Chapter One

London

Okay, deep breath.

I stare in awe at the majestic mansion, nestled amidst lush gardens and tall ageless trees. The classic structure, with its large floor-to-ceiling windows and gleaming lights, seems like it was lifted off the pages of an ultra-modern architectural magazine. Still, there's a certain charm about it, a perfect blend of contemporary luxury and timeless elegance that immediately captivates me. This magical mansion, tucked in the middle of nowhere, is a far cry from the cramped two-bedroom bungalow that I'm coming from – an indication of a new beginning…

My insides jump feverishly at the thought. The emotions that I've been trying to repress all day rush to the surface: fear, anxiety, and doubt.

Can I really do this?

The question echoes loudly in my head, and I can feel the walls of my heart starting to close up. Panic rises in my throat, beads of sweat forming on my temples.

I can't have a panic attack! Not here. Not now!

I close my eyes, trying to remember Amelia's words to me on the phone when I'd called her in the middle of a panic attack, right before she sent me down here.

"You need to seize the reins of your life now, London…"

Her tone had been firm, yet gentle. The words ring in my head now, replacing the voices of doubt and fear that are starting to clog my soul. Amelia Farrell is my best friend – my only friend from childhood. She's always been my rock, a solid presence in the stormiest moments. Even though she isn't here, I can feel her unwavering support and love. I take in a deep breath, letting it all out a shaky whoosh as my thudding heart starts to regulate.

It's not change that's scary; it's the life I'm coming from. Whatever my life is going to look like going forward, it can't be much worse than what it was. Right?

The breeze suddenly picks and the cold air pricks at my skin, causing me to shiver. It's not quite winter yet, but the subtle chill in the air hints at the impending arrival of colder days. I glance at my watch and let out a short gasp. I have no time to admire the architecture; I'm late.

Clutching my bag tighter, I walk to the front door in hastened steps, ignoring the irregularity of my heartbeat.

"I can do this," I murmur to myself before ringing the doorbell.

The door is pulled open almost immediately. I start to mutter a customary greeting, but the words instantly freeze in my throat as my eyes fall on the grey-eyed Adonis standing in front of me. In that instant, I forgot how to breathe. Or think.

Of course, I immediately recognize Curt Farrell, but it's still so hard reconciling the man in front of me with the image of the college boy that occupied my girlish dreams.

He's older. Sexier… and so much more than I can fathom at the moment.

"And you are?" he asks, his voice crisp and detached – nothing like the warm baritone that I imagined in my head. My heart tightens at the blankness in his piercing gray eyes.

Of course he doesn't recognize me .

"My name is London Monroe," I reply, inching forward. "I'm the newly hired help."

He glances at his watch, his eyes narrowing impatiently as he returns his gaze to me. "You should have been here half an hour ago, Miss Monroe."

"I'm sorry. I got held up on the highway. There was an accident."

"Do you know what I hate more than tardiness?" he asks, his eyes boring intensely into mine in a way that makes it hard for me to breathe.

"Excuses, Miss Monroe," he continues in that even tone that contradicts the irritation in his eyes. "I dislike people that make excuses."

I open my mouth and close it again for lack of words. Though I wasn't very close to him in the past, I don't remember him being so rude. So… dismissive.

"I'm sorry," I repeat, biting down hard on my lower lip to hold back the hot tears pushing behind my lids.

His only response to my apology is a dismissive nod as he steps aside to usher me in. "Please, come inside."

The interior of the house is surprisingly modest in an almost cozy way. Warm hues adorn the walls, and sunlight filters through delicate curtains, casting a soft glow that defies the superficial grandeur hinted at by the exterior.

"Can I have your ID?"

"Yes," I reply quickly. "Yes, of course."

I reach for my handbag, then drop my duffel bag on the ground for easier access. I start to fumble around in my handbag for my ID card, hoping to God that I didn't forget it in my rush to leave the hell I called home. My heart leaps triumphantly when my hand suddenly closes around the card.

"I'm sorry. Here's the…"

I suddenly trip over my duffel bag as I start to walk towards him. I gasp loudly, grasping desperately at the air as I tumble forward. Strong arms shoot out to catch me, instantly pulling me against an equally strong body. I let out a soft breath of relief... before it dawns on me that I'm in Curt Farrell's arms, and my heart starts to beat at an impossibly fast pace.

I look up into his incredibly handsome face. He's looking at me too, his gaze unwavering as he searches my eyes.

"Are you always so clumsy, Miss Monroe?" he asks, his full, sensual lips tilted in the barest hint of amusement.

His scent crowds my head, manly yet soft, preventing me from forming a coherent thought. I swallow nervously, trying to recall his question even as I drown in the endless, dazzling pool of his eyes.

"I- I'm sorry," I manage to mumble, my face flushing unbearably hot.

He lets me go then and steps back. His movements are graceful, with an ease that hints at years of keeping fit. I bite down on my lower lip, barely fighting the urge to fan my face.

I must look like an overripe tomato right now.

"Care for coffee, Miss Monroe?"

"No sir," I reply quickly. Too quickly.

I'm too nervous to control my coordination; I'd probably spill the coffee all over him and embarrass myself further.

He stares contemplatively at me for a second but doesn't say anything. Then he goes to sit on one of the plush-looking sofas and gestures for me to do the same.

I lower myself to the couch opposite his, keeping my back rigidly straight as if that will somehow lend me some courage.

"Your duties are mainly to cook and attend to me whenever I'm home," he says evenly, like that awkward moment didn't just happen. "As for cleaning, you don't have to do much, because a cleaning company comes in once every week."

"Yes, sir," I mumble, nodding jerkily.

Something crosses his eyes, a fluttering yet potent emotion that has my stomach knotting up with nerves.

"Anyway, I expect you to begin your work by 8 AM every day and clock out by 6 PM, is that clear?"

I shake my head, blinking at him in confusion. "N-no. I'm supposed to work here as a live-in maid."

He pauses to blink at me, glances down at my bag like he's just seeing it for the first time, then look back at my face with an impassive stare.

"What do you mean?"

"I was employed as live-in help," I repeat, trying to keep the stutter from my voice.

"By whom?"

Just when I start wondering how to answer his question, the door is suddenly pushed open, and in walks my tall, gorgeous, fabulous best friend. Her striking gray eyes, so similar to Curt's, sparkle with life and laughter. As usual, the room instantly lights up the moment Amelia Farrell walks in.

She walks over and wraps her arms around me in a quick hug, then smiles brightly at Curt, who gives her an affectionate scowl.

"Hello, brother."

I let out an inaudible breath, letting my body sag slightly against Amelia's.

Right on time.