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Except it’s not a kid so much as a sixty-three-year-old woman who became disabled after suffering a stroke. This little fun fact was conveniently left out of the help wanted ad and was only confessed to during the final telephone interview. Yes, my new job is to be a grown woman’s keeper.
I brake, unsure if I should park in front of one of the five garage doors or under the porte cochere. I choose the porte cochere, considering the thunderstorm raging overhead. Changing seasons are brutal in the South, especially during the springtime.
I turn off the engine and glance at the clock—9:42 a.m. I’m early. I’m going to miss this punctuality when I move out of the Tahoe.
Nerves tickle my stomach. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Another, then another.
This is the plan, I remind myself. This is the first day of the rest of my life.
Pocketing my keys, I climb out of the SUV and close the door. The rain drums against the roof overhead, drowning out the thunder rumbling in the distance.
It is then that I notice the lack of noise, aside from the rain. No cars, no trucks, no sirens, horns, or voices. The home is truly out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by miles of wilderness. The nearest town is thirty minutes away, and as far as I could tell on my drive here, there are no homes anywhere close to this one.
I run my palms over the wide-leg navy slacks I purchased for fifty percent off at a clothing store the day before. These I have paired with a conservative white button-up. My new boss didn’t mention a dress code, but I thought it prudent to bring my A game on the first day. Especially considering how much he is paying me.
I smooth my long brown hair, which has frizzed in the humidity, and then gently swipe my fingertip under my lashes in case my mascara has already begun to smear. The black thick-framed glasses I wear are excellent at hiding makeup mishaps, but again, my A game.
The smell of pines fills my nose as I reach the front door. It has an ornate brass knob and a hand-carved sun in the middle. At the top is a beveled window that allows for distorted views inside. Windows, windows, and more windows from what I can see.
I ring the doorbell, a fancy chime that echoes through the house. I recognize it as the James Bond theme song, and I grin.Interesting.
A minute passes, then another.
When I ring the bell again, a flash of movement appears behind the window, and then the door swings open.
“I’m so sorry,” the man says, having obviously just stepped off a treadmill. His graying hair is damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed. He is wearing a white T-shirt and gray jogging shorts, both clinging to a ridiculously shredded body—especially for his age, which I guess to be mid-sixties.
He blinks. “Lavinia Greer, right?” he says, then stares at me in a way that makes me shift my weight.
I’m used to this. It’s not every day you meet someone with two different-colored eyes. And mine, well, they are as extreme as it gets. One is dark brown, almost black, and the other is ice blue. Very circus freak. It’s why I wear the thick-framed glasses—to offset the shock.
“Yes. Lavinia,” I say with a polite smile.
“Wow. I don’t know what it is, but I have this ...”
I frown.
“... the strangest feeling that we’ve met before. Anyway, it’s so nice to finally meet you,” he says. “I’m Tristan.”
Yes, I know who you are. Tristan Carrington, the #1New York Timesbestselling thriller author—otherwise known as my new boss. And he is even more handsome than in his Google images.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and feel a sting of insecurity. “Nice to meet you as well.” I’m surprised by how nervous I am.
“Come in, come in—wow, it’s really coming down out there.” He quickly observes the rain, then opens the door wide. “I’m so thrilled you’re here.”
The first thing that hits me is the smell of the home—rich leather and vanilla-scented candles. Real vanilla, not that nauseating imitation stuff.
As Tristan shuts the door behind me, I have to force myself not to gawk at the interior of the home. Windows are everywhere, the views postcard-perfect. I have stepped into a world of rich leather, shiny hardwood, stained-glass lamps, Persian rugs.
Tristan catches me ogling and smiles.
“You have a beautiful home,” I say.Dammit, why am I so nervous?
“Thank you. It’s a bit secluded ...” His voice trails off, and I get the vibe he’s insecure about this. He glances at my hands. “No bag?”
“They’re in the car.”
“Okay, we’ll get them later. I was thinking we could have a cup of coffee—do you drink coffee?”
