Chapter Four

 

 

 

chapter

FOUR

 

 

So there I was, lost in a mansion I totally didn’t belong in.

I wondered if all millionaires—or was Henry Nash a billionaire?—let broke, unknown guys like me wander through their homes unescorted? It would be too easy for me to pickpocket something and resell it. I mean, a single painting, or clock, or statue could pay for months’ worth of rent or groceries.

Not that I would ever do that, but I had to wonder what everything I passed must’ve cost. It was crazy how much unnecessary crap rich people collected. Yet the place still looked frightfully bare, the complete opposite of my cramped apartment where all of Mom’s bakery shit sat piled into every nook and cranny we could possibly fit it into.

Maybe that’s why Isobel felt so lonely. There was simply too much empty space here. Each footstep echoed, and echoes seemed like such lonely things. The hallway itself must practically tap out the rhythm of seclusion right through her chest whenever she walked down it.

Not that clutter filled loneliness, per se. Sometimes I lay squished on my sofa sleeper at night, feeling as if no one else in the world could ever really reach me, or understand me. Which must mean my theory that big houses brought out loneliness was all wrong. Rich or poor, crowded or spacious, we were all in danger of falling into isolation.

But seriously, where was everyone? Isobel had fled to who-knew-where, the creepy cook’s son was long gone from the patio outside, and Constance, the housekeeper, had disappeared without a trace. Even if I could find his office again, I refused to return to Mr. Nash and ask where the library, kitchen or theater was—God, really? They had a theater? I’d already interrupted him enough. I didn’t want to risk termination by bothering him again.

So I continued to meander down large, echoing halls and into rooms, filling my gut with jealous injustice.

It wasn’t fair that some people had so much, while others—

Muted conversation echoed down the next hall I entered. I paused, cocking my head to determine its origin. When I decided it was straight ahead, I hurried my pace.

“…Just saying. The guy’s utterly gorgeous,” Constance was spouting to some woman as I entered what was—yes!—the kitchen, an industrial-sized kitchen with a ridiculous amount of cabinets and counter space, but a kitchen nonetheless. The other woman stirred something on one of the three stovetops while the creepy kid from outside sat at the table, watching some video on an iPad, probably a documentary on the goriest torture devices ever invented.

“Like ten out of ten on the hotness scale,” Constance ranted. “He looks like Robbie Amell, I kid you not. No way did Mr. Nash suddenly hire some no one from nowhere for his handyman skills. I think he’s been brought here to—”

Before Constance could finish her assumption, the cook turned from the stove, only to catch sight of me standing in the doorway. She gasped, cutting off whatever reason Constance had for my presence.

While the cook clutched her hands to her cheeks, Constance whirled around, her eyes going big with guilt. “Oh, God.”

I gave an uncomfortable wave, wishing I could back out of the room and flee but needing their help navigating this damn house.

Wincing, I said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just trying to get the lay of the land. And…this must be the kitchen,” I added lamely as I spread my arms to encompass the room around me.

“Hey, you made it out of the rose garden alive,” Creepy Kid cheered as he lifted his face from the show he was watching. He smiled, revealing a gap in his top teeth.

“Kit, you’ve met this man before?” the cook asked, startled.

“We met outside,” I answered for the boy. “He showed me how to get to the conservatory.”

“This is Mr. Hollander,” Constance told the cook, whose mouth fell open.

I gave another lame wave. “Or you can just call me Shaw.”

“This is Mrs. Pan, the cook,” Constance introduced before motioning to the boy. “And her son, Kit.”

I smiled to both. “Nice to meet you.”

The cook and her son stared at me as if I were an alien being who’d been beamed down through the ceiling.

Clearing my throat, I shifted a step in reverse. “So, uh, I was just curious if anyone knew how to get to the library.”

“Yes, of course.” Constance bounded forward. “I’ll show you.” She darted past me, her face flushing red.

I waved a goodbye to Mrs. Pan and Kit before hurrying after the housekeeper. “I hear there’s a theater somewhere in here, too,” I added, sidling in beside her.

She nodded. “On the second level, sure.”

Mimicking her serious nod, I bobbed my own head. Second level. Good to know. “So am I really the first handyman Mr. Nash’s ever hired?”

Constance began to cough and her face morphed into a purplish hue. I wasn’t sure if she felt embarrassed for being caught talking about me, or if she was genuinely choking on something. It seemed pretty genuine to me.

I began to panic a little. “Are you okay?”

Her head jerked up and down. “Yes. Fine. Uh, sorry, there…there’s the library, just there, straight ahead down that hall.” She pointed, already backing away from me. And then she was shifting around and taking off in the opposite direction.

“Okay. Thank you,” I called after her. Then I sighed and faced the end of the hall. I guessed I was on my own from here on out.

An ornate set of double doors, one of them propped open, stood before me, almost inviting me to come closer while at the same time warning me away. I went closer, but with each step, my pace grew slower until I was practically a sloth by the time I reached the library’s entrance.

Holding my breath, I peered inside.

And there she was: Isobel Nash, Kit’s monster among the roses.

I watched her from the doorway as she lay on a sofa, her stockinged feet kicked up on one end with her legs crossed at the ankles and head propped on the opposite armrest while she read from an e-reader.

I wondered if it were possible for someone to irritate you as much as they intrigued you because that’s exactly what she did for me. I didn’t like her, or at least I didn’t want to like someone so testy and degrading, except I kind of craved more encounters with her. There was an exhilarating addictiveness about her presence. Maybe that made me messed up. I’d never thought of myself as masochistic before, but butting heads with her had been electric. She was a worthy opponent.

Then again, when she didn’t know anyone was watching her, she didn’t come across as such a harsh, heartless woman, and I still felt the pull. I wanted to get closer, peel away layers and learn more about her, see what made her her. So maybe it wasn’t only her antagonistic side that drew me. Maybe it was just her.

I remembered what her father had told me about how isolated she’d become, except she didn’t appear lonely or miserable at the moment. She seemed quite comfortable and content to bury herself in her story. I actually envied her that and could picture myself stretching out next to her or curling around her to read the words on her screen over her shoulder. Spending my days lazing on a sofa and reading would be a dream come true, especially with someone who smelled like roses tucked on a couch with me.

Not that I should let my mind wander into that territory. I was supposed to talk to her, just talk. Engage the mind, not the body.

Oh, but that body—

Down, boy.

Forcing myself back to the task at hand, I glanced around the room and decided I’d turn hermit too if I had this in my house, because finally, I’d found a room that didn’t look bare.

The shelves were crammed with books, overflowing really. Many were stacked on the floor with no other place to go. The place was dim; the two floor-to-ceiling windows it housed didn’t let much light in. And the dark walls with a limited amount of hanging lamps didn’t brighten things either. If this were my library, I’d lighten the color of the walls, install some more overheads and then build more shelves for all the books.

But first, I’d clean the grimy windows.

It was strange; Porter Hall had a housekeeper, but the windows still looked unwashed. Maybe Constance was too busy gossiping about people to get a good day’s work in, or maybe this place was so big it was impossible to keep spotless. Or maybe I should just stop assuming shit, mind my own business, and get myself to work.

That’s what I did. I backed from the room before Isobel could lower her e-reader and notice me spying, and I wandered around a bit more, opening odd doors until I found a supply closet, hosting a bucket, sponge, and all-purpose house cleaner, plus a stepladder.

Good enough for me.

When I returned to the room, supplies in tow, I didn’t make a sound, just moseyed past the resting dragon—er, Isobel—as if I had every right to be there. All the while, my heart pounded so hard I was surprised she didn’t hear the chaotic lub-dub as soon as I strolled by.

I made it to the window without being roasted to death by dragon fire. Then I set down the bucket of warm suds and opened the ladder. Didn’t take me long to realize the ladder wouldn’t be tall enough to help me reach the zenith of the window—God, the ceiling in this room was abnormally high for a one-story room—but it would be a start. I climbed to the top rung, bucket in hand, and pulled the soaked sponge out before slopping it across the glass.

By this point, there was no way she could’ve missed me in the room with her, but she’d yet to say anything, so I figured she’d decided to ignore me.

I figured wrong.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she screeched suddenly, nearly making me upset my perch on the ladder because I jumped so hard.

But, damn, what a way to kill a guy: wait until he wasn’t expecting you to talk, then jar him from his work with haughty demands.

Swearing under my breath, I steadied myself then dipped the sponge back into the suds. “I’m washing the windows,” I answered before finally glancing over my shoulder at her. “Sorry, was I bothering you?”

The question was so innocent and friendly it was hard to tell if she knew I wasn’t sorry at all.

She blinked blankly before setting her e-reader down and climbing from the couch. “That’s not how you wash a window. That’s how you wash a car.”

I lifted my brows before glancing at the window where soapy water streaked down the windowpane in little rivers. “There’s a difference?”

Sniffing out her censure, she shook her head. “My God. Have you never washed a window before?”

With a shrug, I admitted, “Now that you mention it, no, I don’t think I have. Unless a car window counts.” Though I spoke the words pleasantly, the challenge in my glance made her eyes narrow when I added, “Have you washed a window before?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Come with me. And bring this…nonsense.”

I had no idea what she had in mind for me, but remaining in her presence was my primary function, so I dutifully climbed off the ladder and refolded it before tucking it under my arm and lifting the soap bucket. When I faced her, ready to go wherever she wished, she blinked at me as if she hadn’t actually expected me to follow her orders so readily.

To show her I hadn’t yet turned into the meek, obedient servant she suspected, I gave her a mocking little half-bow and smirked. “As you wish.”

Huffing irritably, she turned away and strode from the room. I followed, feeling a thrill from ticking her off. Trailing from a leisurely distance, I fell far enough behind that she paused once and turned, waiting for me to catch up. She glared at my pace when I refused to hurry, but I returned the look with a sunny smile, which only seemed to put her in a worse mood, making mine better.

God, this was fun.

I had no idea why it was so invigorating to rile her, but it really was. I bet it wasn’t often the pampered princess came across someone who didn’t break his neck trying to please her. Her shocked outrage over my indifferent attitude was like a small, personal victory.

We returned to the supply closet, where she made me put the bucket and sponge away. Then she handed me a bottle of Windex and roll of paper towels plus a squeegee, muttering, “Here. Use this instead. And that ladder too.” She pointed to another wall, which finally brought my attention to another, larger ladder I hadn’t noticed before.

“Ah,” I cooed appreciatively. “Much better. Thank you.” I sent her a true smile of gratitude before I realized what I was doing.

But the honest grin seemed to piss her off just fine, so I couldn’t regret it.

I made my way back to the library, new supplies in hand, and this time I led the way. I knew she had to be following me, though, if for no other reason than to make sure I didn’t fuck up again.

“Start high and work your way down,” she instructed as soon as I opened the ladder.

I nearly laughed. Yep, she hadn’t been able to keep herself from bossing me around.

“Whatever you say, princess,” I answered, climbing the rungs.

The growl that rose from behind me made my heart swell with conquest. “My name is Isobel.”

“Oh yeah?” Able to reach the top of the window, I sprayed the cleaner then wiped it away smoothly. A screeching sound to cut across the glass, letting me know I was doing my job well. Squeaky clean. “Your dad called you Izzy.”

“Well, you’re not my father.”

I almost snorted, Thank God. I’d consider it a personal failure if I ended up with a daughter as snooty and rude as her. But what I said was, “Fair enough.” I liked how Isobel sounded in my head better, anyway.

I must not have made any more cleaning mistakes because the critique queen stayed quiet. Pleased about finally doing my job right and meeting the high standards of the window-cleaning police behind me, I threw myself into my task until sweat collected on my brow and more trickled down the center of my back.

Just as I thought how much cooler it would feel to take my shirt off, I realized, hey, I probably should take my shirt off.

Mr. Nash had hired me to play man candy, after all, hadn’t he? Maybe I should earn my keep. Besides, the sunlight coming in through the glass just kept growing warmer.

But mostly, if I wanted to be honest with myself, I was curious what Isobel would do. Would she be the uptight, prissy type and demand I put my clothes back on? Would she silently ogle the muscles in my back and ass as they stretched and shifted with each move? Would she like what she saw?

A rush of anticipation flowed through me, and before I could question myself, I tugged my shirt over my head, then tucked it into my back pocket.

She said nothing. I held my breath, eager to know if her silence meant something good or bad. One thing was certain: this suspense was killing me.

Unable to help myself, I glanced back as I moved down to a lower step.

But I never got my answer as to what Isobel thought of my bared torso. She was no longer in the library.