by Nina Lane
“Yes!” I press a hand to my racing heart. “Of course I want it. I’m just… well, you’re kind of shocking the hell out of me here.”
He regards me from beneath a hooded gaze. “I’ll pay you well, but I have certain conditions.”
“What kind of conditions?” Dungeon-like conditions? Original sin conditions?
“I require that you sign a contract agreeing not to disclose anything about the job or me. You are not allowed to ask why. Your questions can only relate to the collection. When you’re working, you’re to stay confined to this room only, except if you need to use the bathroom. You’re not to go into any other part of the lighthouse, especially the tower. Do you understand?”
Christ. What’s his deal?
Though my skin prickles with apprehension, I nod. Organizing Max’s collection, being surrounded by the books, manuscripts, and paintings that meant so much to him, is a pull too powerful to withstand. Even if Flynn the Lighthouse Keeper inspires an utter cacophony of emotions in me, from lustful attraction to curiosity and a touch of fear.
“What…” I flick my tongue out to lick my dry lips. “What will you be doing when I’m working?”
His eyes narrow. “No questions.”
My stomach twists. Secrets were what almost destroyed me. And as much as I long for this job, I also need to protect myself.
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to need some kind of assurance that you’re not Bluebeard, hiding dead bodies up in the forbidden tower.”
“Wait here.” He crosses to the door leading to the keeper’s cottage.
When he’s gone, I take a few more books from the box. Just touching the tattered covers and fragile pages floods me with memories of Max’s house, the ever-present scents of coffee and Russian tea cookies, the sound of pages turning, voices low in conversation, dust motes swimming lazily in a sunbeam.
The door clicks open. Flynn strides across the room and extends a worn dark blue book without a dust jacket. The cover is embellished with a gold image of a witch on a broomstick and a cloud-dusted full moon.
I open it to the title page: Andrew Lang’s Blue Fairy Book. A single notecard rests between the pages, scrawled in a distinctive pointy penmanship. My breath catches.
Flynn,
“To keep alive isn’t enough. To live, you must have sunshine and freedom and a little flower to love.”
(Hans Christian Andersen, The Butterfly)
—Max
Tears sting my eyes. I swallow hard and close the book. “Did he… did he give you the whole set of Lang books?”
“All twelve. Right before he left Castille.”
I hand the book back, comforted by the knowledge that Max thought so highly of Flynn that he’d gifted him the entire set of fairy tale books. Does that mean my uncle also knew Flynn’s secrets?
“Will you agree to the conditions?” Flynn tucks the book underneath his arm, his inscrutable gaze on me.
My desire to organize Max’s collection far outweighs my dislike of secrets. And obviously my uncle trusted Flynn, so—
“Yes.”
“Good.” He pushes back his cuff to glance at his watch. In an era of relentless technology, he wears an old-fashioned watch with a plain analog face, Roman numerals, and a worn leather strap. “You can start on Monday. Be here at eight.”
He strides back outside, making a gesture indicating I should follow him. I place the other fairy tale books back into the box, giving the volumes a lingering pat before hurrying after my strange new boss.
A man who appears to have a thousand secrets.
CHAPTER SIX
I have a job.
In the next couple of days following my visit to the lighthouse, my emotions swing between disbelief and outright giddiness. Maybe I haven’t been shipwrecked here after all. Maybe the lighthouse is still calling to weary sailors, saving them from the relentless battle of the sea. Maybe it’s beckoning me to safety as well.
Mysterious keeper notwithstanding.
How in the world did the lighthouse come to be inhabited by such a strange man? Why did he buy Max’s collection? What’s he hiding?
Maybe nothing at all. Maybe he’s just a loner type who fiercely guards his privacy. Given that my privacy has been ripped to shreds, I can respect the urge to lock it down, not let anyone in. Ever.
In spite of the peculiar job conditions and the reticence of my new employer, and the fact that the job hasn’t started yet, I’m already breathing so much easier. I’m half-tempted to call Juliette and tell her the news (guess what, Cruella?) but I suppress the urge. She’ll say something caustic that would burn right through my pride, and I refuse to let her do that.
So Lighthouse Guy is a super-hot, eccentric loner who wants to be left alone. Given the opportunity he just gave me, I’m more than happy to comply with his demands. He could have left this damsel in distress to fend for herself, but he didn’t.
I have a job.
Not just any job either—one in which I’ll be able to take care of my uncle’s beloved collection, the one I’d thought was gone forever. The task is both emotionally priceless and perfectly aligned with my expertise. The Max Dearborne collection is of great value and deserves to be properly inventoried.
And through a stranger’s generosity and a marvelous twist of fate, I get to be the one to do it. I can both honor my uncle and satisfy the art historian in me who has always wanted to ensure the collection is cataloged and preserved to archival standards.
Putting Max’s collection in order is a step toward putting my life—and myself—back in order. I can’t wait to get started.
The Friday before my first day of work, I give the kitchen a thorough cleaning while an electrician checks out the house’s wiring and fuse box.
After scrubbing all the cabinets, I toss the sponge into the sink and take the whistling kettle off the stove. I measure a few tablespoons of loose-leaf orange pekoe tea into an elegant, hand painted ceramic teapot and add boiling water.
The tea set with matching cups and spoons had been a gift from Graham’s wife, Mary, when I received my doctorate. For me, tea has become a ritual that keeps me somewhat stable. Even when a shitstorm had spun around me, I could find a few moments of peace in brewing and drinking a perfect cup of tea.
“Okay, miss.” The electrician, a gray-haired, bespectacled man, stomps up the basement stairs. “You’re good to go with the fuse box. You might want to take a look at rewiring the place if the lights keep blinking.”
“I was planning to just blame the ghosts.” I pour the tea into a cup.
He grins, setting his toolbox down. “You staying here long?”
“Through winter, probably.”
“Then you’ll need to get your HVAC system checked out too.” He takes a pad from his pocket and starts writing up the bill. “Had your windows and locks checked?”
“I had the locks changed and deadbolts installed when I moved in, but I haven’t had the windows checked yet.”
“You got an alarm system?”
“Not yet.”
He frowns. “And you’re out here by the forest alone?”
A shiver runs down my spine, which is odd. I’ve never been afraid of forests. Quite the contrary. My hikes among the redwoods aside, the forest is where fairy tale heroines—Snow White, the Goose Girl, Donkeyskin—find safety and shelter. It’s where they defeat wicked witches, discover magical helpers, get lost and find their way again.
“I’ve heard Castille is pretty safe.”
“Oh, sure, in town, yeah.” He tears the bill off the pad and hands it to me. “But with the economy going south, there’ve been some bad seeds, you know? Over in Benton, they had some issues with low-income housing, some folks got kicked out, couldn’t afford another place, and ended up camping out in the woods.”
He gestures to the woodlands spreading out acres past my house. “Caused some trouble, police had to run them out. I mean, yeah, the trails are great and fine during the day, but use commo
n sense, you know? Look into getting an alarm system.”
“I will,” I promise. “Thanks for the advice.”
“Give me a call, I’ll get you some names.” He picks up his toolbox and heads for the door.
After he’s gone, I click the deadbolt and look at the bill, the total of which is a lot scarier than rumors about the dark woods. Chest tightening, I take out my checkbook and credit card statement to calculate how long the money I have will last. Minus this bill.
A knock comes at the front door. I open it and greet a delivery man holding a large box and a thick manila envelope. As I sign for both, I notice the box’s return address of a company called Cynet Corporation.
The delivery man leaves with a cheerful wave. I start to close the door when I catch sight of the large mutt stalking alongside the edge of the woodlands.
Though my heart kicks into gear, I grab the bowl of kibble I’d set beside the door for exactly this occasion. I set the bowl on the porch and retreat back into the house, closing the door behind me.
The humane society had responded that no one has reported a lost dog matching his description, but that I should either call animal control or bring him in if he keeps showing up.
I have no intention of trying to catch him, but I’m also a little worried that animal control might take him to the pound. And I’m not sure why—maybe because I can relate to his guarded stance and the suspicious glint in his eyes—I don’t want him to end up at the pound.
Plus, given the electrician’s warnings about the woods, it might not be a bad thing to have a large dog prowling around the house.
A crunching noise sounds faintly through the door. I peer out the front window, pleased to see the dog has accepted my offer and is gobbling down the kibble. Maybe if he associates me with food, he’ll stop growling.
I return to the kitchen and open the delivered box. Inside, carefully packaged in foam and bubble wrap, is a sleek, very expensive-looking laptop computer.
What the…
I scrounge around for a note, and find one typed onto the packing slip.
Eve, this is your work computer. It’s preloaded with a collections management software program. Bring it with you. Knock at the workroom door.—F
“Yes, sir,” I mutter, gently lifting the computer from the box.
Since he didn’t say I couldn’t also use it at home, I review the manual and study the software. The laptop is smooth and powerful, easily the most high-end computer I’ve ever used. Between the hardware and the professional database, it’s clear that Lighthouse Guy takes this cataloging job seriously. Good. So do I.
The envelope feels like it contains a sheaf of documents. Warily, I open it and pull out the infamous contract. He was serious about this too.
I skim the clauses and turn to the signature page. He’s already signed it, a barely legible scrawl with the name Flynn Alverton typed underneath.
Alverton.
I grab my phone. Though the signal is weak, I pull up a search engine and type in his full name. Guilt pinches my nerves. I constantly hope no one will do this to me, but I’m also always resigned to the fact that of course they will.
The search, however, yields nothing for anyone of that name. Not even a different person. He’s not listed on the website for the town of Castille as the current lighthouse keeper, he doesn’t have any social media accounts, and his name isn’t on any websites. In this day and age, the lack of a digital footprint is like he doesn’t even exist.
Leave it alone, Eve.
I don’t want people prying into my life. I have no right to pry into Flynn’s. Especially considering he’s the only person who not only offered me a job, but doesn’t seem to hold my past against me.
Maybe he doesn’t know about my past. It’s not likely—it seems like everyone here knows about me—but Flynn is obviously a bit different.
Doesn’t matter either way, as long as I do the job well and prove he’s done the right thing by hiring me.
As I’m putting my phone away, a text from Graham pops up: FYI, followed by a link to a news article in a Los Angeles paper. The short article claims that a former UCLA student, anonymous due to fears of retaliation, is accusing business professor David Landry of “systematic sexual harassment.” David has, of course, denied the charges.
I put my phone in my bag, not sure how to feel about that. Karma is a bitch, for sure. Yet knowing David has been preying on his students… could I have done anything else to expose him as the manipulative, lying creep that he is?
My stomach knots. I’ve gone over this a million times. I’d argued and fought tooth and nail, and I’d ended up fired, my voice silenced. I couldn’t have done anything more.
But the limits of David’s destructive force clearly haven’t yet been reached. He’s capable of more. Of that I have no doubt. And knowing he’s out there, a monster against whom I have no weapons… that’s the most terrifying thought of all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I refuse to let my lingering fears about David ruin the excitement of my new job. On Monday morning, I’m up at six, jittery with nerves. Though the initial part of the job involves unpacking dusty boxes, I dress in a pleated A-line skirt and gray blouse. I’ve never not dressed professionally for work, and this situation is no different.
Since I’m still pinching pennies, I make a peanut-butter sandwich and fill a baggie with saltine crackers. I toss them into a brown paper bag along with an apple and a thermos of tea. Satchel, computer, signed contract… and I’m off to the lighthouse.
The sight of the building, so picturesque perched on the cliff above the ocean and silhouetted against the foggy sky, makes me feel a bit sick.
Please let this work out. I need this job more than anything.
Flynn’s truck is the only one in the lot. I gather my belongings and approach the side door leading to the workroom. Before I can knock, the door swings open.
Oh.
My knees weaken. His sheer physical impact hits me with renewed force. Damp, messy hair, gray eyes like steel, his muscular body clad in a plain blue T-shirt and faded jeans that fit his lean hips and long legs to perfection.
“Good morning.” His voice slides over my skin like a caress. “I appreciate punctuality. Come in.”
“Thank you.” I slip past him into the room. My nose twitches. Salt and citrus. Sea and earth. “Where would you like me to start?”
“I’ll leave everything to your expertise.” His gaze moves over me, lingering on my loosely knotted red hair before sliding down to my tailored blouse and skirt. Heat flashes in his eyes, a reaction that intensifies my own warmth. So I hadn’t imagined the urgent way he’d looked at me outside the bookstore.
Did he fantasize about me too?
The question whispers at the back of my mind, intensifying the burn.
He rests his hand on the worn wooden desk. Long, blunt fingers and square fingernails. His skin is slightly chapped at the knuckles, his fingers smudged with black ink. A sudden image emerges of his hand on my bare skin—sliding over my waist, the indentation of my hip, and down farther, his stained fingers curving to grip my inner thigh.
A hot shiver races down my spine, arousal collecting between my legs. I let out my breath slowly, welcoming the resurgence of feelings I’ve suppressed for so many months, a slow dissolve of the ice in my veins.
“…the contract?” His query slices through the haze descending over me.
The contract. Well, that cools the burn. I bring my focus back to the fact that I’m here to work, not get all hot and bothered.
Hopefully, he doesn’t plan to hang out here while I’m working. I’d have a hard time getting anything done with him distracting me just by existing.
I take the signed sheaf of papers from my satchel and hand them to him, then retrieve my organizer and a gel pen.
“I’ll have a copy for you tomorrow.” Flynn leafs through the contract and points to an outlet on the wall. “You can plug the computer in there. Bathr
oom is right next door. You can leave at four.”
I open my organizer to a fresh note page and click the gel pen. “Okay, I’m ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To take notes.”
A puzzled frown appears on his face. “Notes?”
“About the collection.” I wave my pen toward the boxes. “How you want me to organize everything. I’ll make an outline of the plan.”
“There’s no plan.”
“No plan? How can you not have a plan?”
“That’s why I hired you,” he says shortly. “You come up with the plan.”
He starts across the room to the adjoining door that leads to the cottage. I blink with surprise.
“Wait a minute.”
He stops and faces me.
“That’s it?” I shake my head in disbelief. “You’re just giving me free rein?”
“This is your field, so yes.”
“But don’t you want things organized in a certain way?”
“No. I want them entered into the database and shelved.” He gestures to the bare wooden shelves. “There’s no internet up here, so you can’t pull info from online catalogs. You’ll need to input the data manually. Add descriptions yourself. If you want to move the paintings from the rack, go ahead. Do whatever you want.”
“What about keeping a time card?”
“Your hours are eight to four. That’s the time card.”
“Do I have a lunch hour? Breaks?”
“Whenever you want.” Impatience flickers across his expression. “Anything else?”
When do I get paid?
I don’t want to irritate him further by asking that, so I shake my head. “No.”
“Good.” He starts toward the cottage again.
“Wait.”
He expels a noise of frustration. “What?”
“What if I have a question?” I ask. “Can I text you or something?”
“I don’t have a phone. If you have a question, write it down. I’ll answer it in the morning.”
