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I’m laughing as I pull the rust-red Nissan away from the curb, and Hunter keeps shouting life advice at me as I roll away down the street. She really is such a dummy.
God, I miss her already.
It’s a thirty-eight hour drive from Bayard, Arizona to Fox Hill, Connecticut. We break the trip up into four extremely long, extremely boring days. I’ve listened to every song on my playlist several dozen times when we finally drive past a sign welcoming us to Connecticut, but the nerves don’t really kick in until we hit the Fox Hill city limits. It’s a smallish city—population 140,000, according to a road sign we pass—but big enough to have a real downtown and a little bit of sprawl.
The houses range from huge to massive, and I almost rear-end the moving truck twice as I crane my neck to peer at the buildings we pass by. A lot of them are brick and covered in creeping ivy.
“Holy fuck,” I mutter, even though there’s no one to hear me. This shit is bonkers, and I have a feeling the biggest, fanciest houses are tucked away from the road, so I haven’t even seen those ones.
My suspicion turns out to be correct. A few miles later, Mom veers right onto a wide, gated driveway. After a short wait, the gate slides open, and I follow her through. Tall trees and a perfectly manicured lawn spread on either side of us, and the long driveway curves slightly before looping in a tight circle in front of a sweeping, two story house.
There’s a huge garage attached to the west side of the house, but we just stop in the driveway. We need to unpack the truck, and I have no idea what the protocol is for where the housekeepers should park their car.
Mom hops out of the truck ahead of me, stretching her back. I haul my stiff body out from behind the wheel too, and when I walk over to her, she grabs my hands, her eyes wide.
“Holy crap!” she whispers.
“Is this place for fucking real?” The truck is between us and the mansion, but I can still see it looming on the other side.
“I know! I don’t know how I’m supposed to clean it if I’m afraid to touch anything.”
“Well, I hope it won’t come to that,” a smooth, deep voice says, and we both jump.
A man walks around the front of the U-Haul. He’s dressed in a suit that probably cost more than the Nissan, and his dark, almost black hair is trimmed short and carefully styled. Tiny streaks of silver rest at his temples, one of the only signs of age on him. He’s gotta be in his late forties or early fifties, but he’s lean and muscular, with broad shoulders and a trim waist.
He sticks his hand out, and Mom composes herself quickly and shakes it, smoothing down her rumpled skirt with her other hand. It’s really not fucking fair to have to meet your new employer after ten hours in a moving truck, but she looks great.
“You must be Samuel,” she says. “Penelope Thomas. And this is my daughter, Harlow.”
He pumps her hand vigorously before turning his attention to me. I don’t think I survived the drive as un-rumpled as my mom did—my hair feels limp and gross, and I opted for comfort instead of style, so I’m just wearing a thin white t-shirt and a pair of jeans with holes in the knees. But Samuel Black doesn’t seem to mind any of that. He steps forward and takes my hand in both of his, a broad smile curving his lips.
“A pleasure to meet you, Harlow. Welcome to Connecticut.”
“Thanks.”
He’s not squeezing my hand hard, but his grip still feels constricting somehow. I pull it back as soon as he releases it, hoping the movement wasn’t too obvious. He rests a hand on Mom’s shoulder as he guides her around the truck toward the house, and I trail along in their wake.
“We’ll give you time to get settled in and unpack, but let me show you around and introduce you quickly.”
He keeps talking as he leads us up the steps to the front door, asking Mom about the drive, the weather in Arizona, and how she likes the East Coast so far. I tune out their conversation as we step inside the house, blinking at the grand, high-ceilinged foyer. Arched doorways on all sides lead to other parts of the house, and a curved staircase on the right side of the room connects to the upper level. A balcony overlooks the entryway from the second floor, and it’s while I’m staring up at it that a body collides with mine.
I yelp, my heart kickstarting in my chest. Strong arms wrap around me from behind, keeping us both from toppling over, and a warm, spicy scent hits my nostrils as the guy lets out a soft, surprised grunt.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
“Language, Lincoln.” Samuel and my mom both turn around at the commotion, and the older man cocks a disapproving eyebrow. The thick arms encasing me fall away as the guy steps back, and I scramble to compose myself, smoothing down my hair as I turn to look at who plowed into me.
Oh, damn.
This is Samuel Black’s son, I’m sure of that.
He’s got the same almost-black hair as his father, although it’s longer and a little more wild. His eyes are an amber honey color, a vivid contrast to his dark hair, and he’s got a long, straight nose, high cheekbones, and angular features. They’re incredibly symmetrical, so much so that he almost doesn’t seem human. More like he came out of some “hot rich boy” mold or something.
His father’s got the look of someone who was stunningly handsome in his youth and is aging well. But this guy? He probably hasn’t even hit the peak of his good looks yet.
And I can see why he ran into me. I stopped to gawk right in front of a doorway that leads to what looks like a den or something.
“Lincoln, this is our new Executive Housekeeper, Penelope Thomas, and her daughter, Harlow. She’ll be going to school with you.”
