Page 6

Besides, spying is thirsty work, well not spying exactly just… Observing. Yes, observing.

The room itself is offensively neutral. Cream walls. White curtains. Pale wood. Even the tartan sofa has been stripped of any personality, reduced to soft whites and washed-out greys. There’s not a single bold colour in sight. Apt, really, since it fits the current theme of my life.

Ah, there he is. Jackson Shaw. The world’s most desirable man, according to every magazine that insists on ranking human beings like they’re takeaway choices. Annoyingly, I can see why. He’s infuriatingly handsome with sharp cheekbones, deep-blue, smouldering eyes, and the kind of face that could get away with murder. Literally. What a waste of perfectly good genetics.

My hate for him blinds me to her arrival.

An understatedly beautiful woman stands beneath the veranda. Her golden-brown skin framed by soft copper coils that offset the curves of her body. She has a distinct old Hollywood vibe—though frankly it’s a vibe that could do with a makeover. Her idea of a wardrobe is well… Non-existent.

She’s not Jackson’s usual type, but well, we all know his reputation for women. Hopefully this gets spicy fast— imagine the story!

But oh my, this is liquid gold. She doesn’t recognise him, how is this possible?

Leaning forward, I abandon all pretence of dignity. This is better than my favourite soap opera, and I need to record every detail—for the sake of history, obviously.

I swear I can literally see the moment he processes what just happened. The confusion. The offence. The dawning horror that he, a man whose face has been projected onto thousands of billboards, has just been mistaken for the staff. Clapping a hand over my mouth, I stifle a laugh.

“You’re the caretaker? Or something like that?” she says, like he’s the problem. The audacity. The confidence. The sheer, unshakeable belief that she is correct in a situation where she is spectacularly wrong.

A noise escapes me—a cross between a wheeze and a dying seagull—as he straightens, properly offended and mutters something I can’t hear. But I can read the tone.

She frowns. Actually, frowns at him. Actually, frowns at him. And then—OMG I love her—she folds her arms. “I mean… You’re standing around outside in what looks like a caretaker’s uniform,” she remarks. Every inch the woman who has absolutely no idea she’s speaking to someone whose abs have probably been insured.

Cackling, I fall back against the sofa. This, this is real raw unscripted chaos. Reaching for my wine I sip slowly—this deserves accompaniment.

“Look at them,” I murmur, shaking my head. “Two beautiful idiots, orbiting each other with the emotional intelligence of a cabbage.”

Because him? He’s exactly the sort of man the internet loses its mind over. Personally, I’d rather admire someone with a personality.

But her? Oh, I adore her.

“I like her,” I say to the empty room. “Problematic, but promising.”

I want to be her friend. I want to take her for coffee and say, “tell me everything about your life and also please explain the confidence it takes to bully a famous man into unpaid labour.”

Laughing softly, I shuffle down in my seat to avoid detection. I wish Aaron was here. He’d be right beside me, one arm slung over the back of the sofa, stealing my wine and pretending he isn’t watching as closely as I am. He’d berate me, of course, “spying is awful, Saint, you’re better than this.” And we’d laugh.

“You’re missing it,” I murmur, softer now, eyes still fixed on the courtyard. “It’s a good one.”

Outside, the argument continues, escalating to something both beautiful and absurd, before she slams the door in his face, with a sharp “Thanks Captain Asshole.”

My breathe catches in my throat as I laugh. The weekend hasn’t even properly started yet, and already I’m exactly where I need to be. This is going to be interesting!

Chapter 5

Bri

Slamming the door behind me, I lean against it and close my eyes. I need a minute. Just one, to regulate myself and my breathing.

The audacity of that guy! What is his problem?

I breathe in slowly for four and out for six—a trick my therapist taught me—releasing the anger gripping my shoulders.

Opening my eyes I glance around my room for the weekend. It’s gorgeous. A proper cosy, relaxed, home from home. The four-poster bed, in the centre of the room dominates the space—all dark wood and light floating curtains.

“King-size,” I squeal, kicking off my shoes as I flop on to the bed. The mattress feels firm, comfortable even, with no weird dip in the middle, unlike my own.

Resting against the far wall is a small fabric sofa, in the most beautiful, muted, tartan print I’ve ever seen. A built-in wardrobe is tucked into the wall next to it on one side, and on the other, a little wooden table with mismatched chairs takes pride of place.