Page 32 of Baby for My Ex’s Dad

The house appears out of the dark like something out of a horror movie.

Stone. Three stories. Wings. Windows lit amber. The scale of it is obscene, because houses like this aren’t homes.

This is a fortress. And I’m its prisoner.

“Will I be shackled in the basement dungeon?” Is it smart to give him ideas?

He smiles. It’s a little one, but it’s there. “I know you like to be tied up, but proper shackles chafe, so I don’t recommend them.”

A light laugh escapes me, but I’m not sure if I feel any better. We get out of the car, and he grabs my bag, leaving me Potato to carry. Gravel crunches beneath my feet as I stare up at the front door. “That’s a big ass door.”

“For a big ass house. This way,” he says, leading the charge.

When the door closes, there’s an echo on the hardwood. The entry hall is stone and tall as a chapel, and I’m two steps in, cat carrier banging my knee, when I see the portrait.

It hangs next to the entryway, placed to be seen. Oil, full length, old. Maxim, dark-haired, younger, standing behind a seated woman in blue with pale eyes and a mouth on the edge of laughing. And leaning against her knee, small, blond, maybe four years old, a boy.

I’d know that boy anywhere. I dated that boy.

A woman stands waiting deeper in the hall. She is sixty-something, wrapped in a quilted house robe, her gray hair in a long braid. Soft features, hard eyes.

“Galina,” Maxim says. “This is Thea. She will be staying.”

Galina looks at me, takes in the sights I’ve brought, and one eyebrow ascends a full inch nearer to her hairline. Then she looks back at me, and her face settles into something that isn’t warm, exactly. “There is soup from yesterday. The cat eats chicken?”

“The cat eats everything.”

“Good. Come.” She turns and walks into the house, robe swishing, done with Maxim. My chest unclenches a tad, because whatever this place is, there’s a person who responds to a crisis with soup.

And I love soup.

My quarters are on the second floor of the east wing. A whole sentence I never thought I’d think. Now, I’ve a bedroom bigger than my whole apartment, a bathroom with heated floors, a window seat overlooking dark gardens, and a bed I could land aircraft on. It’s all dark wood and pricey, Brobdingnagian furniture. Sturdy and vintage.

Now, it’s just me, a beach bag, and a cat. I sit on the edge of the enormous bed, and it doesn’t creak like my old bed. I doubt anything creaks here. Not even the floorboards.

There’s no dust. Not anywhere. I imagine Galina won’t allow it. She commands this house the way Maxim commands his company. And me, apparently.

Is it better to be a mutilated corpse or a face-having, living prisoner? That’s the question of the hour. For now, I’ll go with prisoner.

And as far as prisons go, it could be worse.

14

MAXIM

Breakfast at the estate is served early, and my houseguest arrives late, carrying the cat.

I’m at the long table with coffee and my morning newspapers, and I watch her take in the dining room. The grand windows covered in dark velvet drapes. My great grandmother’s silver place settings. The general acreage of my usual morning.

If I had to choose a word to describe her expression it would be nonplussed, though if one must make an effort to appear nonplussed, I think it contradicts the look.

She sits down across from me. The cat installs itself on the chair beside her.

There’ll be brown fur on that chair. Galina will be displeased, and I will never hear the end of it. “We will discuss the rules of the house.”

“Will we?” She reaches for the coffee pot. “Do I get a handbook? An orientation video?” She sets it back down. “Is there a lanyard?”

“Rule one. The cat stays in your room.”