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“Yes.”
“Good. I couldn’t survive without it. We’ll get a cup and discuss your role in greater detail, then I’ll show you to your room. And in a few hours, Mariana, my housekeeper—you’ll love her—will be here, and she’ll show you around the property and the rest of the house. I’d do it, but I’m on a tight deadline.”
“That’s fine.”
“Great. Right this way.”
I follow Tristan through a great room with one of the biggest fireplaces I’ve ever seen.
“Mariana is here Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Tuesdays and Thursdays, it’ll just be you.”
He leads me down a wide hallway. A collection of framed book covers lines the walls. Cover after cover of number-one bestselling books, a few plaques highlighting “one million copies sold” sprinkled in between. His name, Tristan Carrington, is on each one.
He looks over his shoulder with a crooked smile. “Sorry, this is my ego wall. It’s so annoying, I know.”
“No, it’s impressive.” But also odd is that there’s not a single picture of the wife I am here to babysit.
“Thanks,” he says. “My job is why I live all the way out here in the middle of nowhere. No distractions, no one ever stops by. I can write all day out here, uninterrupted.” He shrugs.
It hits me then—perhaps this is whyIwas hired. No one in their right mind would accept a live-in job in such a remote area.
He leads me into the kitchen. Copper and more copper everywhere. Upscale appliances. Granite countertops, stained-glass cabinets. There is no need for overhead lights in this room. Even on this gloomy day, natural light streams in through the windows. Outside is a patio overlooking gardens that fade into woods.
Tristan motions to a breakfast nook in the corner of the kitchen. Beyond it is a dining room with a sixteen-chair dining table. I don’t even know sixteen people.
“Have a seat, Lavinia.”
“You can call me Lavi.”
“Lavi. I like it.”
I take a seat as Tristan operates a coffeepot that resembles a robot.
I watch as he fills the water reservoir, dumps in the grounds, warms the mugs in the sink—the quick, fluid movements of someone who has done it a million times. He appears to be rushed, but I have already pegged him as one of those personalities who are constantly in a hurry, even when they don’t need to be. To them, busy equals important. Type A, high anxiety. Most successful people are.
“How do you take your coffee, Lavi?” he asks.
“Creamer and sugar, please.”
A few minutes later, I am sitting across from world-renowned bestselling-author Tristan Carrington in his five-thousand-square-foot log cabin mansion in northern Georgia. It is one of those moments where you want to pinch yourself. For the last four months, I have been living in my car, showering at truck stops and eating garbage. And now, here I am.
I can’t blow it.
Tristan leans back and wraps his hands around his mug. It reads:Tears of My Readers.
I stifle a laugh and wonder if Tristan has a sense of humor. In my experience, I have found writers to be self-indulged introverts who are incapable of small talk—or laughter.
Tristan tilts his head again, regarding me with an intensity that makes me want to look away.
“First,” he says, “I would love to know more about what you did in California. About your business. It’s all so ... interesting to me.”
I’m prepared for this question. When people find out what I do—correction,did—for a living, I become the center of attention. I’m used to this, but today I feel abnormally nervous.
I was not prepared forthat.
“Well ...” I sip, swallow, set down the cup. “I am, was, a psychic.”
Tristan slaps the table with a chuckle. “Apsychic.Forgive me, but I am really going to dive in here. This is so interesting to me. Tell me everything. When did you learn you had the ability?” He leans in, a wicked grin splitting his impossibly handsome face. “Or do you really? Is it all a ruse? And how did you turn this into a business? I want to know it all.”
