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Jason’s going to come live with me at my parents’ house. That seems unexpectedly appealing. I’ve always hated having bodyguards living with us, but it feels different this time. I don’t think it will be so bad having Jason around.
The poor guy will be miserable living with you. You’re so stupid. Such a loser.
Shut up.
But nothing she says right now is going to bring me down. I’m going home. I’m going to resume my life and try to be as normal as I can.
And I have a new bodyguard who isn’t a jerk. I’m kind of looking forward to getting to know him better. It sounds like we have a lot in common.
He hates you.
Chapter 8
Jason Miller
“That’s yourhouse?” I ask, stunned. The imposing white stone structure in front of us takes up an entire city block.
Layla smiles. “Home sweet home. It is rather large, but I grew up here, so I guess I’m used to it.”
“How did you not get lost in there?”
“A lot of it is closed off,” she says. “We mostly use the south end of the building, which is where the main living areas are located.”
The stately old building is easily early twentieth century. From the exterior, it looks more like an art museum than a private residence. And I’d be willing to bet my next paycheck that the interior does as well. Where I come from, born and raised in the middle-class neighborhood of Rogers Park, twenty families could easily live in this space.
After Layla’s psychiatrist released her from the hospital, we packed up her few belongings in a fancy designer suitcase that her mother left for her. Her suitcase is in the trunk of my car, alongside my old Army duffle bag, which holds a few days’ worth of clothes, some books, my laptop, tablet, and toiletries. This is the first time I’ve had a full-time live-in assignment, and I didn’t know what to bring with me.
This is going to take some getting used to.
At least I won’t get bored. Ian told me there’s a fully-equipped home gym here at the house, as well as a home theater. I’m a movie buff, so that’s promising. With working out in the gym, watching movies, and reading, I should be able to keep myself plenty occupied during downtime. If I need to leave for any reason, I can request a temp to fill in for me. Miguel Rodriguez, who’s also a friend of Ian’s, is on standby as a backup for me since he’s already met Layla. She knows him, and she’s comfortable with him.
As I cruise slowly past the house, Layla points straight ahead. “Drive to the end of the block, turn right, and then continue around to the back. There’s plenty of parking in the rear for family and staff.”
Staff?Jesus. Well, of course they have staff. The family is obscenely wealthy. I doubt they do their own laundry or cook their own food.
The back of the building is just as impressive as the front. There’s a six-car garage back here, along with a small parking lot. I slip my black Dodge Challenger into a spot next to a cherry red Fiat—Layla’s car. There’s also a separate structure back here that appears to be a four-unit apartment building.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing.
“Those are the staff apartments. Margaret lives in one—she’s our housekeeper. Charles, the butler, lives in another, as does Claire. She’s our chef’s assistant.”
A housekeeper, a butler, and a chef.I’ve definitely moved up in the world.
As soon as I turn off the engine, Layla opens her door and hops out. I grab her suitcase from the trunk, as well as my duffle bag. “I guess I’ll be staying in the fourth apartment,” I say as I nod toward the smaller brick building.
She shakes her head. “No, you’ll be staying in the house.”
That’s a bit of a surprise.
She heads for the back door. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
I follow her through a door that leads into a huge kitchen. There are three uniformed people working in here. An older man wearing a white chef’s coat stands at the stove stirring something in a huge stainless-steel pot, while a young blonde woman is cutting up veggies on a butcher block counter. A silver-haired woman wearing a gray dress with a white apron is seated at a long wooden table, apparently doing paperwork.
Whatever’s in that pot smells amazing. My stomach growls.
“Layla!” cries the older lady as she jumps up from the table and rushes toward us. She gingerly wraps her arms around Layla, as if she knows to be careful of her bruises. “I’m so glad you’re home. We’ve all been terribly worried.”
Layla returns the woman’s hug. “Thanks, Margaret. It’s good to be home.”
