Page 28 of His

I blink. Another silhouette appears in the window. The nurse, Jackie, squints into the sun, before finding me in the garden. Then, she yanks the curtains closed.

I frown at the window wondering if I imagined it. Just like if I imagined seeing a shadow pass by the bedroom last night while Astor and I were having sex.

A tingle of awareness sends a chill up my spine and, somewhere in the back of my mind, I get the sick feeling that Valerie is far more lucid than she’s led Astor to believe.

Seventeen

Brittney

I’m late. I’m freaking late on the first day of my first big job. This isn’t emptying bedpans in the geriatric unit. This is working for a billionaire—that’s right, an actual billionaire. A really, really sexy one. Well, technically, I’m not working for him, but for his ailing wife. But still, I can assume being in this kind of social circle can open many doors for me that the geriatric unit can’t. (Those doors open automatically).

And God knows I need an opened door right about now.

I glance down at the check-engine light glaring from the dashboard. Maybe Mr. Stone will notice it and offer an alternative form of transportation. Do rich people do things like that? See us poor peasants struggling and toss us a few hundos with a wink and a smile. After all, a couple hundred bucks to a billionaire is probably nothing.

I wish I had a couple hundred bucks right now. I’d buy a new pair of sneakers to wear on my shifts. People don’t realize how important quality footwear is for a nurse. I learned that the hard way within my first week on the job. I’ve never had such aching feet in my life. I could barely stand in the mornings. My current shoes are threadbare, stained, and the tread is worn almost completely smooth, making wet surfaces as slick as ice—not good when you’re emptying bedpans a dozen times a day. Well, not anymore.

The reason I got this job was because the nurse who had been originally assigned to assist Jackie (Mr. Stone’s main nurse) had a rollerblading accident and broke her ankle, and I was literally standing there when the call came through. Rumor is Mr. Stone isn’t the type of man to wait on anyone or anything—broken ankle or not—so . . . here I am.

Nerves tickle my stomach as I drive through the narrow, windy road leading to Mr. Stone’s beach house—one of many of his homes, probably. To the left, endless ocean. To the right, massive, gated entrances with long paved driveways that disappear into the woods.

Astor Stone is so sexy. Like jaw-dropping, food-falling-out-of-your-mouth sexy. He’s also much older than I am, by about thirty years.

I am nervous to meet him—to meet everyone.

I’ve never seen such a detailed case file. Apparently, Mr. Stone hand-picks the doctors and nurses for him and his wife—regardless if they are employed by hospitals, home health facilities, private practices, whatever—and pays them handsomely to do house calls. Or, like I’m doing, twenty-four-hour in-home care. Then, everyone has to sign a non-disclosure agreement. After that, we’re given, like, a ten-page summary of what to expect, including passcodes for entry, names of people who we are allowed to let into the home, etcetera. Mr. Stone is very big on security. From the summary, I know there are several people whom I should expect (and allow) into the beach house. Mr. Stone himself, Mrs. Stone, two men who work for Mr. Stone, and a new housekeeper who will also be there 24/7. Maybe she and I can become friends.

I glance down at the GPS. Four minutes until my arrival.

I exhale, practicing my breathing. I’m extremely nervous. The only person I will know is Jackie, who has worked for Mr. Stone for years. And I don’t even know her. I overheard she was none too happy about working with a twenty-one-year-old who is fresh out of nursing school. That’s okay though. It’s my time to shine. It better be, anyway, because I cannot afford to get fired from this job. My apartment manager made it clear that he will not allow any more late payments.

My Nissan sputters and jolts as I accelerate up a cliff that overlooks the ocean. This car is a bigger train wreck than I am. I got a deal on it because I went to nursing school with the salesman’s dad. And by deal, I mean a hundred dollars off of a car that had already been slashed to below blue-book pricing. Nobody wanted it. I assume it has something to do with the rust on the hood and the dented backend.

I pass a sign that reads: Dead End.

“Destination is on your left . . . You have reached your destination.”

I hit the brakes and come to a full stop in the middle of the road.

No way. This can’t be right.

I check the GPS, confirm that it is indeed my destination, then look back at the house.

To be clear, it’s beautiful, stunning even. It’s just not what I expected—to say the least. I expected a fifteen-thousand-foot mega-mansion with rooms that sense your entry and automatically change the temperature to your personal preference. (Doesn’t Bill Gates have something like that)? But this? This little quaint beach cottage looks to be no more than two bedrooms.

Where am I going to sleep?

The butterflies in my stomach turn into one big knot as I pull into the short, pebbled driveway. There are three—three—other cars here. How can that many people fit in this tiny house?

When I get out of the car, a woman appears along the edge of the property, wiping sweat from her brow, and unintentionally transferring a streak of dirt across her forehead. She’s wearing a t-shirt, jean shorts, and is absolutely gorgeous. Long, silky black hair, almond eyes, tanned skin.

I immediately feel inadequate. These people are rich and beautiful. Because of course they are. That’s always how it works, right? Me, on the other hand? I’m what they call basic. I have basic brown hair, basic brown eyes, a basic body that’s neither skinny or fat, just toneless and curveless. I’m the kind of girl people forget instantly. I’d make a great serial killer.

The woman’s stride breaks when she notices me.

I smile and wave awkwardly.

“I’m the new nurse,” I yell out the opened window. Geez, why yell? Why not walk over, or wait until she comes to me?

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