Recalling how outlandishly possessive he was yesterday at my lunch with Adam, I wonder if this is his way of marking me with his scent, like an animal. If he were a cat, he’d probably rub himself all over me to keep the other toms away.
You need coffee and food, girl.Low blood sugar and no caffeine make you think of silly things.
True enough. I didn’t get a chance to have dinner last night, and suddenly I’m famished. I thank my lucky stars Dr. Silverman said it was okay to have a small cup of coffee each day. Apparently some doctors are stricter.
I dry my hair, then wrap a huge towel around myself and step gingerly out of the bathroom. Huxley is nowhere to be found. My shoulders sag a little—with disappointment? Relief? Who knows?
The walk-in closet is as big as the bathroom. The island in the middle is full of expensive-looking watches and cuff links. Guess Huxley takes his watches seriously.
Half the space has been left empty for me. A couple of dresses with tags hang on my side. I press my lips together. Everything is overwhelmingly pink. Even the bras and thongs look like they’ve been dipped in Pepto Bismol. Madison must really love pink. Not me—bubblegum pink is Vivienne’s favorite color. She already wants to steal everything from me, and if I have anything pink, she’ll covet it even more and make my life hell. Besides, the particular shade Madison picked out isn’t flattering for my coloring.
But there are no other options, so I put them on. My black shoes don’t match, while the pink stilettos Madison bought pinch my toes and heels terribly.
It’s just one day—who cares?I decide, and leave the bedroom with my purse. The hall is long and wide, with a few oil paintings hanging on the shaded side. The morning sun slants over a smooth hardwood floor that smells faintly of beeswax and leads to a winding carpeted staircase straight out ofGone with the Wind. An enormous chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, each piece of crystal fracturing the sunbeams from the skylight.
The place positively drips opulent affluence, but there’s an elegance to the interior that speaks of old money and luxurious comfort. It’s quite different from Nelson and Karie’s home,where every square inch glitters, tirelessly reminding everyone how important and wealthy its occupants are.
The delicious aroma of coffee leads me to the right…where I hit a huge eat-in kitchen. As I enter, I blurt, “Your toilet talks!”
“Of course. Just one of its many charming features,” Huxley says over his coffee.
“Charming? Why do you need a toilet that talks and makes noises when you’re doing your business?”
“Because it’s Japanese,” he says, like that explains everything.
I give up. Obviously I’m not going to understand. Coffee probably won’t help, either.
A woman in her fifties unplugs a waffle iron, turns around and blinks once at the sight of me. “My Lord,” she says, then glances at Huxley.
He lowers his cup of coffee and raises a hand defensively. “Wasn’t me.”
“You should see the other guy,” I say quickly.
Huxley lets out a short laugh, and she chuckles softly. A small gap between her front teeth makes her look like a mischievous teenager. She pours me a cup of coffee.
“Here’s your morning pick-me-up,” she says.
“You must be a goddess. I’m Grace.”
She laughs again. “Tilda. Nice to meet you.”
I smile. “A pleasure.”
“I’m the housekeeper. The way it works is, you tell me what you want, and I make it happen. Since the lord of the manor here didn’t see fit to inform me in advance that there would be an overnight guest”—she raises an eyebrow while Huxley stares into the distance—“I've made you a Belgian waffle.” She pulls a plate off a heater and slides it over to me. “He said it was your favorite.”
I’m surprised he remembered. “It is. Thank you.” I add a generous amount of syrup and whipped cream and start eating.
Tilda says she needs to check on the gardener and a few other things and leaves. I have a feeling she just wanted to give us some privacy.
Huxley munches on his bacon and studies me, his eyes narrow. “Didn’t Madison buy any comfortable clothes for you?”
“This is good enough,” I say between bites. She probably did the best she could, given very little info. No knowledge of my personal preferences or size.
“Good enough? For what?”
“Work.”
His jaw tightens. “Call in sick.”
