linens on the king-sized beds to the artwork hanging on the walls, to the silverware filling the kitchen drawers, including a set of tiny three-pronged cake forks in the kitchen. Who the fork owns cake forks!
And best of all is the balcony that wraps around the space. It’s not wide by any means, but it’s big enough for a lounger or two. Sunbathing, here I come!
Or maybe not as I plant my butt on the corner of the sectional and place my face in my hands as I begin to cry. I hate that I do—hate that the passage of tears gives way to hiccupping sobs, but I can’t seem to help it. I can’t seem to stop. I feel so conflicted. This place that’s to be my new home, and it’s so gorgeously stylish, so tempting, so unlike any place I’ve ever lived. It’s mine, but at what cost?
I feel like my eyelids have swollen to Grinch-heart proportions. I haven’t cried like this since my mom died, and I really don’t know if I’m crying because I feel wretched or because I feel a sense of relief. The last year has been tough, the years before I went travelling tougher still. And now this? I have a job that pays the kind of money people would kill for in a place very few people will ever experience living. But then there’s also the man. The man I feel inexplicably drawn to, despite the fact that he isn’t who he pretended to be—a lie is a lie, isn’t it? I shouldn’t feel this conflicted, but I do.
I liked the carefree tourist enough to take him to my bed.
The powerful businessman, I like him less.
But want him more.
What’s with that?
And the way he looked at me, he seems to be suffering the same symptoms. As though he’s drawn to me against his better judgment.
But to what ends?
What is this all about? What does he want me here for?
It’s not just to get into my panties, I’m sure.
I sit straight suddenly, drying my eyes with the backs of my hands. This is not me. I don’t wallow, and I don’t feel sorry for myself. I’m a survivor. I do what needs to be done. Fancy job and apartment or not, it’s up to me what I choose to do from now on.
Resolved, I roll up my damp sleeves and throw my suitcase onto the biggest damn bed I’ll ever have the pleasure of sleeping in and begin to unpack my clothes. I don’t know how long this ride is going to last, but I may as well enjoy the benefits.
I’m just arranging my toiletries on the marble bathroom vanity when I hear my phone begin to ring with a FaceTime call. Making my way back into the bedroom—my bedroom!—I swipe up my cell from the bed.
‘You’re in trouble!’ sings the Phillips collective as the screen fills with the eager faces of Amber and Byron’s children.
‘Auntie Rose, do they eat frog’s legs in France?’ asks Matty as he pulls a face of disgust. ‘And do snails taste like snot? Auntie Rose? I can see right up your nose.’
I begin to chuckle but don’t get a chance to answer his question as his sister, Edie, almost climbs over his head, eager to speak.
‘My turn! My turn!’ she sings.
‘Oi, get off, Edie.’
I see nothing but the blur of the white ceiling as the pair fight over the iPad. A beat later, the screen is filled with a close up of Matty’s face again.
‘Daaad!’ His mouth opens so wide that I can almost see his tonsils. ‘Edie’s being a brat again!’
‘Anyone would think you were both kept in a cage,’ Amber grumbles, her face appearing on the screen, albeit briefly.
‘They should be kept in a cage,’ gripes Byron, their dad from somewhere beyond as the iPad is passed to Edie.
‘Am not a brat,’ she retorts, her fair brows pulling in. ‘I just have a joke for Auntie Rose. Can I tell it to you?’ Her blonde curls bounce as her head nods eagerly.
‘Sure, honey. I could use a laugh.’
‘Why do French people eat snails?’ she asks immediately.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Because they don’t like fast food!’ She barely takes a breath before asking, ‘I don’t like the taste of snots. Do you?’
The iPad changes hands yet again, Amber’s unimpressed expression my next view.
‘And now I know what the row of green pebbles on Edie’s bedroom wall is.’ She screws up her nose. ‘Remember me?’ Oh no. She’s wearing