Billy & The Beast (Ever After, New York #3) - Eli Easton Page 0,6
money for us to live. Never mind that I had to go to work for a masked maniac who wanted to punish me.
But even as I thought that, I knew it wasn’t true. I wasn’t dreading this job. I wasn’t doing it because the guy in the mask had threatened me. I wanted to do it. I’d been invited behind the walls of that great estate up on Hillcrest. Me, Billy Martin.
If there was one thing about walls—I always had to know what was on the other side. And these walls came with the hottest guy I’d ever seen.
Chapter 4
Aaron
“Come on. Three more reps. You’ve got this.”
I pulled on the handles of the rowing machine, leaning my back into it. Once. Twice. God, it fucking hurt. I managed a third, but it was half-assed. The seat barely moved.
I collapsed back, panting.
“Okay, good job,” came Maxwell’s voice. “You’re coming along really well, Seb. Take a long soak tonight and a muscle relaxer. That’ll help any swelling.”
“Thanks. See you Monday.”
I didn’t move until I was sure he’d hung up. Then I rose—body trembling from fatigue and pain—and went back to the stand where my phone was still on the Zoom call. I shut it off. Twice a week with my physical therapist was a chore, but at least I didn’t have to see him in person.
I grabbed a towel to press against my heated face and headed up the basement stairs. Jack was a silent shadow at my heels. The black Lab’s presence, as always, was a comfort. I gave him a doggie treat as we went through the kitchen to the foyer and grand staircase.
My limp was more pronounced than usual on the stairs, and my lower back throbbed. I sighed. Fucking PT. But I knew I should be grateful. It wasn’t all that long ago that I wasn’t sure I’d ever walk again.
Up in my bathroom, I avoided the mirror and started the shower. The irony. For the past year, I hadn’t even let my physical therapist close—I only interacted with him via my cell phone camera, and even then I filmed myself from behind, so self-conscious about my face. Hell, I could barely look in the mirror.
And yet here I was, getting ready to open the gates of Malfleur to a stranger.
What the hell had I been thinking?
I must have been out of my mind when I asked that skinny brunet to come work for me. Seriously losing my mind. I couldn’t believe I’d even let him see me. But I was so angry when he took that rose, I acted without thinking.
I’d been enjoying the blooms near the gate—a few moments of beauty I indulged in every day—when I saw him walk up to the iron bars. I stepped back to avoid being seen. But I’d watched.
It wasn’t the first time I’d watched the guy. The young . . . boy? man? teen? . . . with shoulder-length brown hair that curled on the ends had been riding up Hillcrest for several weeks, his long, lean body encased in baggy shirts and tight shorts. He always stopped at the top for a few minutes, where he gasped for breath and took in the view.
He usually arrived around eleven thirty or so in the morning. I’d found myself timing my visit to the roses for around then, but that was perfectly normal. After all, I saw almost no one these days, except for a visit from Emmanuel now and then, and it was human nature to be drawn to other people. There was no harm in simply observing the guy. It was amusing, even: his dramatic flop to the grass, his staggering around. The long, lazy stretches.
Six foot at least, and maybe 140 pounds. His face looked quite young.
Besides, I had to make sure he really was a local out for a bike ride, and not someone sent to spy on me.
As the weeks passed, I accepted that he wasn’t there for Malfleur, and probably didn’t even know I existed. It was the hill he wanted, the challenge. I got it. There had been a time when I’d done a lot of things in the name of fitness. Sailing races. Captain of the Harvard rowing team. Heli snowboarding. I even ran a marathon once on a bet.
The thought of those days made me grit my teeth so hard, it was a wonder one didn’t crack.
But yesterday was the first time the biker had approached the gate. He’d looked around