But it’s nice, knowing they love me enough to do the same.
“Go call Poppy,” I say now, leaning back in my chair. “Does everyone want their usual?”
I’ve never ordered anything different. But now, for reasons I don’t understand, I find myself wondering what the dumpling soup tastes like, or maybe the pineapple buns.
Everything else is changing anyway, out of my control. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try.
Consideringall Roman’s talk aboutbuying people outandnaming my price, the address he texts me is attached to a relatively small home. His grandmother’s house, I think he said, and it looks like a grandmotherly place—old-fashioned with horrible brown siding and a distinctly retro air. If my guess is correct, there will be wood-paneled walls and shag carpet inside. A musty smell, definitely, and dust motes dancing in the morning sun as it streams through grimy windows.
Grimy for now, anyway. They’ll shine when I’m done with them, and it will bring me a satisfaction that will temporarily drown out the pain of taking on a payment and losing the housing prospects I hoped for.
I glance down at my outfit, jeans with a t-shirt tucked loosely in. If I were doing this on my own I’d be in leggings or yoga pants, but I’m not comfortable enough with Roman for that. It still feels too casual, and I have to remind myself that I’m dressing properly for the job I’ve been given before I press the yellowing button that rings the doorbell.
The front door has an ornate oval window in the center, but the glass is textured enough that I can’t see inside. I do see Roman’s shadow as he approaches, though, and a secondlater the door lurches open to reveal him looking as casual as I do. I breathe a little sigh of relief at that, ignoring the way his t-shirt stretches over his chest and broad shoulders. It’s the perfect level of tightness, if I were to assess such things about my temporary boss.
Which, of course, I wouldn’t.
“Aurora Marigold,” he says, looking down at me.
“Roman Drake.”
“You’re right on time.” And even in saying this, he seems to find something amusing, although I can’t tell what.
“Promptness is part of my fifty-dollars-an-hour package,” I say flatly, reminding myself not to shift under his scrutiny. “Are you going to keep me out here all day?”
“My apologies.” He steps back and opens the door wider, letting me in. I emerge into a small foyer lit with a dim yellow glow, and I frown.
“You need light in here,” I say, looking at the dining room to the left and the closed French doors to the right. “It’s depressing. Let’s open some windows.” I move briskly to the dining room window, and the blinds are halfway up before I realize I’m bulldozing ahead without asking permission.
I freeze in place and then turn around to look at Roman. His hair is still perfect—how is it always perfect, without any sign of product?—and his arms are folded as he watches me.
“Can I?” I say.
He gestures at the window, his gaze keen on me. “By all means. No need to ask for permission.”
And it’s interesting, the differences I see here compared to what I’ve seen at work. I barely know the man. But he’s more casual now, and yet somehow more…
Confident? Self-assured? The way his eyes follow me, the way he leans comfortably against the handrail of the staircasethat descends into the little foyer—he’s comfortable here, relaxed, more at ease.
Which is saying something. All of his behavior at work is lounging and laid back, too. But here his aura is different.
I snort at this thought, because I’m the last person who would ever talk about someone’s aura. But it’s the only way I can describe it.
“Something funny?” he says, pulling me from my thoughts.
“No.” I open the blinds the rest of the way and then crack the window too. “It’s not good for a house to get stale. Open windows and blinds every now and then.”
He nods, his lips twitching. “Duly noted.”
I glance around, taking in my surroundings now that I’ve solved the lighting problem. There are boxes everywhere, but they’re neatly stacked and labeled clearly in blocky handwriting. Every box in the dining room is labeledDR,and beneath that is a list of the box’s contents. I blink in surprise at the order he’s already brought to the inherent chaos of relocation.
And then, although I shouldn’t care, I find myself wondering: Which person is Roman Drake really? Deep down, is he the smirking, carefree twenty-something? Or is he the shrewd, organized, sharp-sensed man I saw briefly yesterday? The one who spoke freely and confidently about transactions, the one whose home is being kept much like I would keep my own in the process of moving?
I clear my throat and shake the question from my mind, because the answer doesn’t matter. Then I look at Roman, who hasn’t moved an inch. “Where should I start?”
It’s this, finally, that pulls him away from his easy pose. He nods at the French doors on the other side of the foyer. “I’d start there, if I were you. It’s the study, and it will pose the biggest challenge.”
Astudy. The image of papers and folders and books and file cabinets fills my mind, and excitement floods through me.
