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I like taking care of her.
And that’s…that’s the real reason I’m here.
For June Bug.
Not me.
My beautiful date for the evening prepares to knock when I shake my head knowing that it isn’t necessary due to security alerting everyone about our arrival.
Mere seconds later, Byron James, head of the household staff, opens the door to greet us warmly, “Good evening, Master Frost.” He politely nods at me prior to turning his attention to June. “Madam Bailey.”
“How do you know my name?” She nervously sputters. “Did he tell you my name? Did Mrs. Harding tell you that I was coming? Is it a bother that I came? I can wait in the car. Would it be better if I did? Would-”
“June Bug,” my interruption is playfully executed, “stop interrogating B.”
“Byron,” he slyly informs her of his name.
Guiding the nervous woman into the estate, I add, “You’re gonna make the poor guy feel like he’s being deported back to Doctenn with all that shit.”
“Visiting my homeland would not be a bad thing considering I have not been in quite some time, Master Frost, however, permanently having to leave my residence as well as those I have come to care for would be devastating.” He shuts the door behind us and tucks his other hand out of sight. “Particularly you, the wayward son.”
It’s impossible not to smirk at his snark. “Good to know you’re still a cheeky bastard.”
“And you are still disorderly.” He reaches over and fixes the lapel of my purple button down. “Last I heard, they do have irons in other countries, Master Frost.”
“Tucker.”
Once the material is successfully smoothed out, he offers me an adoring smirk. “Master Tucker.”
I roll my eyes, shake my head, and let go of a small laugh.
Stubborn asshole.
“It has been a very long time.” His expression softens like that of an uncle would. “I am pleased to see that in spite of your long absence that you are indeed in good health.”
“And in good company.” I shoot him a playful wink that makes June wiggle in embarrassment.
“Quite,” he echoes the compliment with an impressed smirk.
He’s always been more family than “servant”. Especially when Dad was alive. I swear there were days he spent more time discussing war heroes and playing Risk with my old man than he did checking properly shined dinnerware. The day Dad suffered his seizure Byron was in Doctenn visiting his family. Of course, he rushed back here to be with us, to do whatever we needed, to handle everything he could so that we could grieve, but also so that he could grieve with us.
It’s funny.
Post Dad’s death, I left this place and have done everything to not come back while he came back and has done everything to never leave this place again.
“Your mother and the other guests are settled in the informal dining room.” Byron folds both hands behind his back. “Shall I escort you?”
“Nah,” a heavy sigh slips free, “I remember the way.”
“Very well.” He politely nods and steps back. “Enjoy your evening, Master Tucker.” Byron grins cordially at June. “And Madam Bailey.”
“Madam Bailey makes me feel way out of my league,” my date mumbles under her breath the second I’ve steered us away. “The closest thing I’ve ever had to that level of respect is Miss Bailey during my monthly volunteering session.”
Stopping us in the secluded hallway right off the entryway is instantly done. “You do volunteer work?”
“I mean I don’t do anything life or death worthy like feed the homeless at a soup kitchen or help battered women repair their vehicles they’re using to get out of town, but I um…do…teach a monthly child, parent art class for free for those aged between three and ten in marginalized communities where direct art exposure is less available.”
Admiration mercilessly drenches me. “That’s amazing.”
“It’s not,” she brushes off too quickly. “And I’m not actually teaching anything. Because we talked about that. I can’t teach. I can’t tell someone what to think about art or what should qualify as art. I simply…introduce an artist, show some pictures I’ve pulled up of their work, and then they craft their own interpretations of the style not necessarily the artists’, because artists should express whatever they wanna express not necessarily try to emulate their predecessors.”
Additional adoration pierces through my gaze on a quietly cooed, “You’re fucking amazing.”
“I’m not amazing, Tuck. I just…try to give back a little.”
“June,” the tone I take noticeably shifts alongside my arms winding around her waist, “between being the best daughter two parents could ever ask for, the best sister sisters could ever ask for, the best assistant someone like Aunt Brandi could ever fucking wish for, and the best book browsing buddy to your gym friend that you can possibly be, given how packed the rest of your schedule is, the fact you still make time to not only volunteer but to volunteer in the area that’s so quick to get dismissed or left behind in favor of sports or academics, is. Fucking. Incredible.” My fingertips flex in a protective fashion. “Own it.” I hold her stare hostage to further reiterate my point. “Own you like the priceless piece of art that you are.”
