Page 11 of His to Haunt

Okay, this is not what I was hoping for in a—landmate? I have no idea what the technical term is for this kind of arrangement.

“Some things I want to show you about the grounds,” he says, throwing his thumb over his shoulder.

“Yeah, okay,” I nod, eager to get beyond this awkward AF introduction.

He stares at me, poker-faced. I stare back, not-poker-faced. I’m fairly certain that I’m not doing a great job of hiding how uncomfortable I’m feeling.

But he holds my gaze unrelentingly, and by the cock of his wicked dark brow, he’s growing impatient.

My lips part. “You mean, like, right now?”

He subtly nods with condescension twinkling in his weird blue eyes, the light in his black pupils flicking strangely.

“But…it’s storming,” I protest, my nose catching his masculine scent. His scent is alarming, matching his looks. He smells like masculinity wrapped in spiced leather, dangerous and alluring.

“Not yet,” he shrugs. “We’ve got a few.”

I glance out the window, unconvinced.

“Alright. I’ll let my mom know.”

He snickers at me. “You brought your mom here?”

His tone is incredulous—man, show some respect already.

“Well, yeah. She’s living with me. I’ll…be right back.”

“Make it fast, Leena,” he orders.

Seriously?

My back to him, I roll my eyes, pretending I didn’t hear him as I shuffled back down the hallway. Okay, so the guy is officially a selfish prick. I wish I had my hands on a full psych analysis of him so I could arm myself with information and come up witha plan for dealing with him. For now, I’ll chalk him up as a narcissist.

That wish of mine that the groundskeeper would be an old, quiet grandpa-type has been shattered into tiny raining shards that sting like papercuts. I do strangely feel literal physical pain after being in his presence. Zand is not the kind of guy you imagine caring for plants, flowers, and shrubbery.

Wonder what the hell his deal is?

Stacy said his family goes way back. I can’t imagine growing up here your entire life. That alone could explain his bad attitude.

To think that Rachel lived here since she was sixteen. A mortician’s daughter. I can’t possibly relate to what that was like.

When I find Mom, she’s in the small corner bedroom on the second floor, the room I labeled the nursery, with yellow wallpaper and a small desk near a twin bed.

She’s mumbling to herself while looking out the window.

“She is a good girl…do what she’s told,” it sounds like she says.

Not wanting to interrupt that strange convo, I turn around to leave, tripping over her luggage lying open in the center of the floor.

Mom gasps. “Oh, Leena. Watch out for the needles in the carpet. I think this was a sewing room.”

I get up from the floor, flicking my hair back.

“Don’t forget to take your meds before bed.”

“Mm-hm,” she sings.

I head down to meet Zand, who has carelessly flung the patio door wide open and is leaning on the railing outside, just as I imagine he did a million times as a kid. A strange thought that only adds to my discomfort, like I’m intruding upon what is rightfully his.

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