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“Thank you. This is… this is beautiful.”

He glances around the room as though seeing it for the first time. “It’s adequate.”

He walks past me toward a hallway off the great room and I follow, and his scent hits me again. That warm leather, that whiskey, a deep masculine thing underneath. My nipples go tight and I am not going to think about that. I am here for a job. I am a professional. I once had a CEO throw a chair at me, and I finished the spreadsheet before I called security. I can handle a good-smelling man in a nice suit.

He shows me the kitchen. Enormous, immaculate. A coffee setup that looks like it could launch satellites. “Mrs. Hughes stocks it weekly. If you have dietary preferences, provide a list.”

“That’s very generous. When will I meet her? I’d like to thank her for setting up the house.”

He blinks. Just once. Like the concept of thanking household staff is not incomprehensible to him but is, perhaps, not the response he expected.

“Tuesdays and Fridays. She is on vacation until Friday. I’ll inform her when she returns.”

He says this the way someone else might say “the printer is down the hall.” No warmth. Just a statement of operational fact.

Before we continue, he gives me an orientation packet and a nondisclosure agreement. I read the terms, sign with the blue pen I dig out of my bag, and set it on a hallway table while I adjust my laptop strap. He waits without comment. Then he shows me a sitting room, a dining room with a table for fourteen, and a library connected to the great room. Everything is immaculate. Everything feels considered. Every object in this house looks like someone thought carefully about where it should go and then put it exactly there and never moved it again.

We return to the great room and he stops. Turns. Folds his hands behind his back. His cufflinks are small and gold and simple.

“There are rules,” he says.

I look at him. Mara mentioned rules. She also mentioned he was “particular” and “very private,” which I’m beginning to understand was a significant understatement.

“The estate grounds are open to you. The first and second floors are fully accessible, with the exception of my private study at the end of the west hallway. It will be locked.”

“Understood.”

“The third floor is restricted.”

“Restricted?”

“There are four rooms on the third floor that are not part of your responsibilities. They are not relevant to the estate’s financial management. They are locked, and they will remain locked.”

Four rooms. Four locked rooms I’m never allowed to enter.

“Can I ask what’s in them?”

“No.”

He says it simply. The way you’d say “no” to a child who asked if they could drive the car. The question is acknowledged. The answer is final.

“You know that’s only going to make me more curious.”

His expression does not change, exactly. But something around his mouth shifts, like a door that thought about opening and decided not to. “I was told you were recommended for your professionalism and discretion, Miss Lake. I trust both will extend to my personal spaces.”

“They will. I’m just saying, four forbidden rooms is a lot. Most employers just lock the supply closet.”

“If you touch anything on the third floor, I will address it personally.”

I hold his gaze. He holds mine. The fire pops in the hearth. Rain taps the glass.

“Understood,” I say.

Something flickers in his eyes and I can’t tell if it’s satisfaction or surprise that I didn’t push harder. Both, maybe.

“I’ll show you to your room.”

I follow him upstairs. The second floor hallway is lined with paintings. Landscapes, mountains and forests and valleys, some of them clearly very old. I notice details because that’s what I do. The frames are antique. Some of the canvases show the craquelure of genuine age. These aren’t prints.