Page 28

We step into a bright, airy room filled with plants and wicker furniture. Sunlight streams through the glass ceiling, warming the space. The scent of flowers and damp earth fills my nose.

“Oh,” I breathe. “This is beautiful.”

Ernest’s face softens. “Yes, it is. I was thinking we might have a seat here. I have some documents prepared for you.”

“Let’s.” I sit in a wicker chair, and Ernest takes the one opposite me. Documents? I’m as intrigued by Fairhaven as I am by the house manager himself.

“I prepared a guide for you here.” He hands me a booklet. “All the staff information and their on-call phone numbers are on the first few pages. Evelyn Greaves is head housekeeper; Melissa Durham is the chef. You’ve met Arthur Webb; he handles all transportation and manages the vehicles of the property. But,” he adds, his tone sharpening, “I am the house manager. If you’re unsure who to turn to, you can always contact me, and I will delegate.”

I look from the paper to him. “Thank you. This place is clearly run like a well-oiled machine.”

His frown lessens just a tad. “Yes. It is.”

“How long have you worked here?” I smile at him, warm and friendly.

“It will be twenty-five years next August.”

“That’s incredible. You must have known West almost his entire life.”

“Yes, I have.”

I smile down at the papers and flip through them. There are details here regarding laundry, emergency contacts, Wi-Fi, how to give a guest access to the front gate, historical anecdotes, overviews of everyone in the Calloway family, past and present…

This is a guide, but it’s also a love letter to an estate and a family.

“I’m looking forward to learning more about the house,” I say. “It’s truly stunning, and I’m very grateful to be living here.”

His frown disappears all together. I wonder how much notice he and the rest of the staff were given before my sudden arrival. An hour, perhaps? Two? And yet my rooms had been prepared and I have a personalized guide in front of me.

“Thank you,” I tell him sincerely. “For all of this, and for the tour. I appreciate it.”

Ernest’s lips quirk up. “Well. You’re very welcome. If you’d like more of a tour of the grounds, that can be arranged too. The apple orchard will soon bloom. And we have thirty-six different species of roses.”

“Really?”

“Yes. The first bushes already have buds, particularly the Margaret Merrils.” He clears his throat and looks past me to the hallway. “Your breakfast should soon be ready. I know that—Oh.”

I look over my shoulder, following his gaze.

West is standing in the doorway to the conservatory. His tall frame is silhouetted by the bright hallway behind him, and he looks every inch as put together as he did last night. His hands are in the pockets of his dark pants, and an off-white cable-knit sweater stretches across his broad chest.

“You’re awake,” he says. “I see Ernest is giving you a tour.”

Ernest stands. “We’ve finished with the most important parts.”

“Good. I’ll take it from here.”

Ernest nods and walks out of the room using another exit, leaving West and me alone in the conservatory.

He looks no worse for wear after last night, and I hate him a little for that. And for looking every inch as casually confident as I never, ever have.

He stops with a hand curved over the back of the chair Ernest just vacated. I catch sight of the signet ring on his finger, the same one my brother has worn for years.

The air feels heavier.

“Your brother and I just spoke,” he says. “You and I have more pretending to do.”

CHAPTER10