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She can clean if she really must, I suppose. Saves me haranguing the locals, trying to bribe the bravest of them to come to the big, scary hotel with their mops and buckets. To risk the dreaded curse. But I brought Miss Turner here to be an artist’s assistant, not to meddle with my life.
A hiss escapes between my teeth as I rub my leg. Should stretch it out. Should do the stupid exercises more often. Should clean my own dust.
Should do a lot of things.
Snatching my cane from where it leans against the wall, I limp bare chested into my bathroom, glaring at myself in the cabinet mirror as I pass. Grumpy bastard. The pipes moan as I run a bath, the water heating as it fills—and as I stand uselessly, waiting in the steam, an image flickers across my brain.
Helen.
Helen Turner, my new vacuum-happy assistant. Helen of the glossy dark hair and toffee-colored eyes. In my mind’s eye, she’sstretched on her back, sprawled across my bed covers, her bare chest heaving. Rosy nipples point at the ceiling.
A memory. Not of real life, obviously—I’ve barely met the girl. Of a dream.
Last night’s dream.
I dig the heel of one palm into my eye, but the image doesn’t fade. I’m trapped in my own brain, watching a shameful movie reel as Helen gasps and squirms, my big, scarred hands running over her body. I may have barely slept last night, but apparently my unconscious brain got busy.
What the hell is wrong with me?
She’s my employee. And a stranger, and too young for me anyway. Not to mention her nonstop chatter. That young woman is the last person on earth I should be fantasizing about, and I shove the dream fragment from my brain.
No. Not doing that. I willnotbe that cliched older man, lusting after his pretty assistant. I will not be the monster everyone thinks I am.
The town outcast. The scarred recluse. The walking magnet for ugly rumors. Yeah, the last thing I need is to chase after my employee like an animal—then I’llreallydeserve their censure.
It’s a joke, anyway. Beautiful creatures like Helen want a handsome prince, not a ruined old wretch who lords over an inch-thick layer of dust.
The water sears my bare skin as I sink into the bath, my body scalding pink, and I aim a long groan at the ceiling.
* * *
“Helen!”
A week later, my voice echoes through the derelict hotel, sinking through the floors. I daub yellow paint onto my canvas, eyes fixed on the table of fruit by the studio window.
The light’s good today. Clear and pale.
“Yes, Mr Grangemoor?” She slips through the door, her blue dress whispering around her thighs. Helen’s hair is piled in a messy bun on top of her head, speared in place by an old paintbrush.
There’s a smear of charcoal on the side of her neck. She’s been working too in her breaks. What does she draw?
“I’ll need more fruit.” I jerk my chin at the table. It’s laid out with an artfully draped tablecloth, a vase of yellow flowers, and a milk jug. Grapes spill over the rim of the fruit bowl, and one clementine is half peeled. “Flowers, too. Get replacements for everything. It spoils quickly when the sun shines through that window.”
“Um.” A phone appears from nowhere, thumbs racing across the screen. She frowns slightly as she types. “Got it.”
“Thank you.” Glaring at my canvas, I wait for her to leave. I called her in here, obviously—Christ, I’ve been finding excuses to call her in here all week—but now that she’s in front of me, I want her gone again.
She’s too distracting. Bright, somehow, like she’s glowing from the inside, and it’s too much. Makes me want to shield my eyes.
“Go on, then,” I mutter, and my assistant scurries from the room.
I’m an ass. There’s no need to bark at her like that.
But… students paint fucking fruit bowls. They teach this shit in schools, and I’m supposed to be some genius? I raise my paintbrush, hold it quivering in the air, then lower it.
What a waste of paint.
And you know what? This whole painting is garbage. There’s only one thing it’s good for, and I’m already grinning.
