When I return to the coffee table in the living room, the pencil I left resting on the open page isn’t where I put it. Instead of lying horizontally across the paper, it’s resting on the sofa cushion as if someone took it out and set it there.
I freeze, staring at the small, banal object like it has sharp teeth.
“Maybe it slipped onto the cushion when I got up and I didn’t notice,” I whisper to myself. I sit back down and prop the book on my lap again. “Draft time. Anything to focus and not drive myself crazy.”
After another hour of work, the lights flicker again—this time long enough to make the shadows leap across the far wall. What might be a footstep thuds in the hallway, light but unmistakable, and my entire body goes taut.
I turn, craning my neck to glance over into the foyer through the arched doorway.
But there’s nothing and nobody there.
Once again, just more odd noises from the house. Just more of my overactive imagination and anxiety getting the best of me.
I try to laugh it off, though my throat is tight. “Congratulations, Ivy. Night one and you’re already scaring yourself. Youdidsleep with a night-light ’til you were thirteen.”
I finally decide I’ve had enough for one night and head up for bed. Even my footsteps sound too loud on the hardwood as I make my way to the bedroom that’s mine. The door at the very end of the hall that feels so far away as I move through the large house.
I quicken my stride, refusing to look over my shoulder when I hear another creak on the stairs. If I look and see nothing, I’ll convince myself I imagined it; if I look and see something, I’ll probably have a heart attack.
Either way, it’s not exactly great for my sanity.
When I reach my room, I exhale, relieved to close the door behind me and shut out the creaks and groans and thuds elsewhere on the estate. I step toward the bed, ready to change into pajama pants and an old baggy t-shirt, then stop only a couple inches away.
My gaze lands on the gift box that sits in the middle of the bed.
Crimson wrapping paper. Satiny ribbon and bow tied on top.
For a long moment, I can do nothing but stare at it as if questioning what my eyes see. My brain’s slow to catch up, struggling to make sense of it.
How is there a gift box on my bed when I didn’t leave anything there?
It wasn’t there earlier when Mr. Taylor showed me to my room. Is it possible a staff member could’ve snuck in and left it?
But he said the housekeeper and others were already off and wouldn’t be back ’til after Christmas.
So, then how…?
I can’t even formulate the next question in my mind as I swallow tightly, my pulse fluttering fast. I pad the last couple steps to the bed and cautiously reach for the gift.
Whoever wrapped it clearly put some thought and care into putting it together. Any other time, I’d be impressed by the effort.
But considering the circumstance, I’m so disturbed I barely remember to breathe.
Slowly, my hand tugs at the satin ribbon, loosening the bow, then I tear at the wrapping paper itself. The top of the box slides off and reveals what’s inside.
…as if I wasn’t disturbed enough already.
Inside lies a piece of lingerie—a delicate, expensive piece made of deep crimson lace that’s surely see-through once on. It’s beautiful and erotic and nothing I packed.
Nothing I’ve ever owned myself.
Mostly because I’m chronically single and my love life is even more of a dumpster fire than my interior design career.
My fingers hover above it, not touching the fabric; my breath caught somewhere between stifled disbelief and a nervous gasp begging for freedom.
This makes no sense.
Could this be a gift Mr. Taylor meant to give his wife or girlfriend? Hell, a mistress? Could a stray employee have left it here without me knowing?
