Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
He glances up at me, his eyes bright and clear today. Present.
“Look at you,” he says cheerfully. “What’s with the getup? Big date this early in the morning?”
“Grandpa, no! I’m meeting a potential client.” I drop another kiss on top of his head. “I’ll tell you all about the job when I get back.”
I leave him blinking after me curiously as I escape before he starts asking any real questions. He might not have been there yesterday, but he’s sharp today, and I’m—
I’m not a good liar.
I still feel a little weird not telling Grandpa where I’m going, but I don’t want to get his hopes up in case this doesn’t work out.
I borrow our only vehicle for the uphill drive, a rickety dark-grey delivery truck.
The Arrendell mansion looms over Redhaven like a twisted castle, perched at the peak of the tallest forested hill overlooking the small valley that cups our little colonial village.
There’s only one road leading up, a winding paved lane that passes under bowers of trees bursting with spring growth.
The mansion itself resembles a strange white dragon coiled at the peak, this eerie brooding thing of tall columns and white marble and old Gothic architecture.
My nerves flutter wildly as I pull into the circular roundabout at the foot of the massive, palatial steps leading up to the house. As I park the truck, it coughs out a black cloud of smoke from the tailpipe.
Way to make a good first impression.
I feel like the universe is trying to remind me I don’t belong anywhere in spitting distance of this place.
At least I’m a few minutes early, though.
I sling my purse over my shoulder, tuck the shop’s project portfolio under my arm, and step out, handing the keys to a valet who looks nearly identical to the man who came to the shop yesterday.
Wait. That is him, I think. His nose wrinkles at the bitter smell of exhaust.
“Sorry!” I hate how small my voice sounds. “You, um, you have to pump the clutch a few times. If you don’t want to bother, you can just leave it here.”
“Miss,” he says calmly, sliding behind the driver’s seat.
I watch for a moment with a wince as the truck sputters while he fights the clutch. Then I turn—and nearly jump right out of my skin as the man from yesterday materializes at my elbow.
The actual man from yesterday, I mean, though with their identical haircuts and nondescript faces I can’t be blamed for thinking they’re clones. Especially with those uniforms.
I leap back with a little shriek, almost stumbling on the bottom step, but he catches my elbow smoothly and steadies me with a dry look.
“Are you well, Miss Grey?”
“Never been better,” I lie.
“Right this way then,” he says cordially.
“Thanks,” I answer faintly and follow him up the steps.
I’m just killing it today.
Please, shoot me now.
Although I’ve lived in Redhaven my entire life, I’ve never been up to the big house. The four Arrendell sons all went to fancy private schools and never really mingled with the little people. They weren’t the kind of kids to have playdates with the locals, invite them over for fancy tea parties, that kind of thing. So actually seeing this house up close is… wow.
Intimidating isn’t a big enough word.
It’s a mountain of a house.
Standing at the top of the stairs and looking up at the looming walls, it’s like it takes up the entire sky. The soaring front doors groan as the valet opens them with a grand flourish and leads me into a dim-lit stone foyer draped with red velvet all over the walls.
This is too much house for one family.
And it’s all so ostentatious, from the antique velvet furniture to the ornate gold wall sconces, the black-and-white checkered marble flooring, the vaulted ceilings.
Everything echoes here.
My heels chatter like ghosts in the high eaves with every clicking step, amping up my nerves.
I’m sweating as the valet leads me through the manor.
Thankfully, it’s not far.
We swing off to the right, mount a short flight of stairs, head down another hallway, and then he stops outside a dark-varnished oak door with carved insets.
It’s classical revival, a detail I can’t help noticing when it’s part of my job to know historic woodwork styles.
That’s also what makes Grandpa’s brand so unique. He partners old styles and forgotten techniques with modern craftsmanship to create vintage looks bordering on elegantly exotic.
I’m distracted with the details of the insets and varnishing as the valet raps lightly and then pushes the door open to a large office, opulently furnished in oak wood, black, and gold with subtle glassy accents.
A man stands behind the wide, mirror-polished wooden desk.
He’s very tall. Lean to the point that if his shoulders weren’t so broad, he’d be almost gaunt. There’s a dark accent to his saber-sharp features and the deep hollows of his stubble-dusted cheeks.