by Linda Kage
“Kit, you’ve met this man before?” the cook asked, startled.
“We met outside,” I answered for the boy. “He showed me how to get to the conservatory.”
“This is Mr. Hollander,” Constance told the cook, whose mouth fell open.
I gave another lame wave. “Or you can just call me Shaw.”
“This is Mrs. Pan, the cook,” Constance introduced before motioning to the boy. “And her son, Kit.”
I smiled to both. “Nice to meet you.”
The cook and her son stared at me as if I were an alien being who’d been beamed down through the ceiling.
Clearing my throat, I shifted a step in reverse. “So, uh, I was just curious if anyone knew how to get to the library.”
“Yes, of course.” Constance bounded forward. “I’ll show you.” She darted past me, her face flushing red.
I waved a goodbye to Mrs. Pan and Kit before hurrying after the housekeeper. “I hear there’s a theater somewhere in here, too,” I added, sidling in beside her.
She nodded. “On the second level, sure.”
Mimicking her serious nod, I bobbed my own head. Second level. Good to know. “So am I really the first handyman Mr. Nash’s ever hired?”
Constance began to cough and her face morphed into a purplish hue. I wasn’t sure if she felt embarrassed for being caught talking about me, or if she was genuinely choking on something. It seemed pretty genuine to me.
I began to panic a little. “Are you okay?”
Her head jerked up and down. “Yes. Fine. Uh, sorry, there…there’s the library, just there, straight ahead down that hall.” She pointed, already backing away from me. And then she was shifting around and taking off in the opposite direction.
“Okay. Thank you,” I called after her. Then I sighed and faced the end of the hall. I guessed I was on my own from here on out.
An ornate set of double doors, one of them propped open, stood before me, almost inviting me to come closer while at the same time warning me away. I went closer, but with each step, my pace grew slower until I was practically a sloth by the time I reached the library’s entrance.
Holding my breath, I peered inside.
And there she was: Isobel Nash, Kit’s monster among the roses.
I watched her from the doorway as she lay on a sofa, her stockinged feet kicked up on one end with her legs crossed at the ankles and head propped on the opposite armrest while she read from an ereader.
I wondered if it were possible for someone to irritate you as much as they intrigued you because that’s exactly what she did for me. I didn’t like her, or at least I didn’t want to like someone so testy and degrading, except I kind of craved more encounters with her. There was an exhilarating addictiveness about her presence. Maybe that made me messed up. I’d never thought of myself as masochistic before, but butting heads with her had been electric. She was a worthy opponent.
Then again, when she didn’t know anyone was watching her, she didn’t come across as such a harsh, heartless woman, and I still felt the pull. I wanted to get closer, peel away layers and learn more about her, see what made her her. So maybe it wasn’t only her antagonistic side that drew me. Maybe it was just her.
I remembered what her father had told me about how isolated she’d become, except she didn’t appear lonely or miserable at the moment. She seemed quite comfortable and content to bury herself in her story. I actually envied her that and could picture myself stretching out next to her or curling around her to read the words on her screen over her shoulder. Spending my days lazing on a sofa and reading would be a dream come true, especially with someone who smelled like roses tucked on a couch with me.
Not that I should let my mind wander into that territory. I was supposed to talk to her, just talk. Engage the mind, not the body.
Oh, but that body—
Down, boy.
Forcing myself back to the task at hand, I glanced around the room and decided I’d turn hermit too if I had this in my house, because finally, I’d found a room that didn’t look bare.
The shelves were crammed with books, overflowing really. Many were stacked on the floor with no other place to go. The place was dim; the two floor-to-ceiling windows it housed didn’t let much light in. And the dark walls with a limited amount of hanging lamps didn’t brighten things either. If this were my library, I’d lighten the color of the walls, install some more overheads and then build more shelves for all the books.
But first, I’d clean the grimy windows.
It was strange; Porter Hall had a housekeeper, but the windows still looked unwashed. Maybe Constance was too busy gossiping about people to get a good day’s work in, or maybe this place was so big it was impossible to keep spotless. Or maybe I should just stop assuming shit, mind my own business, and get myself to work.
That’s what I did. I backed from the room before Isobel could lower her ereader and notice me spying, and I wandered around a bit more, opening odd doors until I found a supply closet, hosting a bucket, sponge, and all-purpose house cleaner, plus a stepladder.
Good enough for me.
When I returned to the room, supplies in tow, I didn’t make a sound, just moseyed past the resting dragon—er, Isobel—as if I had every right to be there. All the while, my heart pounded so hard I was surprised she didn’t hear the chaotic lub-dub as soon as I strolled by.
I made it to the window without being roasted to death by dragon fire. Then I set down the bucket of warm suds and opened the ladder. Didn’t take me long to realize the ladder wouldn’t be tall enough to help me reach the zenith of the window—God, the ceiling in this room was abnormally high for a one-story room—but it would be a start. I climbed to the top rung, bucket in hand, and pulled the soaked sponge out before slopping it across the glass.
By this point, there was no way she could’ve missed me in the room with her, but she’d yet to say anything, so I figured she’d decided to ignore me.
I figured wrong.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she screeched suddenly, nearly making me upset my perch on the ladder because I jumped so hard.
But, damn, what a way to kill a guy: wait until he wasn’t expecting you to talk, then jar him from his work with haughty demands.
Swearing under my breath, I steadied myself then dipped the sponge back into the suds. “I’m washing the windows,” I answered before finally glancing over my shoulder at her. “Sorry, was I bothering you?”
The question was so innocent and friendly it was hard to tell if she knew I wasn’t sorry at all.
She blinked blankly before setting her ereader down and climbing from the couch. “That’s not how you wash a window. That’s how you wash a car.”
I lifted my brows before glancing at the window where soapy water streaked down the windowpane in little rivers. “There’s a difference?”
Sniffing out her censure, she shook her head. “My God. Have you never washed a window before?”
With a shrug, I admitted, “Now that you mention it, no, I don’t think I have. Unless a car window counts.” Though I spoke the words pleasantly, the challenge in my glance made her eyes narrow when I added, “Have you washed a window before?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Come with me. And bring this…nonsense.”
I had no idea what she had in mind for me, but remaining in her presence was my primary function, so I dutifully climbed off the ladder and refolded it before tucking it under my arm and lifting the soap bucket. When I faced her, ready to go wherever she wished, she blinked at me as if she hadn’t actually expected me to follow her orders so readily.
To show her I hadn’t yet turned into the meek, obedient servant she suspected, I gave her a mocking little half-bow and smirked. “As you wish.”
Huffing irritably, she turned away and strode from the room. I followed, feeling a thrill from ticking her off. Trailing from a leisurely distance, I fell far enough behind that she paused once and turned, waiting for me to catch up. Sh
e glared at my pace when I refused to hurry, but I returned the look with a sunny smile, which only seemed to put her in a worse mood, making mine better.
God, this was fun.
I had no idea why it was so invigorating to rile her, but it really was. I bet it wasn’t often the pampered princess came across someone who didn’t break his neck trying to please her. Her shocked outrage over my indifferent attitude was like a small, personal victory.
We returned to the supply closet, where she made me put the bucket and sponge away. Then she handed me a bottle of Windex and roll of paper towels plus a squeegee, muttering, “Here. Use this instead. And that ladder too.” She pointed to another wall, which finally brought my attention to another, larger ladder I hadn’t noticed before.
“Ah,” I cooed appreciatively. “Much better. Thank you.” I sent her a true smile of gratitude before I realized what I was doing.
But the honest grin seemed to piss her off just fine, so I couldn’t regret it.
I made my way back to the library, new supplies in hand, and this time I led the way. I knew she had to be following me, though, if for no other reason than to make sure I didn’t fuck up again.
“Start high and work your way down,” she instructed as soon as I opened the ladder.
I nearly laughed. Yep, she hadn’t been able to keep herself from bossing me around.
“Whatever you say, princess,” I answered, climbing the rungs.
The growl that rose from behind me made my heart swell with conquest. “My name is Isobel.”
“Oh yeah?” Able to reach the top of the window, I sprayed the cleaner then wiped it away smoothly. A screeching sound to cut across the glass, letting me know I was doing my job well. Squeaky clean. “Your dad called you Izzy.”
“Well, you’re not my father.”
I almost snorted, Thank God. I’d consider it a personal failure if I ended up with a daughter as snooty and rude as her. But what I said was, “Fair enough.” I liked how Isobel sounded in my head better, anyway.
I must not have made any more cleaning mistakes because the critique queen stayed quiet. Pleased about finally doing my job right and meeting the high standards of the window-cleaning police behind me, I threw myself into my task until sweat collected on my brow and more trickled down the center of my back.
Just as I thought how much cooler it would feel to take my shirt off, I realized, hey, I probably should take my shirt off.
Mr. Nash had hired me to play man candy, after all, hadn’t he? Maybe I should earn my keep. Besides, the sunlight coming in through the glass just kept growing warmer.
But mostly, if I wanted to be honest with myself, I was curious what Isobel would do. Would she be the uptight, prissy type and demand I put my clothes back on? Would she silently ogle the muscles in my back and ass as they stretched and shifted with each move? Would she like what she saw?
A rush of anticipation flowed through me, and before I could question myself, I tugged my shirt over my head, then tucked it into my back pocket.
She said nothing. I held my breath, eager to know if her silence meant something good or bad. One thing was certain: this suspense was killing me.
Unable to help myself, I glanced back as I moved down to a lower step.
But I never got my answer as to what Isobel thought of my bared torso. She was no longer in the library.
chapter
FIVE
I didn’t see Isobel again for the rest of the morning. She wasn’t in the theater, which I found after washing the library windows, and I didn’t spot her through the French doors that led into her garden. I meandered my way back to the kitchen just in time for lunch, but neither she nor Mr. Nash showed to eat.
So I sat down with Constance, Mrs. Pan, and Kit, wondering, “Where do the Nashes eat?”
“Mr. Nash has already taken a tray in his office,” the cook replied.
I nodded and waited to hear what the rest of the family did or would do, but no one spoke again.
Just as I began to feel awkward from the brutal silence and bit into a homemade roll to combat the feeling, Constance said, “I noticed you were cleaning the windows in the library earlier.”
I lifted my eyebrows and chewed before wiping my mouth. Mrs. Pan’s rolls tasted good, almost as good as one of Mom’s creations. Then I answered, “Yeah. Was that okay? I didn’t steal your job from you, did I?”
“Oh, no.” She swung out a hand, absolving me from guilt. “Not at all. I don’t often disturb Miss Nash’s spaces, and besides…” She flushed before admitting, “I’m a bit afraid of heights. The windows in there go way too high for my taste.”
I nodded, relieved I hadn’t stepped on anyone’s toes…except maybe Isobel’s, but that was kind of why I was here, so she’d have to deal.
“Actually, I was wondering…” Constance started before she discreetly cleared her throat. “Since you seemed okay on a ladder, would you be willing to change a few lightbulbs in the foyer’s chandelier? I usually hunt down Lewis to help, but if you’re willing…”
After Mr. Nash’s reluctance to assign me any specific task, I was surprised—and grateful—for a little direction. “Sure,” I said, smiling my appreciation at the housekeeper. “I’d be happy to.”
Constance’s face bloomed with pleasure. “Great. Thank you.”
I nodded just as Kit finally broke in, watching me closely. “How’d you escape the monster in the rose garden?”
“Kit!” Mrs. Pan chastised, her face going beet red with embarrassment. “Hush. We don’t speak of Miss Nash that way.”
I glanced between mother and son, wanting to defend Isobel and yet not wanting to alienate myself from my coworkers on my first day on the job by calling one of their kid’s a rude little shit.
So I smiled tightly at the boy. “Turns out, there was no monster after all. She’d transformed into a beautiful princess who pardoned me from death by thorn.”
The two women seemed pleased by my answer, while Kit wanted to hear more about the mysterious princess.
“How did she turn into a princess? What’d she look like? Why didn’t she kill you?”
I shrugged, giving the kid a mysterious little grin. “Apparently, I’m thorn resistant. And since, you know, the best way to defeat your enemy is to befriend them, she decided to be nice to me instead.”
Mrs. Pan snorted her amusement into her hand, while Kit scowled at that answer before he demanded, “Is that really true?”
Laughing, I ruffled his hair. “I’m working on it, kid. I’m working on it.”
While Kit appeared to grow more confused, the two ladies beamed their approval. “But, what—” He was cut off by the opening of the back door.
A small, whistling old man with a trimmed gray beard, wearing a straw hat, tan shorts and a dark shirt with a red bandana tied around his throat, entered the kitchen, rubbing his dirt-stained hands together. “Boy howdy, it’s already getting hot out there.” He moved toward the sink as if to wash his hands only to be waylaid by the pot simmering on the stove. “Well, I’ll be, Mrs. Pan. Your food actually smells good enough to eat today.”
“Get your dirty paws away from my stew, Lewis,” Mrs. Pan scolded, making the man jerk his hand back. “And what do you mean today? You say my cooking smells good every day.”
“Yeah, but…” He turned with a mischievous grin, as if he were about to say something else to make the cook scowl. I got the feeling he drew as much of a kick from pissing her off as I did from irritating Isobel. But then he saw me, and all teasing fled his expression. “Well…” he murmured in curious intrigue. “Who do we have here?”
“This is Shaw Hollander,” Constance introduced me. “He’s the new handyman Mr. Nash hired this morning.”
Two shaggy gray eyebrows lifted. “Handyman, you say? Hmm.” His gaze wandered over me before settling on my biceps. “He looks strong enough,” he decided before addressing me directly. “How much weight do you think you can carry, kid?”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Hey, I’m not as spry as I used to be,” Lewis defended as if he were being confronted. “This old body can’t carry around forty-pound bags of topsoil the way it used to. And they called you handy, so can you help me with some of the heavy lifting or not?”
“I…” Glancing at the other two employees of Henry Nash, I tried to come up with the appropriate answer. I was supposed to be here to connect with Isobel, but Constance and now Lewis seemed to need my assistance, and I’d already told the housekeeper I’d help her, so—feeling as if I couldn’t say no, and not really wanting to turn down the old man anyway—I shrugged. “Sure. Whenever you need me.”
Lewis gave a satisfied nod and commenced to wash his hands before spooning up his lunch. Meanwhile, Mrs. Pan tried to coax Kit into eating more of his meal. “You can’t survive on rolls, honey. Take three more bites of the stew and make sure there’s some carrot and meat in each spoonful.”
As Kit groaned but complied with his mother’s wishes, I glanced at the three employees around me: Constance, the housekeeper; Lewis, the groundskeeper; and Mrs. Pan, the cook.
“Are there any more employees who work here?” I asked, growing more curious about the dynamics of the household by the minute. I also wanted to know when and where the Nashes ate, and where Henry’s wife and son were hiding away. I hadn’t spotted either of them all day.
But one thing at a time. So I started with questions about the staff.
“It’s just the three of us,” Mrs. Pan announced cheerfully before adding, “And now you, of course.”
She made it sound as if four made up a skeleton crew while I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that anyone could ever need that many full-time employees to take care of their home.
“Oh, and Mrs. Givens shows up every couple of weeks to assess the place,” Constance put in. “She’s Mr. Nash’s personal assistant, who mostly works from his office in the city, but ever since his wife died, he’s had Mrs. Givens make the main household decisions.”
