Chapter 2
Why did the asshole have to be hot? Why?
He strolled around the armchair, distracting me from the worn fabric. My gaze caught on black pants hugging the tree trunks he had for thighs, as he ran his hand through jet black hair that was recklessly tied off. A heavy, dark eyebrow rose, slashed above his eye.
“I’m no longer skulking. Now will you leave?” His voice hadn’t lost the hoarseness. He defiantly crossed his arms against his barrel chest, a gray V-neck T-shirt tight against his biceps. And he had a beard. I had a weakness for beards, though that was counteracted by the whole asshole banishment thing.
“I’m supposed to be here. If you’d let me explain—” Maybe a calmer tone would ratchet down some of the tension, including my desire to throw a priceless vase at him. I was not a violent person, but he was bringing out something in me.
“Sir—” the friendly voice from earlier hedged.
“Stop calling me that.” Another growl. Well, at least he was this gracious with everyone.
But the welcoming voice wasn’t put off. “Adrian Killington has hired Price Restoration to renovate the estate.”
Silence met the information, and I couldn’t hold off the smug smile that spread.
“That’s why you’re here?” The “sir” leaned against the chair, seeming to regret his decision when it wobbled, his gaze never leaving me. Many of the articles that had come up in my Google search were focused on two of his grandchildren—twin granddaughters. So what did that make this man? A distant cousin? The caretaker? I had spent every moment Dad was sleeping in the hospital trying to research the property, not the family.
“I’m Bellamy Price. Mr. Killington hired my father and me to restore his estate.” Attempting to remain professional, I wiped my sweaty palm on my thigh before thrusting it forward.
I shook empty air.
“Well, there’s been a misunderstanding. No upgrades needed.” Instead of accepting my waiting hand, the man massaged his thigh, shoulders hunched, glaring at me.
It took everything in me to not laugh at his serious expression. The mantel of the fireplace was missing chunks of marble, the fire highlighting the dust that hung in the air. “Is that the judgment of the family of rats in the walls?”
“Sir, we cannot allow her to leave in this weather.” Still bodiless, the friendly voice was firm, their point highlighted by another crash of thunder shaking the structure.
The caretaker’s T-shirt lessened its death grip on his torso by a smidge. “You can stay … for tonight.”
“You’re too kind, not forcing me to drown,” I muttered. I had no patience for his anger or whatever was going on here. He wasn’t the only stubborn one in the place. We had established I was supposed to be here. I hadn’t missed that he hadn’t introduced himself or indicated what authority he had to ask me to leave.
“Would you like to give our guest a tour, sir?”
“No.”
With a final growl in farewell, the Douche stalked out of the room. The slam of the door shook the portraits on the wall, and I braced myself, ready to dive if they fell. When they didn’t, I inched closer to the fire.
Why had I been nervous? Everything was progressing swimmingly.
“Well, Ms. Price, welcome to the Killington Estate.”
It was going to be a long summer: me, mysterious voices, and an asshole.
“I know it’s late, so I won’t give you a proper tour. There will be plenty of time for that tomorrow. We have had a room readied, and a meal was delivered to your quarters. Please head up the front staircase, and I’ll lead from there.”
I reached for my backpack, exhaustion hitting me hard enough to no longer be worried about the bodiless voice. It didn’t end my curiosity, though.
“Hey, uh, where are you?” What are you? was on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t want to get on the wrong side of my sole ally in this place, who had ensured I wouldn’t be sleeping in my car tonight.
“Oh yes, I’m sorry. Quite rude of me. I’m an AI wired throughout the house and property. My name is Bl8z3, but everyone pronounces it Blaze. I’m available in most areas, including the garage and the stables. But please don’t worry if you are having a private moment. I don’t have cameras, merely a helpful speaker system throughout the estate. I will give you the utmost discretion.”
Wonderful. While staying in the biggest mansion I had ever seen, I had an omniscient voice who might listen to me take a shit. Perfect.
“Is there anyone else, or is it just you, Bl8z3?”
“There are others, ma’am, but they can greet you tomorrow. After readying your room, they left for the evening. They don’t live in the main house. You are the first visitor we’ve had in a long time. But now, it’s time for a hot shower, maybe a nightcap, and a good night’s rest.” The voice had an actual tone and texture, unlike the typical robotic or flat AI voices I was used to.
After I clambered up the stairs, Bl8z3 directed me right, then another right, to the second door. My shoulders sank in relief when I trudged into the room. A queen-sized bed with an iron frame dominated the space. The room was expansive, mostly clean despite the musty odor that permeated the area, containing a wide armoire and a seating area, where a plated sandwich sat on the coffee table, and a maple desk with a chair. The furniture needed to be sanded and stained.
I should research the Killington family, but the storm was affecting my service, my text informing Dad I had arrived taking multiple attempts before sending. My research would have to wait until tomorrow. I was not going to ask Bl8z3 so it could report back to the douche.
Before showering in the en suite, I unpacked, removing a set of underwear, phone charger, my tablet that contained my traveling library, and two framed photos. I tilted the frames to catch the light and smiled at the photo of me and my college best friends, then the other of my dad and me, smiling, in front of the house we’d completed on my thirteenth birthday. Traveling light made my life simpler, but these were my essentials.
Stroking the frame, I whispered to myself I could do this.
The sunlight streaming in through the windows woke me from my fitful sleep. Dreams of being chased by unknown voices had haunted me all night while the house collapsed around me, a hulking shape watching on.
But today was a new day. My luggage was waiting for me outside the bedroom door—the mysterious staff must have collected it from my car. The evening before felt more like something out of a book I’d been reading than reality. I sent another email to Mr. Killington’s office to confirm my arrival and schedule a phone call once I’d toured the property.
It was impossible not to wince as the bedroom door screeched on its hinges. Eager to get started, I grabbed my iPad to capture notes and pictures on. My curiosity about this place won out over my hunger for breakfast—I couldn’t rely on ten-year-old designs when I was standing in the best source of information. The caretaker, or whoever he was from last night, was the least of my concerns. I had my marching orders from Mr. Killington. If Sir Asshole had a problem with my presence, he could complain to his employer.
Mind made up, I followed the threadbare runner covering the hardwood floors. The sparse lights flickered; many of the bulbs in the sconces were burned out, making the details of the wallpaper difficult to see. My stroll brought me to the final doorway in the hallway, the handles rusted and locked. Mr. Killington had given specific instructions to restore every inch of the property, but for some reason I still checked over my shoulder before bending down.
One of the many perks about growing up with a father who updated old homes: I knew a thing or two about how to enter a locked room. Their mysteries trapped inside, the keys lost long ago. I kept a small tool kit in my pocket for this very purpose.
If this lock wasn’t too rusted, I could get in. Picking a lock was easier than trying to break the door or remove it from its frame; my goal was always to preserve something, no matter how damaged it was. A locksmith at the house we were working on when I was ten taught me. It was my passion project, finding the secret rooms, the treasures that were most precious hidden inside.
“It’s all about the tumblers,” I muttered. I bit my lip, concentrating, closing my eyes as I listened—a little to the left, then to the right. Patience, and a flick of the wrist.
Then, with a soft click: “I’m in.” The door creaked as I pushed it open, leaning forward, too excited to stand up.
“What do you think you’re doing?” a voice roared.
Losing my balance, I fell flat on my face, jarred for breath.
With as much dignity as I could muster, I clambered up, nose smarting, wiping away the dust that had erupted off my jeans, and glared at the hot caretaker. Couldn’t he have announced himself or something?
The poor lighting didn’t obscure his roughly maintained beard or the messy hair he’d pulled back, a breath away from escaping the hair tie he used. An eyebrow arched in annoyance—apparently at my existence—he wore yet another pair of black pants and a dark gray T-shirt painted onto his biceps, towering over me.
His gaze dragged across my body, down to my shoes, back up my jeans, tucked in Henley, and my mane that never seemed to stay out of my face, tendrils falling out of my ponytail.
“What are you wearing?”
“What?” I bit my lip, my palms tucking into my suspenders. “Clothes?”
He stepped closer, forcing me to press my back against the closed door while I narrowed my eyes. I might have been tall, but he was taller. The width of his shoulders and the thickness of his arms made me doubt whether I could wrap my hands around his biceps, or his neck—for choking purposes, of course.
He reached forward, and I sucked in a breath. His fingers were long. He could probably palm certain parts of my body—a completely inappropriate thought I immediately banished.
He pointed an index finger at my right suspender, the glare from his gaze almost setting it on fire. “What are these?”
“My suspenders?” My voice trailed off. Suspenders weren’t exactly common, but I had never met someone confused by my wardrobe choices. More often it was a comment about how I’d get farther in life if I lost some weight.
“What are you, some sort of eighteenth-century lord?”
“Screw you. I can wear whatever I want.” I wasn’t a fan of belts. But suspenders were comfortable, and I enjoyed the way they emphasized my breasts. Belts made my round middle seem rounder, showing off the divots. Suspenders were a fashionable and flattering way to keep my pants up.
“I don’t understand, why are you still here?” His finger remained suspended between us.
I was ready to petition for his name to officially be “Sir Asshole.” The only kindness he was offering was his evergreen scent invading my senses, masking the musty smell of the house.
We were in some sort of “glare-off.” My eyes quivered, cheeks hurting from the effort not to smile, to laugh at the juvenileness of it all.
Someone needed to teach him about personal space. “Normally people introduce themselves rather than growling.” I cleared my throat, my palms sweating.
A slight rumble emanated from his chest, his gray eyes narrowing.
“Here, I’ll go first. Bellamy Price. My father, Maurice Price, is the head of Price Restoration. We restore heritage homes and were hired to restore this estate.” Silence. I wanted to kick him. “This is where you introduce yourself.”
“Your name is Oliver Killington,” Bl8z3 announced, breaking our staring contest, neither of us able to meet the other’s eye as he took a large step back away from me.
He was a Killington. Standing before me in a cheap T-shirt you could buy in bulk, scraggly beard, and in need of a haircut. I tried to keep my face blank. He wasn’t an unknown quantity, some rude caretaker. He had more money than I would ever see in my lifetime.
Another grunt. “I’m Oliver Killington.” He tumbled over his name. “This is my estate, and I can assure you, I didn’t hire you or your father.”
The desire to kick him was only getting stronger.
“Records reflect your grandfather hired Price Restoration.”
Grandfather? He wasn’t a caretaker but a grandchild, one of the heirs to the fortune. What was he doing here?
“Thank you, Bl8z3.” Oliver’s voice dropped another octave, not sounding an ounce grateful. Bl8z3 was lucky it did not have a corporeal form at that moment. Unfortunately, I did.
“Well, if you are the owner, we will need your permission.” Normally I did not placate people, but there was something burning in my chest with the knowledge he was living here. I had unknowingly invaded his retreat, leaving me conflicted.
“Adrian Killington is the owner of the estate. Oliver Killington will inherit at his demise and is the only Killington on the property.”
We were unable to meet each other’s gazes at Bl8z3’s blunt recitation of the facts. Questions demanded to burst out of me. Why was he staying here in this house, which had seen better days at least a decade ago? And why did my presence seem to offend him so much? You know, light conversational topics. Thins he surely wanted to share with a stranger.
We needed this job but Oliver was the only Killington here. He could make my job miserable. Hold this up. Handling this project alone meant handling him. Lucky me.
I forced myself to speak gently; explaining the parameters of the project was something Dad typically handled. “Houses this old need to be maintained. I’m still walking through and need to consider the blueprints. I plan to ask the staff what will make it more functional for them, and I’d appreciate your input as well. This is your space.” I tried to put myself in his shoes as his gaze darted around, snagging on the door behind me, his jaw clenching. I had to assume his aggression was due to the love he had for the property, which created blind spots to what it truly needed.
This time, he sized me up. I attempted what I hoped was a neutral expression, resisting the urge to bounce on the balls of my feet. So much rested on this moment, and I needed to somehow exude confidence and an ability to do this job. Any expressions of sympathy would not benefit me.
“Fine.” He stepped back, leaving me colder. “Work on the house. But stay out of the west wing. It’s off limits.”
I mean, this place was humongous. Were we really going to refer to it as having actual wings? It was a bit much, considering there were areas with crumbled walls, vines intertwining with wires. If it weren’t for the age of the estate, the family backing this, the historic value, and the challenge, the discussion would center on tearing it down. It must be nice to have so much money, to have no guilt ordering people to do as you please.
“The west wing?” I wanted to humor him, but there was no way to remodel the rest of the house and ignore an entire section. Not in good conscience, and not in practicality.
He stepped forward again, hand reaching out, grasping the handle of the door I’d just picked open, slamming it shut hard enough that it shook my bones.
“This area is off limits.” He clipped each word, his warning clear. “Stay out.”
I gaped. “You’re really going to be all ‘You shall not pass’?” Without a staff in hand, I stomped my foot to emphasize my point. Why wasn’t he a reasonable recluse?
“Excuse me?” Oliver’s eyebrows twitched. His gaze bore into mine. The darkness in the hallway made the whites of his eyes brighter, the rest of him a blur of shadows.
“You shall not pass.” Not an ounce of guilt rose when I stomped my foot again and it landed squarely on his.
“What is …?”
Honestly, he struggled with suspenders, and now a basic movie reference? “Lord of the Rings, Gandalf?”
There wasn’t a spec of recognition on his face.
“Elevenses, ‘my precious’—anything?” I’d understand not having seen the director’s cut, but never watching any of the movies? They’re on TV all the time. Modern classics at their finest.
“Has anyone told you you’re strange?” His tone implied he thought it was more than a bit.
“Oddly enough, you are not the first.” Nor would he be the last. But I liked who I was, suspenders, dorky movie references, and all.
“Stay. Out. Of. The. West. Wing.” His voice reverberated through my chest, a growl punctuating each word. From the blueprints I knew that the door led to another section of rooms, but whoever had been supplying Dad with information hadn’t given anything on this area before we were unceremoniously fired.
I’d work with this, for now. “Fine.” My voice was a squeak compared to the low rumble of his. Maybe I should practice deepening my voice for intimidation or authority.
It wasn’t lying. For the time being, I wouldn’t go inside the west wing. Eventually I would have to break our agreement. But that was a future Bellamy problem. Right now, I intended to keep my word—let him have his secrets. Whatever he was trying to hide in this mysterious west wing wasn’t any of my concern.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants, but he didn’t step away. “So where are you planning on staying?”
I couldn’t tell if he was intentionally being difficult or hadn’t seen my luggage yet. “Here.”
“Excuse me?” The growl was back, but all it made me want to do was roll my eyes.
I refused to allow his height, shoulders, and thick thighs to intimidate me. “You want me to repeat myself? I’m living here during the entirety of the project.” I spoke each word slowly, ensuring they landed.
My particular brand of snark was failing. His jaw didn’t twitch. Though his reaction may have been hidden beneath his wild beard.
“Live here? With me?” Oliver’s tone was flat, his eyes narrowing on me, expectant. “Don’t you know what they say about me?”
I shook my head. I hadn’t even known he existed until yesterday.
He blew out a breath, taking a step away from me, an ominous chill filling the air. “That I killed my family.”