“By the way, I’m Arthur Fitzgerald, the doorman, butler, and jack-of-all-trades here at the old manor,” the man in the blue uniform says proudly.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I reply, introducing myself.
“If there’s anything you require, please don’t hesitate to inquire. I’m here to help.”
“Thank you, sir,” I add, hoping Cateline isn’t behind a two-way mirror watching and evaluating me.
“Unfortunately, we’re short-staffed. For now, it’s just Miss Berghier, Regina Harrow, the bursar, the chef, Shonda, our on-call stylist at the on-site salon and spa, and yours truly. However, we do have a housekeeper, who now only comes biweekly. The other two new teachers are settling in and I expect you’ll meet them soon. If only you’d seen this place in its prime,” he adds softly.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Miss Berghier is in a meeting at present, but you’re welcome to get familiar with the manor, including the employee rules and guide to etiquette.” His sharp nod suggests he runs a tight ship and expects me to behave myself. He excuses himself and strides down the hall.
I glance at the grandfather clock as it chimes. It’s probably the jet lag, but those few minutes passed in a flash and I’m hurrying downstairs to meet my new student like Cinderella when the clock strikes midnight.
In the center of the meeting room sits a table, two chairs, and a folder. Having missed the orientation, I do a panicked and brief internet research and assume I’m like a life coach for a wayward celebrity, CEO, or some other public figure. Hopefully, after my Cinderella viral sensation, they don’t recognize me. Before I have a chance to skim the file, laughter echoes from the hall.
I brace myself and then get to my feet for a proper greeting like a professional etiquette teacher. I never had one myself, but got the gist from the many events I attended when I was younger. However, this time, I won’t let myself shrink or shrivel like a wallflower. I won’t step back in time to my ten-year-old self who existed in my parents’ shadow.
I shift from foot to foot like a boxer, psyching myself up before I step into the ring. Standing tall, I tell myself I can do this. I’ll do it for the little girl I met at the airport. To make her proud...and that version of myself who was made to feel too small to be seen.
On another peal of laughter, the door to the meeting room flies open.
Water flies in my direction.
Before I wince and close my eyes, I catch a glimpse of a man with blondish-red hair. He’s made entirely of muscle.
Why did I close my eyes? Because he entered the room with squirt guns blazing. He howls like a cowboy from the wild west as he blasts the room and everything in it with water, including me.
Where was he on those hot days in costume when I worked at the theme park?
Doused, my first instinct is to shriek, but like Cinderella in character, I force myself to smile as I open my eyes. Then I gasp, because I cannot believe who fills the doorway.
8
DECLAN
Iabruptly silence my maniacal laughter. “You’re not a dude.”
An extraordinarily familiar woman with blonde hair, peachy skin, and wearing a smile jerks back slightly. She wipes a wet piece of blonde hair from her face. A charm strung on a string around her wrist catches my eye.
“I am not a dude, Declan,” she confirms.
My mouth opens and closes as my worlds collide. “You’re not a stranger either.”
She blinks a few times, whether from the squirt gun water or because she’s as shocked as I am, I’m not sure.
“You are My Oh Mags Byrne,” I say, gesturing grandly and using one of many nicknames I have for my best friend.
Her smile is a strange mixture of shock, delight, and dismay.
I step closer, ready to scoop her into my arms in a bear-hug hello, but she stands frozen, as stationary as a football upright. Probably a result of my grand entrance, which was not intended for her.
“What are you doing here?” we both ask at the same time.
She gestures, “You first.”
Wincing, I click my tongue. “About that. I, uh, got into some hot water back in Boston.”
