Page 27 of The Faking Game

And I’m in West’s house.

The knowledge feels like a splinter beneath my skin. He might be just a few rooms away. Right now. He’s close, and he’ll always be close.

But there’s no denying that I feel safer now, too. Maybe that’s what annoys me the most. My own fear after seeing that damn bouquet.

I haven’t been fighting West or Rafe because I’m not afraid. God, I wish I wasn’t. But because their concern makes me feel like I’m imposing on them.

Rafe especially, and my mother, who I have to call later today or she’ll freak out that it’s been twenty-four hours without contact. Managing everyone else’s feelings about my situation is like walking a tightrope, leaving no space for me to feel my own. My brother’s obsession with my safety started years before the stalker entered the picture. My mother’s paranoia, too. It dates back to over a decade ago, when the avalanche caught Rafe and Etienne in its claws and left me with one brother instead of two.

I rummage through my bags and find some clean clothes. I get dressed slowly, wincing when I bend down to pull on my socks. Yeah. I need water and food, and to never, ever indulge like that again.

I’m braiding my damp hair when a soft knock on the door to the sitting room makes me freeze.

“Um. Hello?”

“Miss? Mr. West asked me to check on you,” a male voice says. It has to be one of the staff.

“Just a moment.”

I pull on my favorite cardigan, sky blue with small embroidered roses, and open the door.

It’s the man I met last night. He’s slender and in his mid-fifties, perhaps, with his peppered hair brushed back.

“Good morning, Miss. We spoke briefly yesterday. My name is Ernest, and I’m the house manager here at Fairhaven. Would you like some breakfast this morning?”

“I’d love a glass of juice,” I say.

“Of course. I’ll be happy to show you around later today and help you settle in.”

“I’d love that, thank you.” Maybe I can ask him, too, if it’s okay if I move some things around in the little living room outside of my bedroom. I’ll need to buy a sewing machine and a working table.

Ernest leads me out of my rooms and down the grand staircase. I let my hand run along the polished wood banister. It’s smooth, worn from decades of use.

Fairhaven is a memory from the past.

It’s a testament to a kind of wealth that doesn’t exist anymore, to a time when America’s premier families made their fortunes in railroads, steel and stocks. When giant houses like these were erected along this shoreline, overlooking the ocean like bastions. A memory from a sliver of time that’s come and gone.

I saw so little of Fairhaven last night.

Ernest leads me down one of the curved stairs to the foyer, where we entered last night. The marble flooring and the wainscoting, the high ceilings, are all stunning.

I saw the outside of the house yesterday. The red brick and white columns make the house look as if it’s caught between the Old World and the New.

“You’re already familiar with your wing,” Ernest says, walking into the sitting room. Other people are there, cleaning, moving things. Resetting the place from the party. “I want to reiterate that no one will enter past the first door without your permission, with the exception of the scheduled cleaning.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate that.”

He walks me through the sitting room, the dining room, and into the butler’s kitchen. There’s a large family kitchen too, with a massive center island and French doors that open to the terrace.

“Lunch is available in the kitchen around one p.m. every day. It’s served to all guests at the manor and available for the staff. Nothing fancy,” he tells me, “but it’s good fare.”

“That sounds lovely,” I say.

Ernest leads me back through the kitchen and into a long hallway. “This wing houses the library and Mr. West’s study,” he explains, gesturing to a set of heavy wooden doors. “The library is open to all guests, but Mr. West’s office is private.”

I glance at the doors. Is he behind them right now? I haven’t seen him around, not since last night, when he dropped me off outside the door to my rooms. He silently handed me the champagne bottle and then disappeared down the stairs, back to the areas with the guests. To conquer, to talk. Had he spoken to those women his mother had brought in?

“And through here,” Ernest says, opening a large French door, “is the conservatory.”

---