Page 5 of Fire Fight

This place is fantastic. We’re being offered the opportunity of a lifetime. Yet here I am, tense, waiting for disaster.

I bite on the inside of my cheek, willing myself to stop as he pulls up outside the open garage. I count another three cars parked inside, with room for at least twice that many.

Fuck my fear.

This is too good to waste.

The moment Arnold stops the car, I’m out of the back seat, running past the carefully landscaped garden, jumping over the moat—themoat!!!—of an expansive water feature to reach the front door.

It’s even better than the weekend trips Mum and I took years back, going to a slew of open homes for cheap entertainment. We would eat whatever refreshments were on offer while we saw how the other half lived.

Those working-classpeasants.

I feel embarrassed for believing they had it sweet because look at this place.

“Stop!”

Arnold’s sharp tone makes me freeze in surprise. An adrenaline dump makes my vision pulse white.

Then my fight-or-flight retreats at his smile.

“The alarm’s on when I’m asleep or not home.” He tips me a wink that shaves five years off his age. “Better let me do the honours.”

He goes ahead of me, the midday sun shining on his thinning hair while his well-padded arse jiggles with each step. For a rich guy, he’s not bad, but definitely a five to Mum’s ten—the world working like it should.

Setting his looks aside, so far, he’s far nicer than any of her exes. She’s always had an irresistible draw to a bad boy, panties dropping at the first hint of a mean smile.

But I can’t imagine Arnold being the impetus behind any late-night escapes, tiptoeing past the drunk or stoned dude sharing her bed.

Just the attempt to picture it makes me laugh and the burst of good humour eases the last of my discomfort away.

“M’lady,” he says, sweeping his arm through the entrance when the box beeps, lights turning green. “After you.”

I lunge through the door, getting halfway across the marble floor of the entrance before stopping, mouth open at the spectacle. A curved staircase in the same stone leads off to my right. To my left is the wall of glass, three storeys high, offering a panoramic view over the water.

Nothinghas ever taken my breath away before, but my mouth gapes open and closed like a fish on land. “Holy…”

“Told you,” Mum says, giving my shoulder a squeeze as she walks inside. “I can’t wait to show you your room.”

“Put a pin in that,” Arnold says, slipping a hand around her waist. “I’ve only got twenty minutes for lunch before I have to get back to the office.”

“You work on a Saturday?” I shake my head. “If I lived in a place like this, I’d retire early and spend all my days staring at the ocean view.”

“Youdolive here,” he gently reminds me, a sentiment that startles me, then makes my heart squeeze with joy. “And what you’ll be doing Monday to Friday is attending school.”

Ah. The fly in the ointment.

Much as I love the fact Arnold thought me worth the money and effort of enrolling me in Ashford Crest Academy—a place the richest people waitlist their kids for from birth—the actual attendance makes my stomach knot.

New students, new teachers, old heritage buildings. On top of the base-level anxiety I still have from the attack last year, it’s a whole heap of sleepless nights.

But that’s Monday, and it’s only Saturday. I won’t ruin the entire weekend with negative thoughts.

Especially when, knowing my mother’s capacity for ill-timed mental breakdowns, we might be kicked out by then.

“Don’t worry.” Arnold reads my mind. “When my son drags himself home tomorrow, you’ll know at least one student there and Blaine didn’t have any trouble fitting in last year.”

Thoughts of my as-yet-unintroduced almost-stepbrother take a back seat to the warm gratitude that floods me like the midday sun floods the spotless kitchen.

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