I try very hard not to chuckle as we make for the stone steps. “I reckon you must be a bit of a masochist.”
“Just for you.”
“My bag,” I begin, my evasion aborted as I glance back to find a guy in a dark suit already pulling it from the car. One of the door goons from the Chelsea house.
God, how could that have been only Friday when it seems like a lifetime ago?
“My room,” Raif directs over his shoulder.
My heart does a little jig, and my cheeks sting as they pink. It doesn’t exactly help as my gaze catches that of the nanny-granny person, and I imagine I see disapproval lurking there.Nope, not imagining it. Not as she takes a thorough inventory of my outfit, her thoughts as clear as the pinch of her mouth.
“She seems cheery,” I mutter, not bothering to reach for that sentiment.
So what if a stranger doesn’t approve? She wouldn’t be the first. When have I ever given a fig for what people think?Outwardly, at least.If she doesn’t like Raif’s choice of wife, that’s not my problem. It’s all legal and above board, and my bag is going to his room because that’s what we agreed upon.
For a not inconsiderable sum.
“That’s Maria, my housekeeper.”
“Oh.”
I’m glad he wasn’t in the market for a tradwife—a traditional housewife—even just the influencer kind, because that is not my vibe. Me and Suzy Homemaker will never see eye to eye.There must’ve been a glitch in the matrix because I’m hardly the billionaire wife type either, I think next as I glance down at my heavy boots.
What the hell was he thinking by choosing me?
“What’s funny?” he asks, turning his gaze my way.
“Oh, you don’t want to hear the nonsense running through my head.”
“You’d be surprised,” he murmurs, one more glancing away.
“Buenas noches.” The woman’s hand folds around Daisy’s shoulder, the kid looking up and stepping back. Like a well-trained puppy.
Raif returns the greeting, adding something in Llanito, the not-quite-Spanish language. The woman’s smile comes with a subservient inclination of her head. Her dark hair is flecked withgray, I see, and I suppose I’d describe her expression as austere. Fitting, I believe, as I glance up at the house. It looks like something that could’ve been plucked from a gothic novel.
Raif scoops up the little girl, who throws her arms around his neck with her eyes screwed tight as though hanging on for dear life.
“Come.” He takes my hand, and I trail him into the entranceway. “Where is Anita?” He directs this Maria’s way, who bursts into a flurry of Llanito, the gist of which isn’t too hard to follow. Anita, whoever she is, is in the doghouse.
Raif makes a gesture, and the woman’s words cut off.
“Anita had to go back to Sweden,” Daisy says. “Her boyfriend is sick.”
“Is that so?” He kisses the little girl’s cheek and sets her down, and I notice how she’s dressed like a little doll. Her dress is teal-colored dupion silk with tiny puffs sleeves and, if I’m not mistaken, is hand smocked. White ankle socks and T-strap sandals complete a look that saysI’m ready for church… in the summer of 1950.
“You’re not angry, are you?” she asks, all solemn-eyed.
“Well, I’m not happy,” he admits, though he fondly touches her head. “But we’ll work something else out for next week. Don’t worry.”
He turns to Maria and begins to ask if she knows when Anita will be back, but I can’t move my attention from the look on Daisy’s face. She looks troubled, her expression working through a mix of emotions as, by her sides, her fingers fidget and flick, an outlet for her anxiety.
I recognize that energy.
“Hello, lovely.” I find myself a little shocked that I seem to have adopted my own mother’s turn of address as I drop down and offer my hand. “My name is Lavender.”
“Hello,” she replies quietly. She tries for a smile, but it doesn’t hide how she seems to be carrying the burdens of the world. “I’m Daisy,” she says, slipping her hand into mine.
Kids don’t usually playact—they act up. I’ve never known one to hide their emotions so well. They usually amplify that shit. Or maybe that’s just my nephews and nieces. And me.
