Otherwise, it must be donated to charity.
“Okay. Well, there are four of us here now. You can charge us rent, we can all stay together. I’m down for life in a mansion, haunted or not.”
“Okay, but if I get stuck in one of my dreams while I’m here, I’m out. They’re bad enough in regular life, let alone in a ‘rumored’ haunted house.” I emphasize the word with single-handed finger quotes. I know Harlow can’t see the gesture, but I’m feeling dramatic. “This place…I don’t know. It just feels so familiar yet so unpleasant.”
The place is not like I remember when I was little and we came for the Halloween celebrations. It’s darker, colder, more ominous…like something bad happened here and it left an echo that feels like it’s everywhere. There are enormous leaded-glass windows along the back wall, offering a view of the manicured lawn, garden and thick wooded land beyond.
It’s a castle more than a house, with stone and wood on the interior and so many peaks and chimneys on the exterior I couldn’t count them when we drove in. I know from growing up in this area, the estate is far more than just the house. There are over four hundred acres here, multiple outbuildings, other properties that used to be inhabited by staff members.
It would be overwhelming and honestly I might have thought it was just a ploy to give someone else a money pit of an old house. Except the description of the dispensation of the estate in the contract we were given was very specific. The winning contestant, if there is one, will receive the deed to the house, and a trust fund—the amount to be revealed later—to care for the upkeep of the structure, expenses, taxes and insurance, as well as provide a comfortable lifestyle for the tenant.
“…you want to keep deciding every month if you want to eat Ramen so you can afford your dance or voice lessons? I mean, this could be your game changer…” Harlow is still talking, but I’m barely listening.
I’m moving forward, caught in some force field or tractor beam, pulling me toward the massive oil painting, illuminated by two sterling candelabras burning on a gilded table below.
The man in the portrait makes my heart flutter. His lapis blue eyes follow me as I step from side to side, watching him as he watches me. He’s probably around 30 or 35 in the portrait, wearing a dark suit, arms crossed, full lips with an angular face, framed by wavy black hair. He’s exotic, yet at the same time, aristocratic. Like he came from somewhere wild and tamed the world, not the other way around.
“They’re just dreams,” Harlow continues, apparently unaware that I haven’t responded in a while. “Remember that before you go to sleep. Dreams aren’t real. They can’t hurt you, right?”
I force myself back to the moment. The odd sense I know the man in the painting makes me want to run, but at the same time, makes me want to stay and find out more.
“Right,” I agree, not even remembering her question.
“Good. Okay then, I believe in you. You’re going to be rich! You can finally forget about paying the bills and focus on your career. A year from now, you’re going to be winning a Tony Award.”
She laughs, but there’s a tingling between my legs and I think I must be losing my mind…getting turned on from a painting of some dude who’s probably been dead a hundred years?
What is with that?
A knock on the door makes me jump and yelp, spinning around to find Dalton standing there, tight-lipped, looking first at me, then up at the portrait, and I see the smallest hint of movement in his lips.
“Miss Anderson. Your time is up, I’m afraid. If you please, you may proceed to the office to sign your contract and release forms. Or, your car will return you home.”
“Sign the forms! We’ll see each other at the ball!” Harlow yells through the phone, and I say a quick goodbye, my eyes darting between Dalton and the portrait.
“Who is that?” I manage on a shaky voice, ending the call my mouth turning dry.
There’s a scent that starts to fill the air around me.
Spicy.
Masculine.
Leather and whiskey, with a hint of cigar smoke.
My head is spinning as Dalton looks at the painting, then at me.
“That is Mr. Parker Worthington the First. He built this house. It is his will that outlined the terms for the dispensation of the manor, as was explained to you earlier.” His voice is clipped. “Now,” he holds out his hand, palm up, “you can either hand over your phone and proceed with the contest, or your car is waiting to take you home.” I swear there’s a hint of a smile on his face when he glances again at the portrait, then back at me. “I’m sure Mr. Worthington would be disappointed if you chose the latter.”