Meryl—the fifty-something lead housekeeper—gives me half-assed directions and rushes away with a warning to stay out of sight when not working. Next, Elise, the mid-thirties-ish sous chef, repeats the same directions more palatably before continuing to chop vegetables with an intensity wasted on a casual summer lunch.
Then, I’m off, thinking about what I heard while eating.
Apparently, the Danforths are a nouveau riche steel family, desperate to be accepted by the upper echelon. Before they managed to snag this place after the old owner croaked, they lived in a gaudy mansion made entirely of gold, down to the toilets.
Their sense of style—or lack thereof— caused such a spectacle that every interior designer in the region refused to work with them.
My footsteps echo along the corridor. The auxiliary freezer is somewhere near the north wing of the mansion, past the wine cellar and too many doors. When I finally push into the cold, the air hits me hard, icy fingers crawling down my neck.
I grab two bags of ice, sling them over my shoulder, and turn—
And nearly slam into someone.
Victoria.
Because of course.
She stands in the doorway wearing a thin cardigan over that silk dress, cheeks flushed from the cold. Her hair is damp, like she just got out of the pool.
“Well.” She greets me with a nonchalant grin. “If it isn’t the mysterious staff boy.”
I grit my teeth, adjusting my grip on the ice so the cold touches less of my back. “I’m busy.”
“Doing what? Ice delivery?” Her eyes sparkle with amusement. “Very impressive.”
“Move.”
She does not move.
She steps closer.
The cold air shifts between us.
She stops the door with her back just centimeters before it closes on us. “You didn’t tell me your name earlier.”
“Still not going to.”
She studies me with interest. Genuine interest. Like she’s flipping through a book she can’t put down.
“Most people tell me their names before I even have to ask.”
Truly, it’s a wonder how no one has read this bored rich girl like the open book that she is. Prim and proper, my ass.
I finally set down the ice bags, resigned to this conversation, lest I lay hands on this heiress and physically move her myself.“It must be tiring avoiding all the bent spines sprawled around your feet.”
It occurs to me that this is precisely the behavior my mother begged me not to engage in. Giving attitude to the bosses’ precious daughter. Yet my instinct tells me that Victoria Danforth isn’t a narc. Or rather, she enjoys toying with me, just like I don’t exactly hate snarking back at her.
She bites back a smile. “You’re really committed to this whole ‘I don’t care’ act, aren’t you?”
“It’s not an act.”
“Hmm.” She tilts her head. “Feels like one.”
I hike the bags back over my shoulder and move past her, forcing her to step aside with the frosted edge of an icy cold bag. She inhales sharply, surprised—not by my rudeness, but by the fact that I didn’t pause, didn’t give her the reverence she’s used to.
“Are you always like this?” she calls as I walk away.
“Only with people who don’t listen,” I toss over my shoulder.
