Chapter 12
?
I suffer.
Mirabelle
Mirabelle.
The hairs on my arms rise, and a distressed noise pushes its way from my chest to my throat.
Hand on my cheek, I dust. And dust.And dust.
As though I am not incredibly haunted at the moment.
Mirabelle.
Mr. Anders’s voice steadily saying my name kept me up all night.
Worse, I feel his hands all over me—on my cheek, my shoulder, my…
Another distressed sound leaves me while I feel the way my apron cinched around my waist yesterday after I’d worried the bow undone and he’d fixed it.
I understand nothing right now. Nothing at all.
This must be a billionaire fad, a new form of psychological torture, a way for rich people to pass the time.
I don’t know.
“Mirabelle?”
Tensing, I squeak, becausethatwasn’t an echo in my head. I whip around in the hall, clutch my duster, and stare.
Big.
So big.
Mr. Anders climbs the stairs, growing bigger with every step.
Unbidden, my body heats and shivers all at the same time.
“Mr. Anders,” I say, “is there…something you need?”
He shakes his head. “Can I help you with anything right now?”
Right. Of course. I forgot.He does this.
Because he’s bored, and lonely, andfond of meor something.
Does he not have any friends? I mean, I know he just moved here this year, but can’t he private jet his friends from wherever he was before over for a weekend? Maybe he needslocalfriends?
I gasp.
He tilts his head.
“Jeffry.”
His jaw locks, and his eyes blacken. “What aboutJeffry?”
