12
The following morning, I arriveat Château Angèle at nine o’clock on the dot for my first official day at work. I’m expecting Patricia, the housekeeper, to answer the door, so I’m caught by surprise when Jackson does.
He’s wearing a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone, and his hair is damp from the shower. He looks incredible and he smells even better. When he hugs me, I feel my stomach kick-flip in spite of myself.
“Where’s Patricia?” I ask tightly, trying not to breathe in.
“I beat her to it.” He smiles as he releases me. “How was your hangover yesterday?” he asks as he leads me across the checkerboard marble floor, beneath a low-hanging chandelier.
“Fine. I didn’t drink much.”
“You fared better than I did then,” he says ruefully.
We walk up the wide central staircase, past pastel-colored oil paintings depicting river scenes from the turn of the last century. None of the people enjoying picnics and boating expeditions in these works are related to Jackson’s family—everything from thefurniture to the rugs and curtains came with the château after its last owner went bankrupt. Jackson’s great-grandfather Pierre got quite a deal, from what I recall hearing.
He opens a door off the second-floor landing.
“I’ve never been in here before,” I muse as he waves me inside.
The office faces the rocky mountainside, but even from this aspect, the dormer windows, high ceilings, and cream-colored walls make it feel bright and spacious.
“I cleared you a desk.” He points at the only one not covered in crap and drops into the chair opposite.
I sit down too, swiveling to face him. If we were both hard at work, we’d have our backs to each other. It’s probably a good thing that I don’t have to look at his face.
“Do you want a coffee? Tea?” he asks.
“I’d love a coffee.”
He jumps up and tugs a rope dangling by the door, prompting its golden tassel to shiver and shake.
“I would have made it myself if I’d known you weren’t going to,” I say with a frown, aware that far below us, in the basement, a bell is ringing to alert Marcia, the cook.
The house bells are a hangover from when more servants used to live here, and Sandrine uses them with abandon.
“Marcia doesn’t mind. It’s what she’s here for. We do pay her, remember,” he reminds me with a smile, sitting back down again and accidentally knocking his knees against mine.
“Fine,” I say as he moves his legs to the side, reclining so that they’re stretched out on the light gray carpet. “But I’m not dragging her up here every time I want a drink, so in future I’ll go and make one myself.”
“So different to Chloe,” he says, his tone laced with affection.
“I’m surprised she didn’t tell you to hire her a lady’s maid,” Ireply dryly as I unpack my bag: laptop, phone, headphones, notebook, pen, water bottle, tissues.
He laughs. “I bet she would have if she’d thought I’d say yes.”
We’re interrupted by Marcia. She’s in her fifties and her dark hair is threaded through with gray, but she looks as stylish as ever in her black uniform and neat bun. I’ve never seen a hair out of place.
“Bonjour, Marcia,” I say cheerfully.
“Bonjour, Gracie.Ça va?” she asks with a smile.
“Très bien. Et vous?”
“Oui, très bien.”
That’s about as much French as I’m comfortable with, but it trips off Jackson’s tongue like he’s a natural as he asks for a couple of coffees. It’s a bit of an aphrodisiac listening to him, to be honest. All I manage is a “Merci!” as she leaves the room.
“I love Marcia,” I say.
