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“Okay, great. I’m guessing we’ll be having… ummm… meat?”

When I turned around, he was already walking into the bathroom with his toiletry bag. What was wrong with this guy? The heat and the meat plus the dragon talk should have fazed him, but he tossed it off.

You rhyme. Heat and meat. My dragon tee-hee-ed as I closed River’s door.

THREE

RIVER

I took my toiletry bag into the bathroom and placed a framed photo of my family on the dresser.

And that was as much unpacking as I did. Clean clothes stayed in the bag while dirty ones went in the hamper. Other than a shower, I was settled in, as Sinclair called it.

I flung open the windows and gulped in the fresh air, laced with honeysuckle, the air that wealthy people breathed. But the breeze was a little cool and goosebumps formed on my skin.

Slamming the window closed, I removed my socks and walked over the heated floorboards to the bathroom. This was the first house I’d been in recently where I didn’t shiver and wear two sweaters. Down south where I grew up, the trick in the summer was to put the sheets in a plastic bag in the freezer and put them on the bed before jumping in. But you had to fall asleep quickly before they warmed up.

“I could get used to this.” I extended both arms and twirled around. Not really though, because it might’ve been a novelty today, but in two months, I’d be eyeing the door. In the meantime, I’d eye Sinclair and his aristocratic nose, his dark hair, and his lively triplets and enjoy every minute of it.

There was a thump from downstairs and a yell, followed by a door slamming. Voices muted by the closed window drifted in, and I pressed my face to the glass. The three girls were running between the garden beds and around a bubbling stone fountain that spilled water onto the flagstones.

Their gazes were directed at me. I waved, and one of them—I wasn’t sure which because I couldn’t tell them apart yet—placed a finger on a flagstone and wrote something. Steam rose from the stone and a steamy R-I-V-E-R appeared on the stone itself. My first thought was she was only six and could spell well. That was so cool.

I gave a thumbs up, followed by clapping. The sisters shared a glance and shrugged, and the one sister bowed and brought her hands together with the thumbs crossing at the bottom and her fingertips curving up to meet at the top, making a heart.

Awww, what a sweetheart. Opening the window, I put a hand on my chest and leaned out in a very Romeo style. The girls giggled. I wasn’t fooled by the magic trick they’d probably bought online or that they adored me after just meeting me. This was probably a blueprint they used on new unsuspecting mannies before putting a frog in their bed.

The triplets scampered inside as the one who’d done the trick put her bracelet back on. I turned my attention to the fountain. It was a rosy-colored stone I didn’t know the name of, and there was a vine carved around it. I leaned out the window trying to get a better look at the other two images. One might’ve been a bird and the other… oh, a flower. The carvings were the girls. A poppy, a wren, and ivy. Awww again.

Just before six, I went looking for the kitchen. The girls were sitting at a long table, reading or watching cartoons on their tablets. Their father had changed his clothes and he was wearing jeans and a button-down shirt. But my eyes went to his hair, that silver on each side had my breathing speeding up just a tad.

Sinclair had his sleeves pulled up, revealing muscular forearms and a tattoo on the underside of one. I gulped because this man was so fine, and I forced myself to look at his hands and then the pot of whatever he was cooking. Anything but those arms. But my gaze was a traitor and it landed on his butt which had been covered by his ill-fitting clothes when we met. Ohhh, it was sending me a message, saying, “Squeeze me.”

Yeah, no, that was a way to get myself marched out and the door slammed in my face.

“Your resumé said you cook.” His voice interrupted my “butt” thoughts.

“I feed people but make no claim to being good at it.” I rolled my sleeves up to match his. “But put me to work, boss.”

He hesitated before handing me garlic and a knife and nodded at a cutting board. I guess I passed the cooking part of his interview.

The pantry door was still open, looking like it was braced for a siege but only for meat-eaters. I eyed a freezer and was sure if I peeked inside, it’d be stacked with meat too. It reminded me of my grandmother’s pantry, though hers was on a smaller scale. She cooked for twelve every Sunday whether that number showed up or not. Many of them were new to this country and a long way from their own grandmothers.

“You’re not sweating.” He took my chopped garlic and added it to a small bowl.

“Ummm, am I supposed to?” I wondered if I should add that to my resumé when I was looking for my next job.

The kitchen was hot with the oven on and Sinclair making what was probably a ragu on the stove.

“If that’s a necessary part of the job, I can run around the garden a few times. Is BO a requirement too?” I sniffed under my arms.

He burst out laughing, and the sauce spattered onto the marble backsplash.

“Most people find the house warm.” He mumbled under his breath something that sounded like “or humans do.”

“I don’t like the cold, so this suits me fine. I’m usually shivering and asking to turn the air-conditioning off or the heating up.” I clapped a hand on his back. “You, me, and the kids are going to get along.”

His hand holding the spoon froze and sauce dripped onto the stove and the floor. I removed the spoon from his fingers and enjoyed the ripple of warmth from his hand to mine. But his expression was almost painful as he cleared his throat and peered over the pot.