Her voice cracks on the high note. She laughs at herself, shakes her head, and keeps going.
I should turn around, go to the kitchen, get my coffee, and pretend I never saw this. Kristen is an employee. A temporary household manager who will be gone in two months. She's not relevant to anything except the smooth running of this compound and the debt we owe for my mother's life.
I don't leave.
Instead, I lean my shoulder against the doorframe and watch her move through the room. The feather duster sweeps along picture frames. Her hips sway left, then right. She spins, still singing, and attacks the bookshelves.
She hasn't noticed me.
"—keep on falling for you?—"
She does a little shimmy that makes her lose pants shift across her curves. My headache pulses. I ignore it.
There's a reason people like watching someone when they think they're alone. You see the real person. The one who exists without performance, without the careful mask we all wear in public. I've used this knowledge to destroy people before. Observed their private moments, exploited every vulnerability.
This doesn't feel like that.
This feels like standing in front of a fire after coming in from the cold. Dangerous, maybe. You could burn yourself if you got too close. But warm. Unexpectedly, stupidly warm.
Kristen reaches up to dust a high shelf, and her shirt rides up revealing some skin of her back. I see the curve of her ass now, because she always wears loose clothes and that fucking curve will definitely keep playing in my mind all day.
This is a problem.
I stand here like an idiot with a pounding headache, watching a woman who sings like a dying frog dust furniture in my family's living room.
She finishes the chorus and starts humming again, moving to the window ledge. The sunlight hits her face. Her eyes are closed, her expression loose and peaceful in a way I've never seen on her. Every other time we've interacted, she's been wound tight as a spring. Defensive. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I can't make myself look away.
Kristen spins again, and this time her eyes open.
She sees me.
The feather duster clatters to the floor.
"Oh my God!" Kristen's hand flies to her chest. She stumbles back a step, knocking into the bookshelf. A picture frame wobbles. She catches it before it falls, face flooding crimson.
"Mr. Sartori. I didn't—I'm so sorry. I thought everyone was still asleep. I shouldn't have been—that was completely unprofessional. I apologize."
The words tumble out of her in a rush. Her chest heaves with rapid breaths. She's looking at me like I caught her committing a crime instead of singing while dusting.
Tell her it's fine.
The thought forms clearly in my head. Simple words. "Good morning." Or "Don't apologize." Or even "You weren't bothering anyone." Any normal person would say something. Anything to ease the mortified expression twisting her features.
My jaw stays locked.
Kristen bends down to retrieve the feather duster. When she straightens, her cheeks are still pink. She clutches the duster against her stomach like a shield.
"It won't happen again," she says. "I promise. I just—Lily always tells me I shouldn't sing, and she's right, obviously. Idon't know what I was thinking. This is your home, and I should be more?—"
Say something, stronzo.
I don't.
Instead, I give her a single nod. Then I turn and walk away.
I can feel her stare burning into my back until I round the corner.
