Chapter 14
W hen we got back to the mansion, we walked down the rear hallway without speaking. When Edna hugged me, I felt like a selfish child when she told me she hadn’t wanted to leave for the evening until she knew I was okay.
Maybe she was someone I could trust after all.
“Can I make you some hot tea or—”
“No, thank you, Edna. I’m just going to go to bed.”
As I headed up the stairs, I heard her talking quietly to Sinclair, but I couldn’t understand the words—nor did I care. I was overcome with exhaustion and was finally ready to give in to my body’s demands. Even my stomach had quieted.
When I got to my room, I stripped off my clothing. It felt dirty after all the perspiring I’d done on my walk, not to mention the scuffle on the street. I didn’t want to get between the sheets without washing off, so I drew a quick warm bath and got in while the water was still running.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken a bath…and that was my last thought as I shut off the water and leaned my head back against the tub.
When I awakened, the water was cold. Draining the tub, I grabbed one of the fluffy white towels hanging on the rack, suddenly feeling something akin to gratitude. I was glad that many of the small things I needed—like towels and washcloths, bedding, and the like—were simply here without my having to ask. The towel smelled good—fresh and clean—and soon I was dry, except for the ends of my hair that were damp.
After leaving the bathroom, I put on my Hello Kitty nightshirt along with a pair of light gray sweatpants—because now that I’d had a little sleep, my stomach was growling again. I was going to see if I could find something in the kitchen to eat without it being noticeable. Edna had probably been ordered to save my food and serve it to me for breakfast, so maybe I could find it and take a bite out of it—or, if I was lucky, that loaf of crusty bread she’d made might be sitting on the counter.
In my bare feet, I didn’t make a sound. There were no creaking boards underfoot as often happened at the house in Winchester, no squeaky doors. When I glanced back at Sinclair’s door at the end of the hall, I didn’t see a light underneath it, and I knew my ninja-like footsteps wouldn’t awaken him.
I had my phone with me to use the flashlight, but I didn’t want to overdo it. In the dark, the mansion seemed even more foreboding—and yet peaceful somehow. With my hand on the railing of the stairway, I felt confident moving forward in the dark—but, as I got closer to the bottom where the stairway curved, I noticed ambient light flooding into the main hallway.
Was it coming from the kitchen? Did they leave any lights on at night?
I couldn’t hear anything, but I moved forward cautiously. As I got closer to the kitchen, I realized the light was coming from a room farther down the hallway. The dining room was directly across and the room that had light spilling through the doorway was beyond that. If someone were in that room, I could probably sneak in the kitchen without being seen—but being heard would be another thing entirely.
I decided first to peek in that room, if for no other reason to see what it was. I could even turn off the light before finding something to eat.
As I glided past the kitchen, I knew Sinclair would be angry. After all, I wasn’t necessarily breaking a rule, because one of the things I remembered the contract had said was that the “Employer” would provide all meals.
I also remembered that there were some vague sentences about the “Employee” not using things not hers or stealing, and I didn’t know if I ate a piece of bread if he’d consider it theft. Then again, I hadn’t signed that stupid contract yet…so maybe it wouldn’t matter.
It wasn’t until I couldn’t turn back that I spied Sinclair in the other room—and he saw me. He’d seemed to be lost in thought until I arrived.
His smile— yes, smile —was warm, reaching his eyes. “Ah, Ms. Miller. Would you care to join me?” He held up a glass with less than an inch of amber liquid.
As I walked into the room, I realized it was…a place for drinking. I learned later that they affectionately called it the “beverage nook.” Against one wall was a wet bar and enough bottles of “beverages” to open a liquor store. There was also a refrigerator and three round tables with chairs all around. The color of the room was earthy browns accented with hunter green, and I couldn’t imagine Sinclair had been the one to design it. Instead, I imagined it had looked this way when his father had been the man of the castle.
I took a few tentative steps when he asked, “Are you old enough to drink?”
“Legally?”
He chuckled, and I couldn’t believe how much I enjoyed the sound. “I suppose that answers my question. Uh…there are a few cans of soda in the refrigerator—Coke, 7UP, and, uh, other stuff. Help yourself.”
Because there was a sink, I simply poured myself a glass of water…and then joined him at his table.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“I’m an adult…meaning I’m old enough.”
“Not to drink, though?”
“Old enough to be here—and that’s all you need to know.”
“Ah. Touchy subject.”
I suspected he already knew my age. With his money, I would have been surprised if there was anything about my dad or me he didn’t know. “Not really. I just think we judge people too much due to their age rather than other factors that might matter more.”
“Such as?”
“Competence. Ability to reason. Emotional intelligence.” As soon as the last two words were out of my mouth, I wished I could take them back, because I didn’t want him to think I was pointing a finger at his quick temper…even though, in a way, I was. So I kept talking, hoping it would help keep our conversation civil. “For instance, there was a student in my geology class last spring who was taking it for dual credit with the high school—so he was younger than me but I swear he was not only one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, but he didn’t act like a high school student. When I think of that phrase ‘old soul,’ I think of him.”
“You’re right. If you ever met my middle brother, you’d swear he was fifteen,” Sinclair said, taking a sip from his glass. “And I don’t mean that in a good young-at-heart way.”
“So why do we judge based on age?”
“Why do we judge based on anything we observe? It’s because it’s a short cut. In prehistoric times, I doubt we had time to get to know someone before making a judgment—so, for survival’s sake, we had to make quick decisions about who a person was based on their appearance, body language, and maybe something they said. It’s no different today.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“I am,” he said, a twinkle in his eye, before he tilted his glass and polished it off. “But today, we do have a chance to get to know people—and sometimes we change our minds about them.”
For a brief second, I wondered if he was talking about me, but then I thought there was no way. We were just making casual conversation—and, for all I knew, he’d had enough to drink that he was just talking without really thinking.
But because he wasn’t yelling for a change—was, in fact, acting a bit like a human being—I felt compelled to do the same. “I’m sorry you had to rescue me from those two thugs tonight.”
He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”
“That scratch on your cheek is kind of…nasty.”
“It will heal,” he said, getting up and crossing the room to the bar.
“But…it might scar.”
As he poured more bourbon into the glass, he grinned at me. “It wouldn’t be the first one—and, besides, they say that gives a person character.”
“It could get infected. Character or not, you don’t want that. Did you disinfect it? Those guys seemed pretty dirty.”
“They did. I washed it with soap and hot water.”
“Did you use hydrogen peroxide or antibiotic ointment?”
Putting the bottle back in place, he laughed. “No.”
“Would you let me clean it up?” When he arched an eyebrow, I added, “To return the favor?”
“It’ll be fine.”
“I insist.”
As he made his way back to the table, his expression changed—from slight amusement to one of a king, indulging a lowly servant. But I refused to take it that way, because I felt like we had found a little common ground through conversation. Maybe he was just arrogant and it came across that way—and with the wealth he obviously commanded, no wonder he was so cocksure of himself.
“Fine. Edna keeps first aid supplies on a shelf in the pantry.”
I found myself smiling. “Be right back.”
The floor was cool on my feet as I walked to the kitchen, now on a mission. When I stepped inside, the overhead lights came on automatically, and I wondered why other lights in the mansion didn’t have this function. As I made my way to the pantry, I questioned why I was doing this man a kindness. After all, this was the same man who’d ripped me away from my home just the night before to subject me to a decade of servitude, not to mention all the history between our families.
But I knew why. It was because I was returning his kindness to me. And, perhaps, I had an ulterior motive of sorts. If I could soothe his outer ache, perhaps he could let go of the anger he felt inside. As I gathered together the supplies I’d need, I realized that maybe we weren’t so different. We both hated each other’s families for something that had happened in the past—and, technically, it was a beef between our fathers. Just because he sided with his father and I with mine didn’t mean we couldn’t find a way to get along. And, as much as I hated to admit it, letting me repay the debt by working here rather than going to prison for possibly far longer could also be viewed as a kindness.
Soon I was loaded up with supplies, heading back to take care of Sinclair. Like when I’d found him earlier, he seemed deep in thought as he all but examined the wall from his seat at the table.
As I began setting down items, he said, “You look like you’re preparing to perform surgery.”
“No. No gloves or scalpel.”
“I’m grateful for that.” His tone seemed to shift as I poured hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton ball. “Wait a minute. How do I know this isn’t just another ruse? Can I trust you to not put chemicals in my eyes?”
I should have felt angry after thinking we’d finally made progress—but, instead, I was hurt and it probably showed on my face. “What? I would never do something like that. I’m trying to return the favor. You didn’t beat me up on the sidewalk tonight. You saved me…so I’d like to try to mitigate the damage I caused you.”
His blue eyes softened then, the slight creases in his forehead smoothing out as well. “All right. I’m going to…trust you.”
“You still might want to close your eyes. I don’t know if there will be fumes that will irritate them—and it would be safer just in case it splashed or anything.”
Although his face again registered suspicion, he closed his eye above the scratches, keeping the other open. Gently, I dabbed at the scratches on his cheek. Now that I was closer, the air between us seemed to shift. I could smell his cologne and the hint of bourbon on his breath…but I could also feel his body heat.
And something that felt like electricity.
Where was that coming from?
Ignoring it, I continued gingerly dabbing at the diagonal scratches on his cheek, wondering if it was the huge lumpy ring on the guy’s hand or his fingernails that had cut into Sinclair’s skin. The lower of the two scratches was in his beard area where tiny prickles of stubble were making an appearance.
Why did I feel like that made him even more handsome?
As I pushed back the weird emotions rising in my chest, I asked, “Does that feel okay?”
“It’s fine.”
Setting the cotton ball on a coaster on the table, I picked up the tube of antibiotic ointment, squeezing a tiny amount of the gel on my finger. As I dabbed it onto the cuts, I said, “Make sure you don’t rub this in your eye or anything. Um, do you want me to put a Band-Aid on it?”
As he laughed gently, I felt his eyes—both of them—searching my face. This close, I refused to make eye contact. Things had suddenly grown weird and I didn’t want to fuel that fire.
“No. No Band-Aids.” I wiped my fingers on the used cotton ball and screwed the lid on the ointment, sitting back to put a little distance between us before I looked at him.
“Well, it probably still hurts but now at least it’s clean.” Quickly, I picked everything up and headed back to the kitchen. After putting the peroxide and ointment away, I began heading back to the other room…and paused. My hunger returned—but, suddenly, after feeling like maybe we were trying to build a bridge, I didn’t want to sneak food without permission.
What was going on in my head?
I returned to the table next to Sinclair, deciding to simply ask. “Can I get a little something to eat before I go to bed?”
His eyes seemed to flare then but remained calm. “I promise to work on not yelling or…losing my shit. But the bottom line is that you had a chance to eat and you refused. You can eat as much as you like at breakfast.”
I too felt a surge of anger—but if he could keep himself under control, so could I. “Very well.” But our little friendly chat was now over. “I’ll head to bed then. Where should I put my glass?”
“Leave it here. Edna will take care of it in the morning.”
I wanted to argue, because it would have been easy enough to take it to a sink or slip it in a dishwasher—but who was I to tell him how to run his household? “All right. Good night.” I resisted the urge to apologize or thank him again. Those words had already been said.
When I got to my room, I considered sending my dad a text message—but it was too late for that. Instead, I peeled off the sweatpants and climbed into bed, shutting off the lamp on the nightstand.
I had a hard time drifting off, even though I was tired. It had been a long, stressful day—and my stomach was letting me know its displeasure.
After a bit, I heard a sharp knock on the door. I knew who it was—and so I pretended to be asleep. Although he didn’t knock again, I was on alert—and decided to simply answer the door. It would be easier than what could potentially ensue otherwise.
When I opened the door, he wasn’t there—but then I saw what he’d left me. Just in front of the door was a silver tray with a glass of milk next to a plate with crackers and an apple cut into wedges. The perfect touch was a folded linen napkin.
Bringing the food into my room, my mouth began to water—but my brain was churning. How had Sinclair Whittier managed in such a short time to become a human being in my mind?
That question kept me up a lot longer.