Whoever texted me never mentioned this being the place where I’d be staying. Why?
Would you have said no if you knew?
The answer lands instantly. No, I wouldn’t have.
Barclay and I have run out of options. We’re about to be kicked out of our home with nowhere to go. Of course I would’ve said yes.
I shouldn’t second-guess my decision. If anything, I should be proud of myself for coming here. I can handle The Restorer, this house, anything that waits behind these gates.
Straightening my spine, I puff out my chest and lift my chin. I’m the head of our family now, not a liability.
The Mercedes creeps past the groaning gates and rolls even higher up the long driveway toward The Restorer’s home.
On either side of us, the grounds stretch out in flawless, empty expanses. The grass is trimmed so short it looks freshly cut, perfect all the way through.
Then we’re there, at the end of the drive, where the mansion rises into view in all its Gothic glory.
Fog drifting off the Hudson pools around the base of the house, swirling like a white veil against the black stone. Dark ivy climbs the facade in neat, disciplined lines.
A shiver runs through me, my bravery leaving me as dread trickles in.
How am I going to survive this place?
Everything will be okay, little moon.
My heart slams to a stop at the familiar voice echoing in my head.
It’s Duncan’s. Bass, gruff, and unforgettable.
The nickname he used when no one else was around made my stomach flutter and my knees weak.
The way his mouth would shape around these two words was to blame for so many ruined panties.
Tonight, my eyes water at the memory.
Briefly.
This isn’t the time for nostalgia. I’m about to move into a stranger’s home. About to start working for a masked man I’ve never met.
I can’t afford to lose focus. Have to be brave, to do what I think is right. Or at least fake it till I make it.
Keeping that in mind, I roll my shoulders back and wait as the car idles.
Something tugs at my attention, and my gaze darts up to the second floor.
My throat goes dry at the dark silhouette standing at the window.
The tall figure has broad shoulders. Its head is angled down.
The Restorer, it has to be. Except…he doesn’t make a move to come downstairs to greet me.
People don’t invite a woman into their home and then loom at her from a window like a warning.
He does.
Whether he means it or not, he’s unsettling me down to my core.
“We’re here, Miss Montgomery,” the driver, who never introduced himself, jolts me out of my musings.
