It’s worse than the media storm that erupted after my father’s death. Worse than all the things they said about him and my family when the rumors about our finances started swirling. I can still see the tabloids: “The Cunninghams Lose Everything!” and “SCANDAL: The Downfall of a Family!” and dozens of other sensationalist headlines emblazoned across their covers. I couldn’t escape it, even on the other side of the world.
But this… this feels more personal. They’re not just commercializing my family’s history, launching a money-making venture on top of our misfortune—they’re invading our home. It’s disgusting, and I feel like I’ve been gutted.
I push away from the window and continue down the hallway. It occurs to me that I should try and look a little lost—after all, Addison Thomas has no idea where she’s going—but I don’t have the patience for anything more than a quick glance down at my map. I’m assuming the East Wing hasn’t changed locations in the past year, and while my family never bothered to number the rooms, it shouldn’t be too difficult to find Room 253, my home for the duration of my contract.
I make my way to the small staircase off of my family’s old atrium. I try not to notice that they’ve built a small café in the atrium now, or that they’ve set up a sandwich board on the place where I once tried to start a small vegetable garden. And the stairway isn’t any better. They’ve ripped out the beautiful old burgundy-and-gold wallpaper we had in here and replaced it with cherub paintings. My family might have been extravagant, but at least we had taste. By the time I make it to the top step, I’m seriously beginning to question my decision to come back here.
It wasn’t my initial plan. I thought that maybe when I returned from Thailand, Calder and I might find a way to move on together, but when I saw my brother, it only took me a moment to realize that he’s already made it through the hardest part without me. He’s moved on. And not only that—he’s happy. Like disgustingly-in-love happy. He’s found someone with whom he can start a bright new life. And me? It’s been well more than a year and I’m still a mess. I couldn’t bear to step into that happy little picture he’s created and pull him down again.
When I heard that Huntington Manor was hiring—well, it seemed like fate. I needed a job. I needed a place to live. I needed some closure. It sounded like a sweet three-for-one deal. I’m not normally someone who believes in “destiny” and all that hooey, but this was too perfect of an opportunity to ignore.
But now that I’m here, I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do.
The second floor is the worst thing I’ve seen so far. No, it’s not as garish as the cherubs, but I’d almost prefer the fat winged babies to the numbers. They’re on every door—shiny, brass, impersonal numbers. Once, my family called that room on my left the Daffodil Room because it was painted that perfect shade of yellow. Now, it’s Room 231. That room on the right was the Sparrow Room, and that one just around the corner was the Star Suite—it has one of the clearest views of the sky. Now they’re 234 and 235.
I hear a footstep behind me, and I realize I’ve stopped in the middle of the hallway. I step to the side and glance back down the corridor.
There’s a man coming toward me. He’s probably in his mid-twenties or so, with reddish-brown hair and broad shoulders. I don’t even have to glance down to his tool belt or the hammer in his hand to know that he’s a handyman—with the way his muscles fill out that dirty T-shirt he’s wearing, there’s really no other option. He must have some last-minute projects up here or something.
He smiles when he catches my gaze, and his blue eyes flash. A little flicker of attraction flares in my belly. It would be so easy, so simple, to smile back.
“Lost?” he says when he’s a little closer.
I don’t miss the way his eyes flick from my face down my body, though it’s quick enough that I’m not even sure he’s aware he just checked me out. My belly grows warmer.
I want to say Yes. Yes, I’m lost. He wouldn’t be much of a challenge—some flirtatious looks, a couple of suggestive comments, and I bet I could steal a kiss in less than five minutes. And if I play my cards right—and if his business isn’t pressing—I could back him into one of these rooms in less than seven. Undo his belt. Slide his pants down to his ankles. Take him in my mouth until his groans make me forget about the cherubs and the numbers and everything else that’s so terribly wrong with this place.
I can feel it now: his warm, hard muscles beneath my hands. The salty flavor of him on my lips. He’d probably twine his fingers in my hair, and I wonder—would they tangle as easily in my new, straighter locks as they would have in my old curls? My scalp prickles at the thought. I’d moan with my mouth around him, letting him know how much I enjoyed the tugging of his fingers.
At least, that’s what the old Lou would do. The new Lou—the girl formerly known as Lou—needs to keep her mind out of the gutter and her hands to herself.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, not even daring to look him in the eyes again. And then I take off down the hall before I have the chance to change my mind.
I find Room 253 at the very end of the corridor, and when I spot the door, my heart gives a little jump in my chest. It’s the room my family and I used to call the Willow Room. From the window on a clear day you can see all the way down to the stream on the northeast corner of our property. On the northern bank of the stream is a giant weeping willow with branches so long that they trail in the water below. Father used to call it Grandfather Willow. The room has wallpaper to match—pale cream crossed with swirling tendrils the exact color of the willow’s leaves in early summer.
When I unlock the door, though, it’s all wrong.
They tore down the wallpaper and painted the walls a dull taupe color. The wrought iron bed and dark-wooded furniture that once graced this room have been replaced by simple, almost institutional pieces. Whoever decorated the rest of this place clearly hasn’t touched the staff rooms. I guess they decided to blow their budget on the suites where the paying guests will be staying. This looks like a college dorm.
I toss my suitcase down on the bed and walk over to the window. There’s a thin piece of off-white fabric hanging over the glass—calling it a curtain would be too generous—and I push it aside, looking out across the grounds toward the stream. My stomach clenches.