“My fiancé is royal,” Monica announced, her tone dripping with theatrical importance as she swept a disdainful glance around the room.“He seems to love this stuff.”She waved vaguely at the art, her fingers flicking as if the pieces personally offended her.“But I hate it.I want this place to feel more… I don’t know, like a cozy cottage or something.”
Natalie blinked.“A royal?”she repeated, but Monica had already pivoted toward the kitchen, her heels clicking against the gleaming wood floor.
Natalie lingered for a moment, letting her eyes travel back to the Jackson Pollock she’d glimpsed earlier.It truly was stunning.
The kitchen was breathtaking in its scale and quality.A massive island anchored the room, flanked by flawless cabinetry and state-of-the-art appliances.But beneath the polished surfaces, Natalie’s trained eye caught the signs of real use—a jar of utensils clustered near the stove, a haphazard collection of spices close to the stove, faint smudges along the marble countertops where a quick wipe hadn’t erased every trace.
“Isn’t this awful?”Monica asked, her voice pitched high and plaintive as she turned to Natalie with wide, expectant eyes.“It’s so… masculine.Don’t you think?”
Natalie didn’t answer right away.Something about the room didn’t align with Monica’s presence—or her story.Whoever lived here valued clean lines and function, but not in a show-home way.This was a lived-in space.“And you own this house?”she asked carefully.
Monica laughed, leaning one hand on the pristine counter.“Not yet,” she said breezily.“But I’m going to marry the owner, so it’s basically the same thing.”
A knot tightened in Natalie’s stomach.“Basically” wasn’t ownership.And walking into a job without the real decision-maker’s consent was a recipe for disaster.
“Why don’t I start measuring the office?”she suggested, keeping her tone light but needing space to think.How did one politely extricate from this kind of a situation without alienating a very influential person?
Monica clapped her hands like a delighted child.“Perfect!The office is the gloomiest room in the whole house.You start there, and I’ll make some tea.”
Natalie nodded and slipped into the office just off the kitchen, closing the door behind her with more care than was strictly necessary.Leaning back against the wall, she pressed her palms flat against the cool paint, her pulse thudding in her ears.Every instinct told her something was off—Monica’s flighty demeanor, her casual disregard for the home’s art and style, her apparent lack of authority here.
But walking away would mean explaining herself to Henry.And Henry… wouldn’t take it well.
So she did the only thing she could.She pulled out her digital measuring tool and began taking the dimensions, the device humming quietly in the otherwise still room.
She had just jotted down the last measurement when the muffled thud of the front door opening cut through the silence.
Her head lifted, her breath halting.
Then a deep, slightly familiar voice rang out, edged with irritation.
“Monica, what the hell are you doing in my house?”
Natalie’s heart jumped to her throat, her fingers tightening around the measuring tool.
Well… this is about to get interesting.
Chapter 9
Natalie silently slid her laser measuring tape into her bag.It didn’t give the metallic “whoosh” of a traditional tape measure, but even the soft click of it retracting felt loud in the oppressive silence.Her skin prickled with the certainty that she shouldn’t be here—that she was intruding on something private.Every instinct screamedleave, yet her legs refused to obey.
“Honey!”Monica’s shriek cut through the air like glass shattering.Natalie flinched.
“Monica, what the hell are you doing here?”
The voice rolled through the hallway—deep, authoritative, and instantly recognizable.Natalie’s breath caught.Her chest constricted, and for a beat, the air in the room seemed thinner.Rylan.
Shock ricocheted through her, followed swiftly by a confusing, bitter ache.
“What do you mean?”Monica whined, her voice dipping into a syrupy, childlike tone that made Natalie’s jaw clench.“You know the kinds of styles I prefer.”A giggle—high and grating—followed.“This minimalist stuff won’t work for me.”
A pause stretched, heavy and telling.Natalie could picture him—shoulders squared, jaw tight, weighing his words before speaking.
“Granted, my style isn’t necessarily yours,” he said at last, his tone polite but taut, “but that doesn’t answer my question.”
Natalie’s hands trembled as she shoved the tape deeper into her bag, then hitched it higher on her shoulder.Rylan was engaged?To Monica Levingston?The thought tasted bitter in her mouth.
Her pulse kicked up.She needed to get out before she heard something she couldn’t unhear.But her feet might as well have been bolted to the floor.
