4. Josie
I stood at the bottom of the stairs like a confused houseplant, turning in a slow circle and pretending I totally knew where I was.
I did not.
Then he finally came down, and my heart skipped a beat.
He was wearing a T-shirt over his shorts now, but holy hell, he looked even better.
The shirt hugged his broad chest, and his legs were solid muscle.
He didn't say a word when he saw me standing there like an idiot.
He just lifted his hand and signaled for me to follow him.
So I followed. What else was I going to do? Stay there and start paying rent? I stared at his back as he walked because, with a view like that, I wasn't in a huge rush to leave.
Fuck Harrison.
I can't believe I actually lowered my standards for that guy. I was settling for a lie, and he wasn't even worth it.
Our steps were quiet against the thick carpet as we walked down the hall. The house was so neat it almost made me nervous, like if I breathed too hard, an alarm would go off.
The smell of food hit me before we reached the kitchen. Something warm, something buttery and something that made my stomach wake up and scream, Finally.
Okay. Focus.
Yes, this man is scary.
Yes, I woke up in a stranger's mansion.
Yes, I have no phone and no idea where I am.
But.
There is food. And right now, food wins.
I tried to ignore the weird tension hanging between us even though it followed us like a third person.
It's fine, I told myself. Totally normal morning. Everyone wakes up in a mysterious rich man's house sometimes.
Right?
Right.
In the kitchen, a woman who looked about my age was standing at the counter, calmly making breakfast. I figured she had to be the maid. If she wasn't, she might be his girlfriend, and I'd lose my chance with him before I even started.
Wait-Where did that thought even come from?
The woman didn't really look at me. She just gave me a quick glance, like I was a piece of furniture she didn't remember buying.
But the second her eyes fell on him, they sharpened and admiration flickered across her face.
I took in the room while pretending not to notice. He looked at me over his shoulder, "What do you want for breakfast?"
I blinked.
Oh. He was asking me.
I glanced at the spread, eggs, bacon, fruit arranged like it belonged in a lifestyle magazine. I had grown up with chefs, nutritionists, and people who argued over the correct temperature of coffee water. My standards were high. My expectations were higher.
Still, I kept it simple, no need to announce I'd once rejected a Michelin-star omelet for being "too aggressive."
"Um... scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee," I said.
Nothing dramatic, nothing that suggests I'm judging your household. Just eggs, safe eggs, polite eggs.
I nodded to myself.
Yes. Scrambled eggs were a very diplomatic choice.
The maid's hands froze mid-motion, and she gave me a look that could curdle milk.
I blinked, taken aback by the intensity of her glare.
She recovered quickly, though, turning back to her task with a tight-lipped smile.
But I didn't miss the way her eyes flicked over to him as if seeking his approval.
He just nodded and led me to the dining table, where we sat across from each other in an almost uncomfortable silence.
When the maid came to serve the food, she placed my plate down with just a little too much force. The stink eye she shot me before she turned back to the kitchen was impossible to miss.
I frowned, staring after her, then looked at the man, who seemed entirely unfazed by the whole situation, "I think your maid does not like me," I said, half-joking, half-curious.
His response was as cold and indifferent as ever, "She's just doing her job."
I leaned in a little, "Are you sure she doesn't have it out for me?
Because I don't know, that stink eye felt personal, like really personal.
What if she thinks I slept with you? I mean, not that I did!
But does she have a thing for you? Because if she does, I totally need to clear the air.
I don't want her thinking I'm some kind of man-stealer or whatever.
That's not me. I'm all about girl code, you know? "
He lifted his coffee cup, his gaze flicking toward me with mild disinterest, "Aisling has been with me for years. She's protective, that's all."
I nodded, but my mind was already racing ahead, "Right, protective.
I get that. Totally makes sense. But still, you can't tell me she's not a little.
.. intense. Like, maybe she's just protective of you in particular?
I mean, you're the boss, right? And she's probably seen all kinds of women come and go, so maybe she's just, I don't know, making sure I'm not another one of those girls.
Not that I'm saying you have a revolving door of women or anything, I'm sure you don't. You probably don't even have time for that, right?
With all your... whatever it is you do."
I stopped, finally realizing I'd been talking too much again, and took a deep breath.
"Anyway, I just... don't want to cause any trouble."
He stared at me like I'd lost my mind, which, to be fair, I hadn't. I just had a tendency to talk. A lot.
I sighed, looking down at my plate. The eggs were perfectly scrambled, the toast golden brown, but I wasn't sure I could eat with Aisling's icy stare still lingering in my mind. I simply poked at my food.
"You didn't cause any trouble," he said, his tone was neutral, "You were in a bad situation, and now you're not. That's all there is to it."
His words were logical, straightforward, but they didn't do much to soothe the unease gnawing at me. Still, I appreciated his attempt to simplify things, even if it felt a little detached.
"I guess you're right," I admitted, taking a small bite of toast, more out of obligation than hunger, "It's just..
. I'm not used to people helping me out without expecting something in return.
Not that I think you're secretly plotting something, because you don't seem like that kind of guy.
You seem... well, really, really not that type. Which is good! Great, actually."
He didn't react, just continued eating like we were discussing the weather, "You don't owe me anything."
"Still," I said after a pause, "I'm grateful. I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't stepped in, and honestly, I'm not sure I want to know."
He finally put down his fork, his eyes met with mine, "Then don't dwell on it."
Suddenly, holding eye contact with him felt like the hardest thing I'd ever done, like my lungs had forgotten how to function.
I glanced down at my coffee cup, swirling the dark liquid as if it held the answers, "I mean, I can guess, and none of the scenarios are good.
So yeah, I'm really thankful. I just want you to know I don't take this lightly.
It's not every day you end up in a stranger's house and they turn out to be the good guy.
Or at least, I hope you're the good guy. You seem like it."
We fell into a brief silence after that, the only sound being the quiet clink of silverware on plates.
I focused on finishing my coffee, I glanced over at him, and he had already shifted his focus to his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration. I wondered what kind of life he led, why was he alone in this spacious mansion.
A sudden, annoying itch of curiosity hit me, I wanted to know everything, from his name to whatever dark secrets he was currently frowning at on that screen.
Does he live here alone?
Does he enjoy the silence?
Does he even own a couch that people are allowed to sit on?
My curiosity poked me hard in the ribs.
"You said phones don't work here..." I said carefully.
He didn't look up, "Yours might not. Mine does."
I nodded slowly, pretending this was normal and not deeply unfair.
Ah. But, of course. The house recognizes its owner.
"So... Aisling's been with you for years?" I asked, because silence and I are not friends, "Does her phone work?"
He didn't look up from his screen, "Yes."
Of course it does. Special house privilege. Approved devices only.
"She must be very loyal," I said, remembering the way she looked at me like I had personally arrived to steal her job, her boss, and possibly her oxygen.
"She is."
That was it. Two words. Conversation buried, funeral held, everyone go home. I pressed my lips together and nodded like this was completely satisfying information.
He really was not built for small talk. If small talk were a sport, he would refuse to register.
Just then, a man walked in holding my clothes from last night. They were dry-cleaned, and ironed. The man gave him a short nod and placed the clothes on the chair beside me without saying a word.
No one in this house wasted syllables. Meanwhile, I was out here donating full paragraphs.
"Alright," I said, gently pushing my plate away, "I'll freshen up and then we can leave. Thank you for breakfast."
He stood and walked toward the doorway, "Aisling," he called calmly, "get her towels. A toothbrush. Whatever she needs."
Aisling appeared like she had been waiting behind a wall, "Of course," she said smoothly.
Her eyes slid to me for half a second.
Ah yes. The look.
The 'You are temporary' look.
I gave her my best polite smile. The one I use at charity galas when someone insults my dress. I looked back at him. He was already on his phone again, not even pretending to care that I was still standing there.
"You'll be ready in ten minutes," he said, without looking up.
Yes, you gorgeous, emotionless asshole, I almost snapped back. I caught the words just before they leaped off my tongue, which was probably for the best considering he was currently my only ride back to civilization.
I grabbed my neatly rescued, and thankfully puke-free clothes and scurried after Aisling down the hall, trying to ignore the way my heart was still thumping against my ribs.
The grand total of our verbal exchange since I climbed into the passenger seat? My address.
That's it.
And silence ever since.
Honestly, I've had deeper conversations with elevators.
But his face was his one saving grace and it was doing a lot of heavy lifting.
He was ridiculously handsome in that "I might ruin your life" kind of way.
A single dark strand of hair had escaped, falling perfectly across his forehead, framing a jawline so chiseled it looked like it was set in a state of perpetual annoyance.
Every time the sunlight hit him, his eyes turned five shades lighter and somehow, ten times more attractive. It was unfair, really. He had the personality of a brick wall, but he looked like something a Renaissance sculptor would have died to recreate.
His hands on the wheel were strong, the veins on his hands standing out in a way that made my stomach flutter. I swallowed, my throat dry. Why was it suddenly so hard to breathe in here?
"Thank you, again," I blurted out, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "For, you know... saving me last night."
He didn't even give me a flicker of acknowledgment. His eyes locked on the asphalt ahead.
"Stop thanking me over and over again," he finally said, "It shows a desperate need for validation, and it makes you sound like a victim of your own gratitude. Indebtedness is a weakness, don't advertise it."
I cleared my throat, a nervous, frantic laugh bubbling up despite the chill in his tone.
"I mean, I'm not usually... this," I stammered, gesturing vaguely at my entire existence.
"I just want you to know this was a fluke.
A total outlier. I'm actually obsessively responsible.
I have a color-coded planner and a five-year plan for my five-year plans. "
Still nothing. His jaw tightened a fraction, but that was it. I felt the heat rise to my cheeks. What was wrong with me? Why couldn't I just stop talking?
"I'm more of a glass-of-wine-and-read-a-book kind of person. Or, like, a yoga class type, even though I'm terrible at it," I continued, "I tried once and accidentally kicked someone in the face but I learned my lesson! No more downward dogs in crowded spaces."
I chanced another glance at him, hoping for some sign that he wasn't completely repulsed. Nothing. Just a slight narrowing of his eyes as he switched lanes, his face hard as stone.
"I talk too much, I can't help it." I mumbled, more to myself than to him. I bit my lip and stared down at my hands, twisting them in my lap, "I do that when I'm nervous. Or when I'm around very attractive people who save me from potentially life-threatening situations."
There. I'd said it. The truth hanging awkwardly in the air. His hands tightened on the wheel for a brief second, knuckles going white, but his expression didn't change. If anything, he seemed even more distant.
"Not that I'm trying to hit on you!" I rushed to clarify, feeling my face burn, "I'm not.
I mean, I'm sure you get that a lot, and not that I think you're, like, waiting for a drunk girl to puke on you and then declare you hot-oh my God, I'm doing it again.
Just... shoot me now. Not literally! Not that you'd-uh-"
"Quiet," he said.
My mouth snapped shut immediately, and my heart jumped into my throat. His eyes flicked to me for the briefest second, before returning to the road.
For a moment, the car was filled with nothing but the low rumble of the engine and the faint whoosh of passing cars. I could feel the humiliation rolling over me in waves, making my skin prickle. I sank back into my seat, trying to disappear into the fabric.
He finally pulled up to my apartment building. He reached over and clicked a button, the driver's side window sliding down with a quiet hiss. My eyes immediately darted to the entrance, and my stomach dropped when I saw her-my mother-standing there with a few of the security personnel.
And beside her stood Harrison Brown, his gaze fixed on me like a wounded puppy, as if he hadn't just ripped my heart out by plotting with my mother. Mom's arms were crossed, and even from here, I could see the fury radiating off her.
But what she didn't realize was that my anger burned hotter than hers ever could.
She might have been angry about a scandal or a missed check-in, but I was grieving a life I thought was mine.
Harrison's eyes were wide and pleading, as if he expected me to see a good reason buried beneath his betrayal. He looked desperate for me to understand, to offer him the absolution he clearly thought he deserved for selling me out.
I couldn't even look at him without feeling sick.
Did he really think I'd just roll over and accept this?
Accept that he'd been lying to me, manipulating me right alongside her?
I felt a bitter laugh rise in my throat.
If they thought I'd be the obedient little daughter, the heartbroken girlfriend, they were about to find out just how wrong they were.
I glanced at the man beside me, his eyes had flickered briefly toward my mother. The heat of embarrassment crept up my neck, but it was quickly replaced by a spark of defiance. If she was going to treat me like a child, maybe I'd give her something to really be pissed about.
I noticed the tightness in his jaw, the way his gaze darted to my mother and then back to me. All I wanted right now was to see that disapproving frown on her face deepen even more.
I shifted, closing the gap between us in the silence of the car. My hand landed on his shoulder, the expensive fabric of his suit sliding over muscles that felt as solid as reinforced steel. He tensed instantly, a warning I chose to ignore.
I kept my smile cool, and utterly pleasant as I tilted my head toward him.
"Thanks for everything," I said, my voice dropping into a sweet, melodic lilt that didn't reach my eyes. "And now, I'm going to kiss you. Not because I'm a 'victim of my gratitude,' but because my mother and my ex are watching... and honestly? Fuck them."
My heart hammered against my ribs like a frantic drum as I leaned across the center console. My breasts brushed his bicep, a brief, electric jolt that I stubbornly pretended hadn't just short-circuited my brain.
I reached out, my fingers curling around the cool, tense skin at the back of his neck, and forced his face toward mine.
From the sidewalk, my mother and Harrison would see nothing but the broad, intimidating expanse of his shoulders blocking their view of my kiss.
I leaned in and pressed my lips firmly against the corner of his mouth.
Kissing him was like kissing a granite countertop.
Actually, scratch that. Granite has a certain Earth-bound warmth to it. This was like pressing my mouth against a marble monument. He didn't move, he didn't breathe, and he certainly didn't help. I was effectively trying to kiss a very expensive, very judgmental statue.
It also felt like smacking my lips against a glacier that had a personal vendetta, like it had spent years in a cryogenic chamber plotting my downfall and was now exacting its revenge.
I reclined back into my seat just enough to create a respectable distance and smiled at him while he stared at me like I was an overenthusiastic toddler who'd just finger-painted all over his prized collection of vintage vinyl records.
"Goodbye," I muttered, slipping out of his car without looking back.
I strode toward the building's entrance, ignoring the weight of my mother and Harrison's stares as I brushed past them. Their eyes followed me, but I didn't give them the satisfaction of a reaction.
Just before stepping inside, I glanced over my shoulder. His car was still parked where he'd left it, the window had already glided shut, leaving nothing but a faint silhouette behind the ink-black tint.
Then the engine roared to life, and without a second's hesitation, he peeled away from the curb, vanishing out of my sight.
And then it hit me, a cold realization that made my stomach drop for an entirely different reason.
I still didn't know his name. And he hadn't even bothered to ask for mine. To him, I was just a girl who had puked in his proximity and used him for a spiteful kiss.
To me, he was the mystery man who had saved my life and then driven out of it as quickly as he'd entered.