He shows me other spaces on the ground floor like the formal dining room, the study and library, and even the terrace, which is currently dusted in snow.
Then we head upstairs where he skips most of the doors, only showing me what’s most vital—the linen closet and guest bathroom—and then he stops in front of a lone door at the end of the hall.
“This will be your space,” he announces. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable… within reason.”
I smile and repeat, “Within reason. I promise not to repaint.”
“That would be appreciated,” he says, once again missing the joke.
I wonder if he’s ever laughed at one in his life.
He opens the door to reveal a bedroom with a sloped ceiling and a large window overlooking the estate grounds and the surrounding forest.
The bed is large and crisply made up with white linens and a cascade of pillows. There’s a dresser with empty drawers, a small armchair near the window, and a nightstand with a lamp.
Mr. Taylor digs a hand into his blazer pocket and hands me a ring of keys and a small remote. “Keys to the premises. These should unlock almost every door in the house. The remote is for the garage and the front gate. Though I suspect you won’t need them much.”
“I don’t plan on driving… so no.”
“Mark is available at your convenience. When you do need to go into town to buy the decorations, you can have him take you. And this is my card,” he says, placing a third item in my hand. “My number is on there if anything urgent comes up while I’m gone.”
“Gone? You’re leaving?”
“I have urgent business in Denver that requires my attention,” he says, as if obvious. “I’ll be away for a few days. I trust when I return, you’ll have completed the interior design job?”
A few days.
Alone. In this huge house that feels more like a ski lodge or museum than a home?
I hesitate only a second before nodding. “Sure, that’s fine. I work well by myself. I’ll text you progress photos.”
He makes a low, dismissive sound. “As long as the result is satisfactory, I don’t need to monitor every step. You’ll receive the second payment as agreed once the project is complete.”
“I appreciate the opportunity,” I say again.
“The housekeeper has already left for the holiday. So has the kitchen staff. But they’ve left the kitchen fully stocked for you. You won’t see anyone else on staff until after Christmas.”
My stomach roils at the realization I’m really doing this. I’m going to spend the next few days alone on this job. At least the pay’s worth it.
“I’ll take my leave now. I hope you’re able to settle in with no issues.”
His footsteps die down the hall, followed by the front doors thudding shut. The sound echoes in the large, empty home, prompting a cool shiver down my spine.
I shudder at the sensation and let out a sigh.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “It’s just three days. No problem. Be cool. You got this.”
Over the next half hour, I focus on unpacking. I haven’t brought much, only enough outfits to last me a week, my toiletries, my design sketchbook, and the small pouch of ornament samples I brought along so I could show Mr. Taylor some options in person.
It doesn’t take long for my things to make the room feel slightly less formal and untouched, but the air still carries a lonely, desolate vibe that’s hard to shake off.
Once my suitcase is tucked into the closet, I head back downstairs to take another pass at the main floor. I’m in the living room visualizing different options for the wall decor when suddenly there’s loud pounding on the front door.
The sound’s abrupt and jarring, making me jump. My heart flips inside my chest, and it takes me a second to process someone’s at the door andIhave to answer it.
“Get a grip, Ivy,” I whisper. “You’re not in a slasher flick. You’re in a rich man’s house with two-hundred-dollar towels.”
Still, I check the side window before I open the door, peering through the narrow pane of glass. A man stands on the porch in what appears to be a law enforcement uniform, a gold badge pinned to his chest and a wide-brimmed hat perched on his head.
