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I recall the pet name James used last night.
So that’s where it came from.
“Why not?” I ask. “It’s stunning.”
A shadow crosses her features, and I wonder what I’ve said wrong. But just as soon as it appears, it's replaced by another genuine smile.
“No one books it. Can’t say why.”
Oh, God.
It must be haunted.
But before I can ruminate on that, she changes the subject. “If you need anything while you’re here, please let me know. I can recommend some places around town that are popular with tourists.”
That reminds me…
“Where’s the nearest pharmacy?” I ask.
Her brow furrows. “Down the road. You can drive there, or we can request a driver for you. Is everything alright?”
She sounds genuinely concerned, so I decide to be honest with her. “I have chronic headaches. If I don’t have medicine, it can get pretty bad.”
“Oh.” The bewildered expression is back, and she’s looking at me like she did last night. “I’m sorry.”
The atmosphere in the room turns tense, and I shift uncomfortably. “Yeah. I hit my head badly and since then, I’ve had nothing but headaches.”
“That’s awful. I’m very sorry, Harper.” Her tone is low and mournful, with an overwhelming amount of sympathy in her kind eyes.
It warms my heart.
“That’s very kind of you, but it’s just headaches,” I assure her. “It could be worse.”
She purses her lips, but says nothing.
“Where exactly do I go for breakfast?” I ask after a moment of silence.
“Oh!” she exclaims, then places her hand to her forehead, smiling. “So sorry. Of course. I’ll show you to the dining room. Follow me.”
We head past the living room, turn a corner, and my breath catches.
The dining room is stunning.
“You’re the only guest here at the moment,” Charlotte adds as I gape at my surroundings. “Usually, the place is more lively. I apologize.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” I whisper, my eyes widening at the crystal chandelier that hangs above the massive dark wood dining table. The top of the table is engraved with an intricate braided gold design that contrasts the wood, and the backs of the deep mahogany chairs match the pattern.
“This can’t be real,” I murmur, my gaze turning towards the white French windows, the woods in the distance. “Who designed all this?”
“The house was custom built,” Charlotte says, a hint of a smile ghosting her lips. “By the owners. Everything that you see, even the tiniest detail, was hand-picked by them.”
I startle. “By James?” I ask, amazed that a broody, crazed man could have such an impeccable eye.
“There are four owners,” Charlotte continues. “James was here last night, and Beau and Grey were here this morning.”
“Oh.”
Beau and Grey must be the Alphas I saw in the garden earlier.
