"Ms.Sullivan," Mrs.Clarkson says with a polite nod. "Mrs.Taylor is expecting you both at the club for lunch at one. She sent word that she's... eager to meet you."
The way she says eager sounds a lot like she's sharpening her knives.
"We'll be there," Brooks says, his grip on my hand tightening enough to be possessive. "We're just going to drop our bags in the guest cottage and freshen up."
Mrs.Clarkson clears her throat. It's a delicate sound, but it stops Brooks in his tracks.
"About the cottage, sir," she says. "There's been a slight... adjustment."
Brooks stiffens next to me. Tension radiates through his arm. "What kind of adjustment?"
"Your mother decided that the East Wing renovations needed to be expanded," Mrs.Clarkson explains. "The construction crew found some dry rot in the guest cottage beams last week. They've sealed off the second floor and the two back bedrooms for safety."
A cold prickle of dread runs down the back of my neck.
"Sealed off?" I repeat.
"Dust containment," Mrs. Clarkson says efficiently. "Mrs. Taylor insisted. She didn't want you breathing in particulates, especially with your... injury." She glances at the bandage on Brooks's temple. "She instructed us to prepare the master suiteon the ground floor of the cottage. She felt it would be more... romantic. For the happy couple."
I freeze.
Brooks freezes.
We are both doing the same math, and the equation is a disaster.
"The master suite," Brooks repeats slowly. "Just the master suite?"
"It's the only room with the AC currently connected to the main grid," Mrs. Clarkson says apologetically. "But it's lovely. Fresh linens. I put hydrangeas on the nightstand."
"Thank you, Mrs. Clarkson," Brooks says, his voice tight. "We'll... head down there now."
He doesn't wait for a reply. He grips my hand tighter and marches us away from the main house, down a stone path lined with rose bushes that are blooming with perfection.
As soon as we're out of earshot, behind a towering wall of privacy hedges, I yank my hand away.
"Clause 4, Section B," I hiss, stumbling a little in my wedges to keep up with his long strides. "Private accommodations. A separate room with a locking door. That is in the contract, Brooks! Mason wrote it down! You signed it!"
"I know what I signed," Brooks snaps, not looking at me. He's walking fast, the gravel crunching violently under his loafers.
"Then fix it! Tell Mrs. Clarkson we need another room. Put me in the main house. Put me in the servants' quarters. I don't care. I am not sharing a room with you."
"My parents are in the main house," Brooks says, swinging the gate to the cottage open. "Do you want to sleep down the hall from Betty? Do you want her waking you up at 6 AM to critique your sleepwear?"
"I'd prefer that to sleeping next to the man who blackmailed me!"
"Mrs. Clarkson just said the other rooms are full of dry rot and dust," Brooks counters, stopping at the cottage door. He turns to me, and he looks exhausted. The sunlight is harsh on his face, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes and the tension in his jaw.
"And if I demand another room, my mother is going to ask why. Engaged couples usually want to sleep in the same room, Ivy. If we ask for separate beds an hour after arriving, the jig is up before we've even had lunch."
He pushes the door open and gestures for me to enter.
I stomp inside, ready to argue, ready to cite Clause 9 and demand to enforce my exit clause.
Then I look around.
The "cottage" is nicer than my entire apartment building. It's been converted into one large open space with vaulted ceilings and exposed beams, a stone fireplace that looks like it belongs in a ski lodge, and French doors opening onto a private patio that smells like jasmine. Whatever walls once separated the rooms have been removed in favor of this sprawling, romantic suite.
It's beautiful.
