Oh. My. God.
“Now?” I practically stutter.
He steps back and gestures to the path. “If you please.”
I could easily close the door on him and say hell no. I’m not at their beck and call, I have a life to live and a podcast to upload.
But I slip on my shoes, close the door behind me, and follow Harrison down the path toward my new neighbors.
Five
He’s got a nice butt.
I frown at the thought in my head, mentally swatting it away. One minute Harrison is demanding I immediately drop everything and go and meet my new neighbors, as if it were an order, not a choice. The next I’m ogling his butt as he walks in front of me down to where my driveway intersects with theirs.
But it really is a nice butt. His suit jacket just skirts the top of it, but there’s no denying how perky and muscular it is, like he does a lot of lunges, or . . .
As if he can hear me, he shoots a sharp glance at me over his shoulder, and I immediately still my thoughts, bringing my eyes up to meet his. Or, his sunglasses.
He jerks his chin down toward the road, where a bunch of flatbed trucks with planks of wood and other building materials in the back are parked in the cul-de-sac.
“They’re all ready to go, once you sign a few papers,” he says gruffly.
Jeez, that was fast. I should stop being annoyed at everything Harrison is throwing my way, but it irks me to think that he’s got all these builders at his beck and call, as if they know I’m going to sign the papers, as if everything from this point onward is predetermined, and I have no say in it.
“What makes you think I even want a gated entry?” I ask him.
“Believe me, you will,” he says over his shoulder as we start up the driveway to the mansion. “I take it you’ve never dealt with the British press before.”
I don’t have anything to say to that because obviously he’s right, of course, and I’ve seen on Twitter alone just how intrusive, rude, and downright cruel they can be. If the duke and duchess are moving in here, then I’m probably going to want that fence.
I don’t have a lot of time to think about the fence and the gate, because soon we’re approaching the front of the house.
I’d be lying if I said I’d never seen it before. Many a time I’ve scrambled up the slight slope through the ferns and hemlock to take a look-see. But I’ve never gone farther than the driveway, even if I knew no one was staying there at the time.
Even now, it feels kind of wrong, but from the way Harrison and his nice butt are marching forward, I need to follow.
The mansion at first glance seems smaller than it is. The paved, tree-lined driveway does an elegant swoop into a massive A-frame three-car garage that’s attached to a one-level made of bricks of pale stone. But the closer you get, you notice that the bulk of the mansion is behind that one-level, sloping down to the ocean in sections.
Harrison goes straight to the ornately carved front door, which looks like it was cut from a massive tree, and rings the bell. As we wait, his posture goes straighter, his hands clasped behind his back. I want to ask him where he’s living, since he’s ringing the bell and not walking right into the house, but then I see a shadow pass through the narrow windows at the side of the door and suddenly I’m nervous as hell.
It finally hits me what’s happening. I’m actually going to meet Prince Eddie and MRed. Right here, right now.
This is absolutely insane.
And then the door opens.
I hold my breath.
A petite woman in her early fifties appears at the door, dressed in a gray shift dress and flat shoes, her graying hair pulled back into a neat bun.
She nods at Harrison and then gives me a small smile. “You must be the neighbor,” she says in a crisp British accent. “I’m Agatha, the housekeeper. Please come right in.”
Harrison walks in, and I follow him into the foyer.
“Should I take off my shoes?” I ask, reaching down for my boot, even though Harrison has strolled in without taking his off.
“That’s quite all right,” Agatha says. “The floors can be a bit cold at the moment. They’re supposed to heat up, but I think we need an electrician in here to fix it.”
“Well, good luck getting a reliable electrician on the island,” I blurt out with an awkward laugh. “They only show up when they feel like it, like you’re a huge inconvenience for hiring them.”
I’m not exaggerating. There’s a faulty baseboard heater in my room, and I called the electrician about two months ago and he still hasn’t shown. Keeps texting me, saying, “Hope to pop by soon,” but that “soon” never comes.