The driver leaves us, telling John he’ll be in the nearest village if he needs him, and John says he plans to drive locally.
“Are you hungry?” John asks me as we wander around the many rooms on the first floor, looking for the kitchen.
“Thirsty,” I say. “You should definitely hydrate before the meeting.”
“Thanks,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“Sorry—you probably have an optimized pre-meeting protocol.”
“I do, in fact.”
We find the kitchen, which is smaller than I’d expected but more modern than the rest of the house. There’s a platinum ice bucket with a bottle of champagne on the counter, along with a welcome note, vase of fresh flowers, and a fruit basket. “Specifically requested no red roses.” He sounds disappointed, tapping his fingers on the counter.
“That’s more of a deep pink,” I assure him. “This is a gorgeous arrangement.” I take the initiative and pour us glasses of water before pulling a covered bowl of enormous strawberries out of the basket. There are beautiful containers of prepared meals in there. “Strawberries?” I offer him the bowl.
“I don’t think I’m hungry. He’s going to have food there, and I don’t want to be rude and refuse it.”
“Okay.”
John is pacing.
Shit. He’s nervous. I take a bite of a delicious, juicy strawberry and follow him to the next room, which is a surprisingly informal sitting room with a view of the back garden. He walks over to the window and stares out of it. I have a feeling he isn’t actually looking at anything, though.
“Are you nervous about meeting this man?”
“No,” he says. Then he turns around, looks me up and down, and says, “Is that what you’re wearing? To Merrick’s house, I mean?”
“I don’t have to. I have other outfits to wear in my suitcase.”
He’s cracking his knuckles. Since when does he crack his knuckles?
“Might I interest you in a relaxing, optimizing job of theHorBkind before we go?”
“I don’t think it would relax me. I think it would be best if you refrain from doing any jobs on me so I can stay in the right frame of mind.”
“I think you’re wrong. But suit yourself.”
John shakes his head at me. “I think I should be in a different room than you.”
I shrug. “Like I said. Suit yourself.”
He sighs, exasperated. “We need to make sure we’ve got our stories straight before we leave. About us, I mean.”
“About how you’ve been desperately in love with me for as long as you can remember and yet only recently decided to act on it because my brother asked you to check in on me?”
He opens his mouth as if to correct or reprimand me, but then he says, “Yes.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “But we stick to the truth otherwise.”
Oh. Well, now.
“I mean, we stick to the truth about all of it except for the contract and the somewhat transactional nature of this arrangement.”
“And the fact that the arrangement ends in a few weeks,” I say, staring at the floor.
“We definitely won’t mention that. He said his wife is traveling and his granddaughter is staying with him during the day while his daughter’s at work. So be prepared to give her a little ballet tutorial, since I did mention you’d be open to that. I think his granddaughter’s excited. You are willing to do that, right?”
Sighing and putting my glass of water and bowl of strawberries down, I say, “Of course I am. This is why I’m here, is it not?” I mirror his stance and crossed arms. “Look, I’ve been studying ballet since I was a little girl, and I know the choreography for entire ballets by heart. I’m a professional performer. We have an agreement, yes—I haven’t forgotten that,” I say. “You can tell me what to wear, how to act, what to say. And you can trust me not to fuck things up for you. Not because I want to be a featured dancer next season, but because I understand how important this is for you. So go ahead. Tell me what you want me to do.”
His jaw is clenched. His hands are clenched into fists. His nostrils are flaring. I don’t know why he looks angry, when what I just said was objectively awesome and mature and the least sassy thing I could have said in this situation. But he looks even tenser than before.
