Whoa. That’s dramatic. I glance at Bert, thinking I’ll catch a hint of a smile buried under his lip bush, but to my surprise, he’s looking at Harrison in awe.
Bert finally wipes the fanboy expression off his face and looks at me. “I’m still more than happy to escort you, if you’re not comfortable with this gentleman.”
Oh great. Now it sounds like I’m scared.
“I’m absolutely comfortable with this . . . man.” I make a weak gesture to him. “I’ve never had a male escort before, so why not start now?”
I flash him an overly cheery smile, and he grunts at me in response.
With a heavy exhale, he nods at Bert. “Do you mind blocking the road while I escort this woman to her house? No one is allowed through unless they have proof of address.”
“No problem,” Bert says, and then he goes and actually salutes the man.
Harrison nods in response, and then to my surprise he walks around the front of the car and opens the passenger door. For some reason I thought he would walk beside my car or something like that, like . . . escort me. Not actually get in the car with me.
I don’t think I’m ready for this level of intimacy.
But he pauses, half in the car, which seems far too small for his massive frame, eyeing the disaster on the seat. I quickly start picking up all the junk with both hands and throwing it in the back seat.
Finally he sits down, his knees comically rammed against the glove compartment.
“There’s a lever at the side,” I tell him, “to adjust your seat.”
He moves the lever back and forth until the seat slams all the way to the back.
THWACK!
For a dude who probably had to do some epic training with crazy dangerous situations, he seems completely out of sorts in the fuzzy green seat.
I try not to laugh, especially since he looks so serious as he dutifully buckles himself in. He looks down at the seats and the dice.
“Interesting décor. Did you skin Oscar the Grouch?”
“Pretty much,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’re used to riding around in Bentleys and whatnot.”
He doesn’t say anything to that, just faces straight ahead. I glance out the window, hoping for some camaraderie from Bert, but he’s just as serious and gives me the nod to keep driving.
Of course, my car hates this small hill normally, so since we’re at a standstill, I have to press my foot down on the gas and hold it there until the RPMs are going wild and it takes off like a shot.
Okay, it takes off like an injured baby impala. One big jerk forward, followed by pathetic hops, and maybe Harrison was right about making sure he was strapped in, because it looks like he’s already succumbing to whiplash.
“Sorry,” I cry out as the car finally gets going and we chug up to the top of the hill. “Not long now.”
It’s actually only about thirty seconds down the slight slope to the very end of the undulating peninsula, but it manages to feel like a million years with this British beast of a man trapped in my car. He’s so big that his shoulder brushes against mine from time to time, and I can feel the heat off him. Doesn’t help that it’s warm outside and I don’t have air conditioning. I also can’t tell if it’s him that smells like balsam and sea salt or if it’s the air outside.
He remains silent and visibly uncomfortable, and I take a little too much glee in that. Serves him right for escorting me to my own damn house. I mean, do I look like the type of person who is going to go home and get her camera and climb up through the tangled salal bushes and overgrown ferns just to get a glimpse of them? Does he think I’ll show up at their door, peer in through their windows, and post it all to my Instagram stories?
I’m guessing so. I totally get him needing to be protective of them, but this seems like overkill, especially since Bert seemed to vouch for my character. Though I guess he could have said a few more complimentary things just in case. So far Harrison knows I live here, but I’m pretty sure I’ve only given him evidence that I’m some quirky manic pixie dream girl, minus the dream part. Nightmare is more like it.
The road ends in a narrow cul-de-sac with barely enough room to turn around, the ocean on either side crashing against kelp-strewn rocks. So far the street has been quiet, so I guess Harrison has been doing a good job keeping people away, if anyone has caught on yet that this is actually where Eddie and Monica are.
The driveway that we share runs off the end of the turnaround, up another slight hill where it forks into two. I take the driveway to the left, which plunks us into my parking spot beside a tall western red cedar. From here you can see a bit of the cul-de-sac, but you can’t see the mansion at all.
It’s a really interesting property. Even though it takes over the very tip of the peninsula, with the ocean on nearly all sides, where they placed the servants’ quarters (aka my house) is among tall cedar and arbutus trees. It’s on the dark side, and you can only see glimpses of the ocean through the trees. I’ve talked about taking down a few to improve the view, but my mother has extreme paranoia and thinks if I do that, it means people can spy on us easier, so I’ve just let the trees grow and the branches continue to block the ocean. But we’re lucky that there’s a path that takes you to rickety steps that lead down to deepwater moorage. The dock is crooked, and one end is sometimes underwater, but when I’m craving the sun and blue sky, that’s where I go.
And while there is a fence separating us from the road, there’s no gate and there’s also no fence between the properties. We just know where the lines are and we keep to our side, even though the mansion has been vacant for as long as we’ve been here. Sure, sometimes there are families or couples staying there, but we never really see or meet them, and I’m sure it’s more the owner’s friends coming to stay rather than an Airbnb or some other vacation rental.
That said, I still have no idea who owns the place. There were rumors in the past that it belonged to the infamous Hearst family, but I doubt that’s true. Whoever they are, however, they must have some kind of connection to Eddie and Monica.
“So,” I say innocently, turning to Harrison as I put the Garbage Pail in park and turn off the engine, “if they’re just looking to rent and not buy, who are they renting it from?”
He doesn’t even look at me. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Are Eddie and Monica in the house right now?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
I roll my eyes. “What are you at liberty to say?”
“Just that I need to make sure that you’re not going to be of harm to the Fairfaxes.”
I gesture to my house. It’s small and quaint, with a garden out front that my mother dutifully attends to. Most of the plants have to thrive in the shade or part shade, but she’s got a green thumb, and even the zinnias are doing well. “Look. That’s where I live. I wasn’t lying when I said this was my address, and I can definitely promise you I’m not going to harm them in any way. I’m a schoolteacher. I read romance novels. I like Tic Tacs. I have a rescue pup. My bones ache when a cold front comes in.”