Billy & The Beast (Ever After, New York #3) - Eli Easton Page 0,17
Those eyes were currently glaring at me with a kind of offended surprise. He wore a charcoal gray suit (a very expensive one, by the look of it), a snowy white starched shirt, and a red tie. He looked like he belonged on Wall Street.
I dusted off my hands and stood up. “Hi. I’m Bill Martin. I’m the gardener,” I added lamely, as if my being on hands and knees planting purple flowers wasn’t clue enough.
“Gardener? Who hired you?” he asked, as if I was lying.
I blinked at him stupidly. Was Aaron not the owner of the property? And who was this guy?
“Aaron hired me,” I said slowly.
“Aaron?” he said in confusion, then his face cleared. “Oh.” His tongue ran along the inside of his cheek, like he was irritated. “When was this? How long have you been working here?”
“Um . . . about a month.”
He looked me up and down. “Do you work for a landscaping service?”
“No. I work for myself,” I said, feeling defensive. Was he saying I wasn’t qualified to be the gardener? I mean, that was probably true, but I was doing a damn good job, and Aaron seemed happy enough with my performance.
The man seemed to consider saying more for a moment, then he simply nodded. “I see.”
He looked around the yard and at the pool, which was still slightly green and murky. His lips pressed so tight they disappeared. Then he turned on his heel and headed briskly up the stairs to the house.
The encounter left me rattled. It was the first time I’d seen anyone other than Aaron at Malfleur, and this guy acted like he had some kind of authority here. A random friend wouldn’t walk up and start questioning the gardener. So who was he?
My gut twisted. What if Aaron wasn’t supposed to hire anyone? What if this new guy got me fired? The idea of being pushed out that big iron gate and having it lock behind me, of going back to being an outsider forever . . . of never seeing Aaron again, or Jack . . .
Ugh. I didn’t like that at all. And that was above and beyond the fact that this was a good paying job, and we needed the money. The local seasonal jobs were already filled, and my mom still wasn’t painting much.
I picked up a pair of clippers from my tool cart and strolled closer to the house. I surreptitiously glanced in the kitchen windows but didn’t see anyone in there. Living room, maybe? Library?
I’d never been inside the house, but I’d done gardening on all sides of it. The house had lots of windows and so—being a total snoop, and perfectly capable of looking through glass—I knew the basic layout. I moved around the front of the house to the right side, walking silently in my Keds and feeling a bit guilty. My heart pounded.
Aaron and the stranger were in the library—or the room I called the library, anyway; the room lined with bookcases. The windows were open and I heard voices as I approached.
I put my back against the wall of the house and edged closer. There was no point in even pretending to work. They’d hear my clippers.
“—talking about? Since when do I need your permission to take care of Malfleur?” Aaron’s tone was strained.
“Think, Seb!” the stranger said, in a much more cajoling tone that he’d used with me. “What if this young man gets on social media and talks about this job? Posts photos? What if he talks about the disfigured man he works for and how creepy he is?”
“He wouldn’t do that,” Aaron said tightly.
“Why not? Kids his age all post their life stories online, down to pictures of their goddamn bowel movements. All it would take is for him to mention Malfleur. An intrepid reporter might get wind of that and make the connection. It’s public record that your family owns this place. Is that what you want? Cameras lined up outside your gate?”
I felt my face heat and my temper flare.
Okay, first of all, I wouldn’t do that. I wasn’t stupid. The first thing I understood about Aaron was that he valued his privacy above everything. I wouldn’t post about him or Malfleur. Not even a vague post.
And secondly, the way he’d said disfigured was offensive. Why would he say that to Aaron?
“I told you—Billy wouldn’t do that,” Aaron repeated. But he sounded less sure.
“Have you asked him? Have you checked his social media accounts?”