by Linda Kage
“Your…?”
Oh! This must be Mr. Nash’s daughter. What had he called her? Elizabeth? No. Izz…Isobel! That was it. But all the pictures I’d seen in his office showed a younger girl. I hadn’t gotten close enough to pick out details or even remember if this was her face, but I didn’t recall any of the photos showcasing a scarred child. Which meant the scarring must’ve happened after her teen years…and maybe Mr. Nash hadn’t updated his pictorial collection since then.
It would be a shame if he’d been too disgusted by her wounds to hang any more pictures of her after she’d gained them. I’d just started to think I might like Mr. Nash; I didn’t want a reason to be disappointed in him. And him suddenly growing disinterested in his daughter merely because she’d been hurt would kill my respect dead.
“Hello? Are you deaf?” she hissed.
“What? No! I…” Damn, what had she been asking me, again? Roses! Why was I in her rose garden? I frowned, confused. “I was told to come in here.”
She snorted. “Not likely. Get out.” Her long, silken hair was pulled up into a ponytail, boldly showing off her wounds, but she shifted to the side, hiding them from me.
When she pointed toward the exit that led back into the house, I glanced that way before turning back to her. “I…but I can’t go,” I started, not sure what else to say. I didn’t want to piss off Mr. Nash’s daughter and get myself fired. But I didn’t want to disobey Mr. Nash either, because coming in here and fiddling with her stupid flowers was the only job he’d given me.
Isobel narrowed her eyes and stepped closer. “What do you mean, you can’t? Your legs seem to work just fine to me.”
God, there was something alluring about her that made me draw in a sharp breath when she stepped right up into my face like that. She was a head shorter than me and slight of frame, but her challenging demeanor, showing me how little she feared me, made her personality big and vibrant, almost as if she had to puff herself up deliberately to hide everything small and insecure inside her. She had a delicate bravery about her. Plus, she smelled good, like her roses.
“I can’t leave,” I told her, trying not to like her nearness but failing. “Didn’t you hear me? I was told to come in here.”
“By whom?”
I tugged my hat off only to jam it back onto my head, refusing to reveal my nerves as I answered, “Mr. Nash.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Mr. Nash as in Henry Nash?”
“Yeah. Yes, of course. Who else?”
“Well, that’s impossible.” She leaned toward me as if trying to intimidate me. “He knows I’m the only one who touches these flowers. He would never send someone else in here to do so. This is my garden.”
I leaned in toward her as well, unwilling to be the first to back down. “Well, that’s exactly what he did, so I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“You’re lying.”
I laughed and lifted my hands as an incredulous snort escaped me. “Why would I lie about this?”
She didn’t have a ready answer, but her scowl sure was immediate. It pinched with annoyance before she sniffed. “Let’s just see what my father has to say about this.”
“Fine. Whatever. Great.” I shrugged, actually relieved to get Mr. Nash’s interference on the situation.
She scowled even harder from my lack of fear. Then she whirled away and stormed toward the entrance of the house.
I followed, hoping to learn what the hell was going on myself.
She moved quickly; I nearly had to jog to keep up with her. She sharply rounded corners and flounced over hardwood floors, each footstep clanging out her anger, before she flung open the door to Mr. Nash’s office without knocking.
“Who the hell is the idiot in my rose garden?” she demanded without preamble.
“Idiot?” I squawked, chasing her inside. There was no call to be labeling me an idiot. “You’re the one who started yelling at me for doing what I was told to do.”
Isobel crossed her arms tightly over her chest, shifted again to hide her bad side from me, and then proceeded to ignore me as her father lifted his face from whatever he was reading on his computer.
He glanced back and forth between us with raised eyebrows. “I see you two have met.”
“Met?” Isobel repeated the word as if it were some kind of sacrilegious act.
“Yeah,” I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest as well, glaring her way. “Shaw Hollander. So nice to meet you.” Then I nearly pissed myself when I realized how disrespectful I’d just been to Mr. Nash’s daughter. Right in front of him.
Damn, he was going to kick me off his property in about five seconds flat, wasn’t he?
None too keen about my greeting, Isobel narrowed her eyes my way before whirling back to her dad. “Who is he?”
Instead of growing angry with me, Mr. Nash actually looked amused. His eyes crinkled and flittered with mirth as his lips tightened, trying to hide a smile, which made me think, holy shit, maybe he wasn’t going to fire me after all.
“He just told you, sweetheart. His name’s Shaw Hollander. I hired him this morning to be our new handyman.”
“Handyman?” She stared at her dad as if he’d lost his mind. Then she shook her head. “Why? We don’t need some fumbling, inept louse,” and yeah, she just had to fling her hand in my direction when she said louse, “screwing up things when we can just hire a professional whenever we need something fixed.”
When Mr. Nash opened his mouth—hopefully to object on my behalf—she rushed to add, “And besides, how does handyman equate to him plucking roses from my garden?”
Her father paused to send me a sidelong glance. I flushed, unable to lie and claim I hadn’t been half a second from scoring a flower for my mom. He blinked at me before turning back to his daughter. “The fact of the matter is I want a handyman, so we’re keeping the handyman. And I only suggested he help with your roses as a way to relieve you from all the work you put into them. You slave away hour after hour every day, darling. I thought you’d like a break every once in a—”
“Well, I don’t!” she snapped. “I don’t want anyone else messing in my garden. Especially him.”
Hey. What was that supposed to mean? Especially me? I hadn’t done anything wrong, except try to steal a single rose I was sure she wouldn’t even miss, and I bet anyone would’ve done that. She didn’t have to go making me feel like a worthless scumbag because of it.
I glared at her, mentally concocting half a dozen nasty comebacks, like sarcastically apologizing for being too lowborn for her lofty rose garden’s standards, but I kept my mouth shut.
She growled, “Keep him out,” and spun away to storm from the office.
Well. Goodbye to you too, princess.
God, what a bitch.
Except I felt bad for thinking that as soon as it entered my brain. I didn’t know anything about her or what her life had been like. I could only imagine the pain and suffering she’d gone through to gain those scars. And the cook’s son had called her a monster. What if he’d called her that to her face, or other people had? Maybe she had a perfectly good reason to attack first. Maybe she was just that used to being attacked. Her mood really did scream defense mechanism. It made me feel even guiltier about labeling her bitchy when honestly she was probably just in self-protect mode.
“She seemed particularly passionate about you, didn’t she?” Mr. Nash murmured, almost more to himself than to me. And what was more surprising was that he seemed pleased about Isobel’s “passionate” dislike of me, like maybe something was going exactly according to his plan.
That made my suspicions rise. I squinted at him. “You knew she wouldn’t want me in her garden.”
Mr. Nash glanced over before smiling brightly. “Of course.”
Shaking my head, I had to ask, “Then why did you send me in there?”
With a sigh, the older man settled back, deeper into his chair, as if his explanation was too long and complicated to answer sitting upri
ght. But all he said was, “Because I knew you two would run into each other if you went in.”
Huh? “I don’t understand.”
He nodded as if sympathizing with my confusion. “You know, back in the regency era, affluent spinsters and widows paid nice young women to come sit with them and be their companions.”
Okay. That explained…well, nothing.
“But if you try anything like that these days,” he added with an irritated sniff, “it’s barbaric and you’re accused of buying someone friends.”
When I squinted, totally lost, Henry gave a small growl. “My Izzy hasn’t left the property except for doctor’s appointments and the rare special occasion in eight years. Eight years. She’s turned herself into a hermit because of those damn scars, and I hate it. It’s no way to live. She says she’s not lonely, but I know my child. And she’s lonely. I’ve tried to bring in young women her age to keep her company, but she…”
He shook his head, looking vaguely ashamed.
My ultimate purpose here finally began to sink in. But it seemed preposterous, so I shook my head, even as I said, “Sir, if you brought me here to befriend you daughter, why didn’t you just say so from the beginning?”
And why did he seem so pleased that my first encounter with her had ended disastrously? I’d done the very opposite of befriend her.
“Because that’s not why you’re here,” he answered, actually answering nothing. “Izzy was right; a paid companion wouldn’t ensure genuine friendship for her. And that’s what she needs—someone who actually likes her. If she had anything less, it would only leave her feeling more hollow. So I don’t want you to befriend her.”
Damn, I was back to being confused again. “You don’t?”
“Of course not. I’m not stupid. No matter how much he might wish it, a father can’t force anyone to love his child, or even like her.” His expression took on a melancholy despondency. “But I can provide her with…I don’t know, entertainment, maybe. Which made me think maybe you could…”
I shook my head, not at all sure what I could do to entertain Isobel Nash. “You thought I could what?”
His shoulders slumped. “I’m not sure, entirely, just…break up the monotony of her day. Give her contact with someone other than family. Interrupt her routine, annoy her, make her mad, make her smile, make her laugh, make her shout, I don’t care, just…just make her feel again. Take away her loneliness and be genuine about it.” After a pause for thought, he lifted a finger. “The only thing I forbid you to do is hurt her. If you hurt her, you’re gone. No exceptions.”
I nodded. No way would I ever do anything to hurt Henry Nash’s daughter. But I was still trying to figure out what exactly I was supposed to do to “entertain” her.
“If nothing else…” Henry reached for the coffee cup sitting on his desk to take a deliberate sip. Then he flushed and shrugged ruefully. “Well, you’re a good-looking kid. Maybe she’ll enjoy just watching you work. She’s already given away how pleasing she finds your appearance.”
My mouth gaped open, stupidly, not remembering that moment at all. “She did?”
Mr. Nash grinned. “Of course. When she said ‘especially him,’ the way she did, she outed herself. Your handsomeness made her feel insecure.”
I shook my head, not gleaning that perspective from her comment at all. Glancing at her father as if he’d lost his marbles, I murmured, “I’m not so sure that’s what she meant by that.”
“But it was,” Nash argued cheerfully. “I know my Izzy, and you intimidated her.” I started to shake my head again, but he pointed at me. “You did. You’re a pretty person who didn’t seem bothered by her scars.”
“I wasn’t,” I assured him.
“Exactly. And that’s why I need you. You’re just the thing I want throwing a wrench into her gears and forcing her from her comfort zone. Since her scars don’t adversely affect you, I know you won’t make her feel like a freak, yet you won’t back down from any challenge she issues, and she’ll keep coming back for more because she’s attracted to you.”
Beginning to maybe believe his claim that Isobel thought I looked good, a rush of endorphins took control of me, whooshing through my bloodstream and suddenly making me feel very alive. I remembered how close she’d gotten in the rose garden and how good she’d smelled. The urge to kiss that sassy red mouth of hers to shut her up properly had been strong. It was starting to stir again.
In fact—
I paused, realizing what this whole thing actually meant. Dear God, I’d been hired to be a piece of meaningless pretty for a lonely mutilated woman.
I cleared my throat, not sure what to make of that. Then again, I’d come here earlier, worrying Mr. Nash might want to make me his sex slave, so technically this was a lot more relieving. A hell of a lot more relieving, since I was actually attracted to Isobel in return, and he wasn’t asking me to do anything sexual. But then…that part also made me more uncomfortable. What if I crossed a line I knew I shouldn’t? Nothing in Mr. Nash’s manner suggested he wanted me to actually make an advance toward her. But it would be too easy to fall into flirt mode now that I knew my purpose was to pay attention to her.
Except, nope, I wasn’t going to think about that right now. My mother’s safety and security depended on this, so I’d behave.
I would.
“Okay, so, uh…how do you want me to do this, exactly?”
Mr. Nash shrugged again, no help whatsoever. “We’re calling you a handyman, so go do something…handy.”
Something handy. Wow, that was specific. Seeing the look on my face, Henry snuffled out his impatience. “I’m sure you can find something to clean or fix around this old place.”
Old? He was calling this immaculate piece of state-of-the-art architecture old?
I came from a totally different world than this guy.
He fluttered out a hand as if to shoo me along. “Just go where Izzy is and start fixing or cleaning…or organizing whatever is around her.”
My mouth fell open. He really didn’t plan on being any more helpful than that, did he?
“How do I know where she’s going to be?”
This place was huge, and apparently Izzy had exiled me from her precious rose garden.
“Oh, that’s the easy part.” Mr. Nash seemed entertained to inform me. “My girl’s religiously predictable. If she’s not in her garden, she’ll either be in the library reading, the theater watching a movie, or in the kitchen.”
chapter
FOUR
So there I was, lost in a mansion I totally didn’t belong in.
I wondered if all millionaires—or was Henry Nash a billionaire?—let broke, unknown guys like me wander through their homes unescorted? It would be too easy for me to pickpocket something and resell it. I mean, a single painting, or clock, or statue could pay for months’ worth of rent or groceries.
Not that I would ever do that, but I had to wonder what everything I passed must’ve cost. It was crazy how much unnecessary crap rich people collected. Yet the place still looked frightfully bare, the complete opposite of my cramped apartment where all of Mom’s bakery shit sat piled into every nook and cranny we could possibly fit it into.
Maybe that’s why Isobel felt so lonely. There was simply too much empty space here. Each footstep echoed, and echoes seemed like such lonely things. The hallway itself must practically tap out the rhythm of seclusion right through her chest whenever she walked down it.
Not that clutter filled loneliness, per se. Sometimes I lay squished on my sofa sleeper at night, feeling as if no one else in the world could ever really reach me, or understand me. Which must mean my theory that big houses brought out loneliness was all wrong. Rich or poor, crowded or spacious, we were all in danger of falling into isolation.
But seriously, where was everyone? Isobel had fled to who-knew-where, the creepy cook’s son was long gone from the patio outside, and Constance, the housekeeper, had disappeared without a trace. Even if
I could find his office again, I refused to return to Mr. Nash and ask where the library, kitchen or theater was—God, really? They had a theater? I’d already interrupted him enough. I didn’t want to risk termination by bothering him again.
So I continued to meander down large, echoing halls and into rooms, filling my gut with jealous injustice.
It wasn’t fair that some people had so much, while others—
Muted conversation echoed down the next hall I entered. I paused, cocking my head to determine its origin. When I decided it was straight ahead, I hurried my pace.
“…Just saying. The guy’s utterly gorgeous,” Constance was spouting to some woman as I entered what was—yes!—the kitchen, an industrial-sized kitchen with a ridiculous amount of cabinets and counter space, but a kitchen nonetheless. The other woman stirred something on one of the three stovetops while the creepy kid from outside sat at the table, watching some video on an iPad, probably a documentary on the goriest torture devices ever invented.
“Like ten out of ten on the hotness scale,” Constance ranted. “He looks like Robbie Amell, I kid you not. No way did Mr. Nash suddenly hire some no one from nowhere for his handyman skills. I think he’s been brought here to—”
Before Constance could finish her assumption, the cook turned from the stove, only to catch sight of me standing in the doorway. She gasped, cutting off whatever reason Constance had for my presence.
While the cook clutched her hands to her cheeks, Constance whirled around, her eyes going big with guilt. “Oh, God.”
I gave an uncomfortable wave, wishing I could back out of the room and flee but needing their help navigating this damn house.
Wincing, I said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just trying to get the lay of the land. And…this must be the kitchen,” I added lamely as I spread my arms to encompass the room around me.
“Hey, you made it out of the rose garden alive,” Creepy Kid cheered as he lifted his face from the show he was watching. He smiled, revealing a gap in his top teeth.
