I open Beau’s bedroom door to find him typing away on his laptop.
“We said no work,” I say, standing there like an outsider. In so many ways, an outsider. Why did I ever think we were like a family? What kind of insane adrenaline rush made that thought run through my head. Mr. Rochester, and I will call him Mr. Rochester from now on, is my boss.
“You said no work,” he says without looking up. “I can type just as good sitting down as standing up. The hydrocodone makes it so I can tell people to get their heads out of their asses.”
“You don’t do that already?”
“I can say it better now.”
“There’s someone at the door.”
He does look up then. “Who?”
We live on a remote cliffside. It’s not exactly flush with visitors. Mrs. Fairfax comes once a day. She brings any groceries or supplies we need. The Uber driver was right about that—the only place that winding, terrifying road leads is the Coach House.
“A woman. Umm, I probably should have asked for her name. She said you’re dating.”
His eyes become veiled. “I’m not dating anyone.”
“So I should send her away?”
“What does she look like?”
“You’re going to date a random crazy person if they look good?”
A quirk of his lips. “I’m trying to figure out who she is. Not gauge if I should date her.”
“Pretty. Blonde. Rich.”
He sighs. “Shockingly that does help me figure it out. It’s Zoey. Send her up.”
“Mr. Rochester—”
“What happened to calling me Beau?”
“I guess that stopped when you started dating some pretty rich blonde woman.”
An eyebrow rises. “Are you jealous?”
“No,” I say. “I need to call Noah anyway and let him know what happened.”
Mr. Rochester narrows his eyes. “Send up Zoey. And then leave us alone. I think she can handle my needs from here on out.”
I slam the door, which is childish. I’m feeling childish at the moment. I let Zoey in with a brittle smile and go back to heating up the lobster casserole. Sure enough, Zoey comes down to get servings of the dinner for both of them. They eat together in his room.
Only a few days ago, he kissed me. He touched me. He made me come.
What was I thinking?
Besides the fact that he was very good at it.
I’m no one to him. My cheeks heat with embarrassment. I was convenient to him. He probably imagined her beautiful blonde hair when I went down on him in the study.
When I finally make it to my bedroom, I don’t call Noah.
We’ve exchanged a few texts since our big fight, but nothing too personal. Mostly memes we think the other person will like. He would probably be upset if I told him about last night. He’d probably think that was a good reason to come home. After how dumb I feel about getting intimate with Mr. Rochester, I might even agree, but I won’t leave Paige right now.
Instead, in the dark, curled up in the comforter, I google Beau Rochester and Zoey.
The search results make my stomach clench.
They appear at movie premieres and popular nightclubs. There’s a photo of them standing in a group with some famous actors I recognize. They all have huge grins on their beautiful faces. What did he say out in the cold? That he had committed “some truly crazy illegal stunts while high as a kite in Los Angeles.” This group seems like they’d be down for whatever.
God, I’m a fool.
Did you think you’d hook up with the playboy Beau Rochester and get your picture in the tabloids? He asked me that once. I didn’t even know what he was talking about then.
The tabloids speculate if his breakup with Zoey Aldridge is the reason he left the social scene—heartbroken and unable to bear seeing her around. Little do they know that they’re still together. I wonder if the tabloids would be interested in printing that they’re holed up in a bedroom in a Maine mansion right now.
If I fire you, you could make decent money selling a story to them.
Now I understand why some people make unethical choices. We don’t set out to become that person. It’s bitterness that hardens us. I won’t sell information about Beau Rochester, but I can understand the desire to for revenge in the face of my humiliation.
According to Wikipedia, Zoey Aldridge got her big break on this reality dating show years ago. Since then she’s been linked to multiple musicians and Silicon Valley billionaires. She has her own jewelry and perfume lines in major department stores.
And then there’s me. Orphan. Poor. Nanny.
I had the audacity to think that Beau Rochester was interested in me for anything more than a quick fuck up against the door in his study.
The next day I wake up in a slow simmering state of frustration. Even Mrs. Fairfax senses my mood, because she makes my favorite breakfast—blueberry pancakes.