Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
But when his gaze catches mine, and my heart threatens to burst from my chest, I realize getting caught staring is the least of my problems.
This boy is dangerous.
And I don’t just mean that figuratively. He’s the type of guy who will break my heart if I let him, and seeing how my pulse won’t slow down, if given the chance, I will.
“Still need your name.”
He doesn’t answer.
With eyes locked, we’re at a standstill, and I wonder who will break the connection first.
He chooses to.
And when he strides away, it feels like this was all a dream.
Like I imagined the connection.
I must stand there for a few moments, but eventually, when a soft breeze tickles my skin, thoughts of having to speak to my parents hit me like a freight train.
This summer is going to suck.
Or . . .
Maybe it won’t.
This new guy could help.
3
Lorenzo
My mother finds me at lunch in the staff dining quarters, which is nicer than any restaurant I’ve ever eaten in. Everything smells like rosemary and butter.
I’m in the corner by myself since I’m not sure what the protocol is on taking the food, and I promised Mom I’d behave for now.
She places a plate in front of me. “Eat.”
I poke the roasted chicken. “We can’t afford this.”
“It’s free, Enzo.” She joins me with a plate of her own. “They feed staff well.”
“Because they can.”
“Because they should.”
I don’t argue.
But in my heart, I realize for the first time that some people are just fucking blessed. While Mom and I toil with skin and blood for every little thing we have, others are born into wealth and privilege.
Mid-bite, Mom glances around and lowers her voice. “Have you seen her?”
On instinct, my stomach tightens. “Who?”
“Victoria Danforth.”
Oh hell no.
“She’s your age,” my normally oblivious mother continues, eyes shining with some maternal fantasy that she immediately crushes. “I hear she’s pretty, but remember to stay away—”
“Obviously.”
“But,” she continues, ignoring my attitude, “there might be other kids around this place from the staff. Maybe you could make a friend.”
“No.” I cut off her delusions. “Absolutely not.”
“You haven’t even met any of them.”
We don’t even know they exist, I want to say.
I stab the chicken with a fork. “I don’t need to.”
Mom sighs dramatically. “Enzo, you’re eighteen, not eighty. Don’t spend the summer moping. Make a friend.”
“Mother,” I enunciate, voice flat, “this is a mansion that could buy a small nation.”
“So?”
“So we both know what trouble the type of friends I like to make tends to stir up.” I shovel the rest of the plate into my mouth at top speed. “Trash begets trash.”
My mother gives me that look, the pitying one. “You need to stop believing that.”
“I don’t believe it.” I wipe my mouth and drop my fork. “I know it.”
After lunch, I help my mother carry boxes into the kitchen. It’s not the highlight of my day, that’s for sure. It smells of garlic and sweat. Not a good combo if you ask me.
The cooks move with military efficiency—knives flashing, pans sizzling, orders shouted.
My mother looks happy. Really happy. It settles something in me, and I feel a tiny, tiny bit less pissed off to be woken at an ungodly hour and relocated here.
Then Chef Arthur storms past us.
“We have a problem with the ice delivery,” he bellows. “Someone fetch more from the auxiliary freezer. You—” He pauses to snap at me. “Boy!”
I freeze.
Oh, great.
Being an errand boy wasn’t on my summer bingo card, but here we are.
“Yes, you.” He points at me with a knife, which feels like an HR violation. “Freezer. Now. And hurry. The Danforths have been waiting for their lunch for three minutes.”
“Wow. Three whole minutes. How will they ever survive?” I want to say, but Mom’s face pleads with me to behave.
So I nod and head toward the hallway.
Meryl—the fifty-something lead housekeeper—gives me half-assed directions and rushes away with a warning to stay out of sight when not working. Next, Elise, the mid-thirties-ish sous chef, repeats the same directions more palatably before continuing to chop vegetables with an intensity wasted on a casual summer lunch.
Then, I’m off, thinking about what I heard while eating.
Apparently, the Danforths are a nouveau riche steel family, desperate to be accepted by the upper echelon. Before they managed to snag this place after the old owner croaked, they lived in a gaudy mansion made entirely of gold, down to the toilets.
Their sense of style—or lack thereof— caused such a spectacle that every interior designer in the region refused to work with them.
My footsteps echo along the corridor. The auxiliary freezer is somewhere near the north wing of the mansion, past the wine cellar and too many doors. When I finally push into the cold, the air hits me hard, icy fingers crawling down my neck.
I grab two bags of ice, sling them over my shoulder, and turn—