Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138003 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
I stare up at the historic mansion with its Italianate white stucco facade. Juliet balconies upstairs and imposing black-painted double doors standing beneath an imposing portico. A dozen steps lead to the entrance, flanked by iron railings and well-tended potted bay trees.
Suddenly, one of the doors opens, and a little girl pops out, all smiles and waves. An older woman stands dressed from head to foot in neutral shades with her hair pulled back from her face in a tight bun. She looks more like granny than a nanny.
“Uncle Raif!” Daisy presumably calls.
Unless collecting waifs and strays is his hobby. His house is big enough to be an orphanage. I give myself an imaginary slap around the head. Daisy might not be an orphan, but I remember how devastating it is to lose a parent.
“I’m so happy you’re back!” Her long blond be-ribboned ponytail bounces as she does.
Oh God. She’s perky like Primrose. Primrose is ultra-perky, but only when she’s not annoying me. Needless to say, I like her best when she’s giving me shit.
Oh well. I suppose there are only three hundred and sixty-four days to go…
“And you’ve brought a friend,” the little girl adds with what sounds like consternation.
“I have.” Raif smiles warmly as he glances my way.
I shake my head. Poor girl is going to be so disappointed. Hey, kid. I’m your new step… whatever. You can just call me Auntie Cruella.
Poor little thing. I hope Raif is a good substitute dad. Not that he’ll be as good as mine. He was the best. My heart does that little pinch when I think about him and how his death rocked all our worlds. But as Raif reaches for my hand, my thoughts move back to the present.
“Daisy can be a little hesitant around strangers,” he murmurs.
“Don’t worry, I’m better with kids than I am with grown-ups.”
“Well, now I have high hopes.” He smiles at my unhappy expression. “Because you’ve already charmed me.”
I try very hard not to chuckle as we make for the stone steps. “I reckon you must be a bit of a masochist.”
“Just for you.”
“My bag,” I begin, my evasion aborted as I glance back to find a guy in a dark suit already pulling it from the car. One of the door goons from the Chelsea house.
God, how could that have been only Friday when it seems like a lifetime ago?
“My room,” Raif directs over his shoulder.
My heart does a little jig, and my cheeks sting as they pink. It doesn’t exactly help as my gaze catches that of the nanny-granny person, and I imagine I see disapproval lurking there. Nope, not imagining it. Not as she takes a thorough inventory of my outfit, her thoughts as clear as the pinch of her mouth.
“She seems cheery,” I mutter, not bothering to reach for that sentiment.
So what if a stranger doesn’t approve? She wouldn’t be the first. When have I ever given a fig for what people think? Outwardly, at least. If she doesn’t like Raif’s choice of wife, that’s not my problem. It’s all legal and above board, and my bag is going to his room because that’s what we agreed upon.
For a not inconsiderable sum.
“That’s Maria, my housekeeper.”
“Oh.”
I’m glad he wasn’t in the market for a tradwife—a traditional housewife—even just the influencer kind, because that is not my vibe. Me and Suzy Homemaker will never see eye to eye. There must’ve been a glitch in the matrix because I’m hardly the billionaire wife type either, I think next as I glance down at my heavy boots.
What the hell was he thinking by choosing me?
“What’s funny?” he asks, turning his gaze my way.
“Oh, you don’t want to hear the nonsense running through my head.”
“You’d be surprised,” he murmurs, one more glancing away.
“Buenas noches.” The woman’s hand folds around Daisy’s shoulder, the kid looking up and stepping back. Like a well-trained puppy.
Raif returns the greeting, adding something in Llanito, the not-quite-Spanish language. The woman’s smile comes with a subservient inclination of her head. Her dark hair is flecked with gray, I see, and I suppose I’d describe her expression as austere. Fitting, I believe, as I glance up at the house. It looks like something that could’ve been plucked from a gothic novel.
Raif scoops up the little girl, who throws her arms around his neck with her eyes screwed tight as though hanging on for dear life.
“Come.” He takes my hand, and I trail him into the entranceway. “Where is Anita?” He directs this Maria’s way, who bursts into a flurry of Llanito, the gist of which isn’t too hard to follow. Anita, whoever she is, is in the doghouse.
Raif makes a gesture, and the woman’s words cut off.
“Anita had to go back to Sweden,” Daisy says. “Her boyfriend is sick.”
“Is that so?” He kisses the little girl’s cheek and sets her down, and I notice how she’s dressed like a little doll. Her dress is teal-colored dupion silk with tiny puffs sleeves and, if I’m not mistaken, is hand smocked. White ankle socks and T-strap sandals complete a look that says I’m ready for church… in the summer of 1950.