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There are some guest bedrooms on the first floor, but everyone who lives here sleeps on the second. Mr. and Mrs. Black share the master bedroom, which has an attached sit
ting room and two gargantuan walk-in closets and takes up almost the entire east wing of the house. Lincoln’s room is on the south side of the house, around the corner and down the hallway from mine—Mr. Black pointed it out to us on the tour. I can only assume Lincoln was inside of it at the time, glaring at the thick wood as we walked past.
I can tell Mom’s a little nervous about starting work, but she makes a point to peruse the house more thoroughly the next day. She was joking when we first arrived, but she made a good point—if we’re scared to touch anything here, we’ll be the shittiest housekeepers ever.
Despite the glowing recommendation from her old high school friend Celeste Barker, my mom isn’t exactly an expert housekeeper or anything. She cleaned houses through an agency for about a year when I was fifteen, and I helped whenever I wasn’t at school. Celeste putting in a good word for my mom was more about throwing her a bone than about her actual qualifications.
Apparently, they were good friends in high school, but life circumstances sent them spinning in very different directions after that. My mom got pregnant with me the year she graduated, and my dad split a year later. Celeste married some hotshot lawyer and ended up working as an interior decorator in Fox Hills. They reconnected on social media randomly a while ago, and I think Celeste felt a little bad to see where my mom had ended up.
I sort of hate that it was pity that got us here, but, hey—my mom’s not dumb enough to turn down a life-changing opportunity because of pride.
And this could be life changing.
With this kind of job—this kind of money—we could finally crawl out of the hole of debt we’ve been living in for years.
Without conscious thought, my fingertips reach up to brush against the port scar on my chest. I can’t even feel it through the fabric of my shirt, but I know it’s there.
“Low? You okay, honey?”
I jerk in surprise, turning toward the bedroom door to see Mom’s head poking through the crack.
“Yeah.” I smile, letting out a breath. “Fine. You unpacked?”
She shrugs as she pushes the door open wider and leans against the frame. “Good enough for now. And I already know I packed a bunch of shit I should’ve just gotten rid of. Ah, well. I’ll just keep it for another ten years and then decide what to do with it.”
I smirk, tugging my long hair over my shoulder. “Good call.”
“Hey, I’m about to sit down and chat with Mr. Black, get the lay of the land here. You can come if you want, but if you don’t—”
“Option number two,” I say quickly.
I’m perfectly happy to help my mom with the cleaning duties, but if she handles the meetings with the head of the household, I’ll be even happier. Mr. Black seems nice enough, but he still oozes privilege and power, and it makes me a little jittery to be near him. To be near anyone in this family, really. I have to assume that feeling will go away at some point—we’re all living together now, for fuck’s sake—but I’m not in any hurry to force it.
“Yeah, I thought so.”
She smiles at me, and for a second, her expression grows painfully wistful. After everything she’s done for me—the insane hours she worked, the massive debt she took on, the days and weeks of taking care of me through chemo after my cancer diagnosis—sometimes I think she should hate me. Resent me.
But in moments like these, I’m positive if I asked her whether she’d do it all again, she’d say “yes” in a heartbeat.
Some days, I can barely stand that thought and the guilt that comes with it.
“I’ll take copious notes, and we can go over them over some ice cream tonight. What do you say?” She waggles her eyebrows at me.
Her mini apartment comes complete with a little galley kitchen. It really is it’s own self-contained space.
“Mm.” I grin. “Yes, please.”
I break down the last moving box and lay it on top of the others, stepping on them to squish them down further. She salutes me with two fingers and steps back into the hall, closing the door behind her.
Her meeting with Mr. Black lasts over an hour, and I’m tempted to leave my room to explore some more, but I don’t want to risk running into Lincoln. It fucking sucks that there’s a guy in this house who’s my age—a hot as hell guy, even—and he turned out to be a major asshole. Not that I was hoping to make a new best friend here or anything, but it’d be nice if I didn’t feel like my very existence was a personal affront to him.
So instead, I pass the time lounging on my bed texting Hunter. She’s on a date with her boyfriend of five months, Kevin, and I feel a little bad for totally distracting her. But I’m calling best friend privileges here.
I tell her all about the weird interactions I had with Lincoln and his mom, but somehow all that gets through to her is my offhanded comment that he’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. By the time Mom gets back upstairs and comes to get me, I’m under strict instructions to snap a picture of the younger Black and send it to my bestie.
Yeah. Not happening, Dummy. Sorry.
I am a little tempted, I have to admit. Mostly because I’d like to be able to examine his features more thoroughly without him glaring at me—or knowing I’m looking at all, really. Like his eyes. They’re the most incredible shade of amber, so bright they almost have a golden hue. And set beneath his tousled dark hair, they seemed to stand out even more. His dad has light brown eyes, but nowhere near the same brilliance and clarity as Lincoln’s.
