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Taylor

CHAPTER EIGHT

I was leaving Mrs. Marshall’s house for my shift at the bar, fully equipped with an umbrella and a raincoat, when I got caught off-guard by the storm.

The relentless wind flipped my umbrella inside out, and within seconds, I was drenched. My first reaction was to curse. Even though I had a change of clothes in my backpack, I’d have lost the half hour I’d planned to use for dinner before starting my shift.

But my annoyance lasted only a few seconds, because the pounding rain made me feel more alive than I had in ages.

I went back to the doorway, dropped off my backpack, and ran out to welcome the downpour. First, I simply opened my arms and let the water wash away the past year, especially my father’s death. Then I let it pull me out of the autopilot mode I’ve been stuck in ever since.

I didn’t even have to try; memories of when I was happy came rushing back. I danced and played in the rain, just like when I was little and my dad joined me. I looked up at the sky and prayed that he could see me, hoping he’d understand that, although I miss him terribly, I’m managing to live, not just survive .

Finally, when I was completely lost in my bubble of happiness, I closed my eyes and brought out my violin—my imaginary one—because I had to sell the real thing to cover my father’s medical bills.

I played his favorite piece, which I know by heart: Bach’s? 1 Suite No. 3 in D Major.

I let the tears I’ve been holding back since the funeral come. I allowed myself just a few seconds—so he wouldn’t be sad up in heaven—to cry for how much I miss him.

So caught up in the past, I forget where I am and what time it is, so I jump in surprise when I hear someone say, "You’re completely soaked, Taylor."

I open my eyes and lower my arms at the same time, reality colliding with the daydream I created.

"I know, Mr. Marshall. I just . . .uh . . .”

"You were playing an imaginary violin." He’s holding a huge umbrella and angles it to cover both of us. The situation is unusual but also oddly intimate, as if he’s joining me in my special moment.

"Yes," I admit, feeling awkward.

"Do you play?"

This has to be the strangest conversation I’ve ever had. I’ve been dodging him every time he visits his grandmother because I get the feeling this powerful man sees me as some kind of challenge. I know men like Mrs. Marshall’s grandson only get interested in girls like me in romance novels—unless they’re hunting for a new conquest for their beds. In real life, if he were looking for something more serious, he'd pick someone from the same background he has.

"I used to," I say, already bracing myself to leave. "I have to go."

"You’re always running away from me, Taylor. Why?"

"I’m late for my second job."

"At the bar."

"Uh-huh. And I still need to go inside and change."

"I’ll drive you."

"That’s not necessary."

"I don’t do things because they’re necessary; I do them because I want to."

"And what you want is to give me a ride, Mr. Marshall?" I ask, not hiding my sarcasm.

Inside, though, my heart is racing. It would be so much easier to resist his charm if he were either ugly or some sleazy flirt. But instead, he’s drop-dead gorgeous, and he’s straightforward without being offensive. He doesn’t make me uncomfortable; he makes me excited to be the focus of his attention.

"I just don’t want you taking the bus," he answers simply, as though that’s the most obvious explanation in the world, as if I don’t ride the bus and subway every day.

By now, the cold rain has soaked me through, and since I don’t feel like arguing, I say, "I need five minutes to change."

He nods.

Almost ten minutes later, I emerge from the staff bathroom to find Sherie, the housekeeper, giving me a reproachful look. I ignore her, the way I always do. Just because we work for the same employer doesn’t mean we have to be friends. I don’t know how to fake it: either I like you or I don’t. With her, it was an immediate dislike.

I’m surprised to see Mr. Marshall still standing in the lobby, waiting for me. I assumed he’d be in the car.

"I appreciate the ride," I say when I approach him.

"Let’s go," he replies, not even acknowledging my polite comment—what an arrogant jerk.

He doesn’t touch me as he walks with me to the car, but he holds the umbrella over my head as he did before, so I have this feeling he’s enveloping me with his arms. The man radiates power in waves.

He opens the passenger door for me, and I notice that, unlike his father, he doesn’t use a chauffeur. I slide onto the leather seat, practically curling up. I’ve never been in such a luxurious vehicle before. The closest was a Mitsubishi Cheyenne rigged for Uber rides.

"Aren’t you going to ask for the address?" I say when he starts driving.

"I already know it."

I almost accuse him of sounding like a stalker, but thankfully I bite my tongue, recalling that he’s not just some man hitting on me—he’s also Mrs. Marshall’s grandson.

"Say what you’re thinking, Taylor."

I glance out the window, but before I can answer, I notice another car parked out in front of the mansion—a strange sight. This street has few properties, and none of them would own a car as modest as that.

I check the side mirror, trying to read the license plate, but I see there isn’t one on the front, which makes me even more wary, given that both New York and New Jersey require front and rear plates.

"Taylor," he says, pulling me back to reality.

"I was wondering whether you realize that I take the subway and the bus every day," I say, sticking to a half-truth. "You said you didn’t want me to ride the bus, Mr. Marshall, but that’s my life. I’m on my own, and I’m fine with it."

1 ? Johann Sebastian Bach was a German composer, conductor, teacher, and musician.