18. Tatum
18
TATUM
I ’m late. I mean, technically, I make my own schedule, but sleeping in wasn’t on my agenda this morning, and it’s been one thing after another. As I pull up to the gate of my last house for the evening, I notice a car parked not far down the road. Someone’s leaning against the driver’s side door. Squinting, I realize they’re holding a camera with a massive lens pointed directly at the house.
What the hell? If this isn’t fishy behavior, I don’t know what is. Maybe the owner of the house is famous or something? Or maybe not? Honestly, I don’t even know.
When the creeper catches me staring, I punch in the gate code and wait for it to open. Once it does, I pull through but stay parked on the opposite side, refusing to move on the off-chance the creeper tries to ride my bumper and follow me onto the private property.
Thankfully, the gate closes without any issue, and I pull up the long driveway, parking in front. It’s still strange. Having access to a random person’s house. A potentially famous random person. Yup. People are way too trusting. My body aches from the previous two houses I finished cleaning today, but at least Rory can’t give me shit for dropping the ball at work. And to be honest, I’m grateful for the distraction. But I could really use a nap.
One more house.
I saved my favorite for last. The baby blue colonial with the music room.
Once I’m inside, I set the cleaning supplies on the kitchen counter, head straight to the music room, and grab a Doomsday record from the collection. After setting it on the turntable, I position the needle and click play. It blares through the speakers as I get to work scrubbing, mopping, and dusting every inch of the mansion until it’s practically sparkling.
Blowing the tendrils of hair from my face, I assess my work and smile when my attention catches on a worn book with a familiar cover. It’s lying on the window seat overlooking the ocean. Curious, I move closer, recognizing the title. It’s The Count of Monte Cristo. And not just any copy. It’s the same edition I was reading when Archer died. The memory hits out of nowhere, fast as lightning and just as sharp.
I peek into the empty hallway, then check the time on my phone. I don’t know why. It’s not like anyone is ever home when I’m cleaning. Honestly, I would be convinced ghosts lived in all of the houses I clean if I didn’t notice the fingerprints on the faucets or the unkempt sheets. Still, the book calls to me. Sitting in my favorite spot in the house. Begging to be opened. I haven’t read The Count of Monte Cristo in months. I try to read it every year. Not because I'm necessarily in love with the story—it's a tragedy—but because it reminds me of him. Archer. I was in the middle of reading it for the first time when I saw him for the last time.
“Hey, Tate.”
My cheeks heat as I look up from the pages, finding the one and only Archer Buchanan staring at me.
“Oh. Hi.”
“How’s the book?”
I shrug and turn back to the pages. The words blur together, but the idea of holding Archer’s ocean blue gaze is more than I can bear. Not without melting into a puddle on the spot. “It’s fine.”
The couch dips as he sits beside me. “It’s one of my favorites.”
Breathe, Tate. Breathe.
I sneak a peek at him. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “Although, I gotta say, Dante’s quite the grudge holder.”
I look down at the open pages again. “He is, isn’t he?”
“Do you think he should pick Mercedes over his need for revenge?”
Nibbling my bottom lip, I consider his question and steal another peek at the boy beside me. “I mean, because of his best friend, he was locked up for years. He has every right to be pissed.”
“True,” Archer concedes. “I dunno, though. Part of me wonders if living out the rest of his life with Mercedes would’ve been worth letting his grudge go.” He smiles. “But I am a sucker for a pretty face, so…maybe I’m part of the problem?”
I laugh. “You’re never part of the problem.”
“So confident,” he teases.
I look back at my book, unable to hold his gaze for another second. “Hardly.”
“You should be,” he pushes. “You’re a catch, Tatum Taylor. There will be plenty of guys lining up to take you out, and I’m sure they’ll be more than willing to let go of their grudges if it lets them have a chance with you.” Dropping his voice low, he adds, “Once you get to college.”
The memory makes my eyes burn, but I blink the feeling away. I shouldn’t—I know I shouldn’t—but the reading nook overlooking the ocean calls to me. I slip my shoes off, curl up on the cushion, and open the book.
“Hey! You here?” someone yells.
I jerk up in response and rub at my eyes. I have no idea what time it is, but the sun’s set, painting the room in different shades of gray.
Holy shit, it’s late. Like, really late, considering I sat down around 5 pm. I fucked up.
I reach down and grab the heel of my left shoe, trying to shove my foot into it as quickly as possible. The sound of footsteps echoes from the stairs, acting like gasoline on my already frazzled brain. My pulse gallops, and I reach for the second shoe.
“Yo? Where are you?” the same masculine voice calls. He’s closer now. Right outside the door. A shadow moves along the crack, and my throat swells.
I’m so screwed.
Shoving my heel into my sneaker, I stand as the door’s hinges squeak softly. Then, there he is. The owner of the house. Who just caught his house cleaner literally asleep on the job.
Please don’t fire me.
I smooth my shirt out, peeking up at the stranger. “Hi.”
With a small smirk, he rests his shoulder against the doorjamb, assessing me. “Hello.”
A shiver races down my spine as I take in the man’s strong jaw and long throat. The top two buttons on his white dress shirt are undone, giving me a perfect view of his dark skin. With black curly hair and chocolate brown eyes, a heavy dose of arrogance wafts off him. Why wouldn’t it? The man’s drop-dead gorgeous and clearly filthy rich if his home is anything to go by.
“And you are?” he prods.
“I, uh, I’m the maid,” I announce. “Tatum.”
“Roman.” His long legs eat up the distance as he strides toward me, offering his hand. When I take it, he adds, “Nice to meet you, Tatum the maid.”
“You, too.” I gulp and slowly slip my hand from his grasp. “I should…get going.”
“You from around here?” he prods.
“Yes and no.”
“I haven’t seen you before.” He drops his voice an octave lower, though I have no idea how it’s even possible, turning his already silky voice into velvet. “And I know everyone in this town.”
My gaze flicks up to him. Holy shit, this guy’s tall. Clearing my throat, I ask, “Do you want me to leave the hide-a-key on the kitchen counter or would you like me to lock up?”
Rocking back on his heels, he tucks his hands into the front pockets of his charcoal slacks. “You’re leaving?”
“I’m, uh, I’m finished for the day, so, yes. Yes, I’m leaving. Have a great evening…”
Shit, what was his name?
“Roman,” he repeats.
“Have a great evening, Roman,” I murmur, moving around him.
He follows my movements with his eyes while the same smirk from before tugs at his lips. “See you around, Tatum the maid.”