Page 11 of The Truth of Us

My driver had my door open at the same time the front door of the townhouse swung wide. A man in his mid-to-late fifties stood waiting for me to approach. Shit. Is he the owner? What kind of arrangement do they have? Is this why she insists our relationship is strictly professional? Fuck...

But before I could say anything, I saw her.

She glided down the wide hallway, her cream silk gown billowing behind her as she walked. The older man assisted her into a matching wool coat as she grabbed her clutch and met me at the door. I stood frozen at the bottom of the stone steps, watching the way she moved.

Ice-blue eyes finally met mine, and she gave me a dazzling smile, her matte red lips pulling my focus.

“Mr. Vale,” she said smoothly as she stepped onto the front step.

Fuck. My last name from her mouth. I was beginning to think she knew exactly what that did to me and was using it as a weapon. Which, honestly, fair.

“Ms. Lane,” I replied, offering my hand.

She looked at it for a beat, as if she were deciding whether touching me was worth the risk. Then her fingers slid into mine, and I felt it, that same annoying, inconvenient pull low in my stomach.

The man at the door cleared his throat. “Enjoy your evening, Miss Harper.”

Miss Harper?

Not Ms. Lane. Not ma’am. Not even Harper.

Miss Harper. huh…

“Thank you, Thomas,” she said warmly, and there was something in her voice I hadn’t heard at Northwell. Something softer. Familiar.

I looked between them, trying to sort out what I was seeing. Thomas was well-dressed, but not wealthy. Staff, maybe. House manager. Butler? Did people still have butlers, or was that a term only used in movies and by men who wore velvet slippers unironically?

Harper released my hand and walked toward the car as if she hadn’t just stepped out of a fucking old-money fantasy designed to confuse me.

I moved beside her, placing my hand lightly on the small of her back as she stepped into the car. She didn’t react to my touch, and I realized that everything about her was controlled.

Which only made me want to ruin it.

When I slid in beside her, the car suddenly felt smaller than it had five minutes ago. Her perfume filled the space, something clean and expensive, not sweet or obnoxious. The kind of scent that didn’t ask to be noticed but made forgetting it impossible.

The door shut, locking us inside the quiet. I looked at her, and she looked out the window. I waited until I couldn’t any longer…

“Are we not going to talk about it?” I asked.

Her lips twitched, but her eyes remained out the window. “Talk about what?”

I laughed under my breath. “The townhouse. Thomas. The fact that you live in a neighborhood where people probably use the word ancestral lineage without irony.”

She turned her head slowly, and the streetlights caught in her eyes. “Do you have something against old houses?”

“No. I have something against mysteries.”

Her eyes twinkled when she said, “That must make your life very difficult.”

“You have no idea.”

She faced forward again, but I caught the hint of a smile.

I shifted toward her. “So?”

“So?” she parroted.

“Who is Thomas?” I don’t know why it was bothering me so much, but it was, and I didn’t like it.