"I will."
We embrace, and I leave the car. She waits, the car's engine running, as I approach the mansion's entrance.
The front door swings open before I can knock. Cameron’s gorgeous frame fills the doorway. I smile up at him, but he doesn’t smile back. He's still cautious. Guarded.
“What’s wrong? Still think I tipped off the press?”
He hesitates before answering me. “If I had, you wouldn’t be here. But you’ll have to work hard to prove my first impression wrong. Come in.”
I carry my suitcase into the entryway and look around. It’s a gorgeous mansion, but the dated furniture harks back to the last century.
Cameron is his usual devastatingly handsome self. Dark hair slightly mussed, piercing blue eyes that see too much.
Heat flickers between us for a split second before he eyes my suitcase. His hand moves toward it, as if he’s debating whether basic chivalry applies to someone he doesn’t quite trust.
I hold out my hand. “Can we be friends? Start fresh?”
His jaw tightens. Those lips I remember kissing twist slightly.
Instead of answering, he takes my suitcase and heads toward a sweeping staircase. “Follow me.”
I trail behind him through the mansion’s interior. The hallway stretches endlessly, lined with nautical paintings of whaling ships. Fresh paint can’t disguise the old-money atmosphere that clings to every surface.
Cameron stops at the first door and yanks it open with more force than necessary. We both peer inside simultaneously.
It’s clearly a woman’s writing room, complete with an antique desk, fountain pen in its stand, and those old-fashioned compartments for different-sized stationery.
“Mrs. Abernathy’s room, I guess,” he mutters, slamming it shut. The sound reverberates through the house.
He flings open the next door. This one reeks of cigar smoke and is filled with old-looking books.
He moves to the next door and pulls it open. Inside, a plump, middle-aged maid stands dusting. She shrieks in surprise, then comes toward us.
“Mr. Crow, you gave me a fright. May I help you, sir?”
“Mrs. Bellows, this is Tara Thompson. She’ll be assisting Mrs. Bixby with Posey’s care.”
“I see, sir. Yes, sir,” Mrs. Bellows says.
“I’m trying to find Tara a room. This place has many rooms. I’m not sure what’s suitable.”
Cameron sounds as if he’s navigating foreign territory.
“Well, Mrs. Bixby has a room adjoining Posey’s. Maybe Tara could have the room on the other side of Posey’s room?”
“That sounds perfect,” I say quickly, relieved to have this settled.
“Good, Mrs. Bellows, do the honors. I need to get back to my music.” Cameron shoulders past us in the narrow hallway, leaving me staring after him.
What is it with this man?Hot and cold doesn’t describe it.
“Well, dear,” Mrs. Bellows says pleasantly enough. “I’ll show you to your room.”
I pick up the suitcase Cameron dropped on the floor. Part of me wants to ask if he’s always this moody. But Mrs. Bellows wouldn’t know anyway.
At the end of the hall, she stops. “Now this is Posey’s room.” I notice an adorable multicolored nameplate on the door that says “Josephine.”
“Oh, so that’s Posey's real name.”
