I crouch down to meet her eyes. “What’s wrong, honey?”
Her eyes are wide as saucers. She doesn’t answer. I think she’s frozen in fear.
Mr. Rochester turns to face us.
“Paige,” he says, and it seems to break the ice. She runs to him and buries her face in his arm. She still looks shy with the group, but at least she’s found her anchor.
I give him a grateful smile and then step into the hallway.
“Wait,” he says.
Run, my mind supplies, but instead I freeze. A deer in the headlights. Nothing good will happen to me inside that room. The command in his voice holds me in place. I’m out of sight right now, and I stand very still, hoping he’ll think I’ve already left.
“Jane.”
I’m Jane, now. The way he became Beau. It’s a boundary that we don’t need to cross.
I take a step back to the doorway, hoping that he needs me to fetch something. An innocuous errand for me to run. Anything but what I suspect will happen next. “Yes, Mr. Rochester?”
His full name reminds him of his place. And mine.
He quirks his lips. “Come join us.”
“Oh no. I couldn’t possibly.”
“Why not? I’m sure my friends want to meet the woman I’ve been spending so much time with.”
It’s like a bomb goes off in the room. Not the explosive kind. The magnetic kind that shuts down electricity in an entire city. The casual movements stop. The murmurs between people go silent. A few eyebrows rise. Zoey Aldridge wears a frozen gorgeous smile.
I don’t even know what my face is doing, but it can’t be good. How could he just come out and basically imply that we’re having sex in a room full of people I don’t know?
“You’re allowed to come now,” Paige says, full of excitement about this new development.
Which somehow makes it worse.
“I don’t know,” I stammer. “I’m not dressed for a party.”
“It’s just a casual affair,” Mr. Rochester says. “You don’t mind, do you?”
He addresses the question to the group, but he looks right at Zoey. She manages a graceful demur. “I’m not sure she’d be comfortable with us. We’re a rowdy group when we get together.”
“She can handle it,” he says.
Paige comes to grab my two fingers and drag me into the room. I did want to experience this party, to feel what it’s like to be rich, but not like this. Not as the help. Not while I’m being paraded as Beau Rochester’s convenient sex partner.
“What are you doing?” I whisper at him while Paige wanders over to the bar cart, examining the colorful liquids, the amber and burgundy, the rarer aqua blue and chartreuse.
“You need to eat dinner. Why not eat with us?”
“I would rather starve.”
“Are we that evil?”
“No. Not because of that. Because I’m this charity case now.”
“You’re not a charity case. You have more reason to be here than any of the other people. They’re only here to get a look at me so they can gossip later.”
I give him a sideways glance. “If that’s true, why did you invite them?”
“I didn’t. Zoey did.”
That makes me roll my eyes. “It’s your house.”
“Maybe I was curious to see what you’d make of them.”
“Well, they’re paying more per night at the Lighthouse Inn than I have in my bank account.”
“You need money for something?”
“Spoken like a rich person. I need money for everything.”
A soft chuckle. “Fair enough. Spend the evening with us. Spend it with me. It’s going to be a major chore for you, I’m sure. Much worse than changing diapers and wiping hands.”
“Why does everyone think six-year-olds still wear diapers?”
“The food should be good, at least.”
Before I can reply two handsome men appear. They look like brothers.
Specifically, they could easily pass for the Hemsworth brothers, one of them taller and leaner, the other one muscled and smiling. Both of them blond and blue-eyed.
One has his arm slung over the other one in a casual embrace. It’s like a meme where you have to guess whether they’re dating or siblings.
“Don’t let this ugly bastard monopolize your time,” the taller one says. “We want to talk with you. We’re always eager to meet new people.”
“You smell fresh blood,” Mr. Rochester says in a dry tone.
“She’ll come back in one piece,” says the older one.
His hair’s slightly longer. You have to look carefully to catalog the difference between them. He takes my arm and leads me away from Mr. Rochester.
My heart thumps against my rib cage. I’m so far out of my depth, it’s ridiculous.
We end up standing next to the fireplace. One of them procures a glass of wine. I take a sip just so I have something to do. And wince at the sharp acidity. Somehow I always thought expensive wine would taste better than what I once tried at Olive Garden. Apparently not.
“Tell us everything,” the younger one says.