Page 16 of Breaking Point
“Make that a cup to go, please.”
The first thing I see once I’m buzzed through the security gate is a long driveway, covered on either side by a line of beautiful, thick trees. Rolling grass spreads out on either side with the parameter of the land bracketed by a tall stone fence.
Whoever owns the house is big on privacy, based off the immense security presence at the gate and the way I still can’t see the house—shrouded by the trees—from where I idle slowly along the driveway. Perhaps that’s why the assistant job pays so much. Maybe it’s to ensure I don’t go running around Colorado spilling this person’s secrets.
Or it’s a crazy serial killer who gets you to work for them forinsane amounts of money to buy your silence and turn your cheek the other way when you hear screams from the basement.
My foot slams on the brake.
I’ve been watching far too many true crime documentaries.
Shaking myself out of the stupor my imagination sent me into, I continue forward, unable to hold back my sharp gasp of shock as I round a bend in the driveway and the house finally comes into view.
It’s exquisite.
A large two-story structure, painted white with gray trim work and tiling, sits among the land, the view of the mountains in the background.
God, I’d love to work here.
Serial killer or not, that view alone and the serenity and quiet the land offers send such a calmness through my veins something deep within me wants to stay here forever.
I park the car right as a tall, lanky blonde steps out of the house. I open my driver’s side door as she waves me over, a grin etched across her face. She holds out her hand for me once I step onto the front porch.
“You must be Isabella. I’m Lucy.”
Her grip is firm as I clear the steps. “Nice to meet you, Lucy. You can call me Bella.”
“Bella.” She smiles.
I have to slightly crane my neck to peer up at her. She must be at least six foot and at my short five-foot-five frame, she towers over me. One of my close friends from high school swam competitively and they have the same build and carry themselves in the same manner. Perhaps she used to swim or played some other sport.
I’d like to say I’m a great judge of character—my intuition usually lets me know who to avoid—and I’m not getting any egomaniac or serial killer vibes from Lucy.
Yet again, never underestimate a woman.
Spinning on her heel, she ushers me inside the house.
It takes everything in me not to stumble.
It’s as if the owner stole inspiration from my Pinterest board.People may call it basic or cliché but I’m in love with warm tones and the farmhouse style. And this house—with its tall ceilings, large open rooms, and stunning floor-to-ceiling windows—creates the most gorgeous home.
“Your home is beautiful,” I gush as she pulls two water bottles from the fridge.
“This isn’t my home.” She offers me a water bottle and as I clutch it, I must not hide my confusion very well. “I’m interviewing for my client,” she goes on to explain, ushering me onto one of the kitchen bar stools.
The marble counter is so shiny, I’m scared I’ll ruin it.
Even the kitchen looks like it was plucked from my Pinterest board.
“Who’s your client?” I ask, my eyes trailing over the deep navy paintwork and gold fixtures.Perhaps it is an egomaniac after all.
“I can’t disclose that.”
My head whips to Lucy, noting the no-nonsense attitude she’s suddenly slipped into. Without giving me a chance to respond she dives into the interview. Throwing questions out at me left and right, I can’t even take a sip from my water before she’s asking another. The friendly smile that greeted me is gone and who sits before me is a strong woman not wanting to deal with anyone’s bullshit.
Including my own.
Once she wraps up, I have no idea how I’ve done. I don’t know if I’ve impressed her, answered questions to her liking, or if she’s even leaning toward a second interview.
