again.
Why does he have to be so freaking handsome? Why do I care again? Right, I don't.
"Thing is, Maddie, Agatha says she'll only accept you. She doesn't want a stranger living in her house. If you turn this down, I'm out of options and I'll have to force her into a recovery center. You know her, she won't do well there."
I do know Agatha. I spent years in and out of Stronghold when I was a teenager, and not once in that time did I see Agatha Thornwood concede a single thing to anyone. Sending her to a recovery center to live under someone else's schedule, someone else's rules, surrounded by strangers?
I try to imagine it. I try to imagine Agatha's face when she realizes she has to eat, sleep and bathe on the facility's schedule.
Yeah. That's a recipe for disaster if I ever saw one.
"Don't do it for me," Demetrius adds, his voice low and deep, running all the way to that stupid, weak place between my ribs. "Do it for her."
I let out a slow breath and look out at the street, the morning light on the Saltford Bay oaks. The neighbor's cat sits on the fence post and watches us with the expression of someone whohas seen it all. Then my eyes land on my beat-up Toyota Corolla and I'm reminded of that pile of unpaid bills waiting in my dad's drawer.
Shit. I'm really a weak, stupid woman. But I'm also a weak, stupid woman with a unique chance at helping my parents pay the insurmountable amount of debts they have.
"Fine." I turn back to him. "I'll do it."
His brows lift, just a fraction. He opens his mouth to speak, but I lift my hand up, stopping him before he can say a word.
"Fifty-three thousand," I say. "That's the number. Take it or leave it."
