He stopped in front of a door near the end.
“Eighteen,” he said, nodding toward the brass number plate. “That’s you.”
“Of course it is,” I muttered.
I got here last, so of course I’m number eighteen… last to arrive and last in line.
He produced a key and unlocked the door. It swung inward on a room straight out of one of those historical dramas Granny liked to watch on her good days.
I catalogued everything as my gaze swept around the room. High ceilings. Heavy drapes framing tall windows. A four-poster bed with white linens and a dark, carved wood headboard. A wardrobe big enough to hide in. Doors to the left and to the right. A small seating area near the windows. A fireplace, cold for now, but laid with kindling.
It was beautiful, and it felt like a very nicely furnished prison cell.
Jacob stepped in first, flipping a switch on the wall. The lamps warmed the corners of the room, chasing shadows back into hiding.
“Bathroom’s through there,” he said, nodding toward a door on the left. “Closet’s there.” He motioned to the right, then moved to the wardrobe, opened it, and revealed a neat row of dresses in deep jewel tones and classic cuts, each on a padded hanger. “There should be a few options in approximately your size, in case Mr. Stonewood decides you’re allowed at dinner tonight.”
I stared at the dresses. Silk. Satin. Lace. I couldn’t begin to imagine how much they’d cost whoever had purchased them.
“So he just… had someone guess my size?” I asked. “Is that hot or creepy?”
It came out drier than I meant it to, edged with nerves.
Jacob’s mouth twitched.
“Henry’s quite good at guessing a person’s size based on nothing more than a photograph,” he said. “He’s got an uncanny knack for it.”
My head snapped toward him.
“What photograph?”
He met my gaze, and for a half-second something like regret flashed there.
“There’s a file on everyone,” he said. “It’s a safety thing. Public posts on social media. Background checks. Medical notes. Allergies. That sort of thing.”
I choked back a hysterical giggle.
“Right. Sure. That’s totally fucking normal.”
My skin prickled.
“Wash up and get ready,” he said gently, stepping back from the wardrobe. “You’ve got a little time. If you are allowed at dinner, there’ll be a knock at your door around seven-twenty. If there’s no knock…”
“I’ll get escorted off the property,” I finished.
He didn’t deny it, just turned and reached for the door.
Panic flared inside me, sharp and hot and entirely irrational.
“Wait,” I blurted, moving before my brain could tell my body to knock it off.
My fingers wrapped around his forearm — solid muscle under worn fabric, heat seeping through the jacket. His muscles went tight under my hand as he froze.
“Miss Jones,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t touch me.”
The warning in his tone drew out goosebumps all over my skin.
“But—”
