Off Limits

‘His contract has a three-month probation period?’

‘Yes. I’ll make a note to come over and review him at two months, though, if you’re concerned.’

‘Great.’

Lightning bursts again and I jump automatically.

He presses his forehead against my shoulder, the strangeness of the gesture not taking anything away from how reassuring I find it.

‘Were your parents cross with you?’

‘My parents? When?’

They’ll be back in England now. I should probably go and see them. The thought cools the warmth in my body.

‘The night you slept in the tree house.’

‘Oh.’ I shift a little, angling my body closer to his. ‘Furious.’ Then I shake my head. ‘Actually, that’s not true. They were disappointed.’

‘Disappointed?’

‘Disappointed that I’d not been cared for to their standards. Embarrassed that people might think they’d hired substandard domestic staff.’ I grimace. ‘Perhaps ashamed they hadn’t thought to check on me when they got home—most parents

would, after all.’

‘You’re not close to them?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Just the way you speak of them.’

‘No. I’m not close to them. They’re not that thrilled with my life choices.’

‘Really? Graduating with a double first from Oxford isn’t what they had in mind?’

‘Hell, no. I was supposed to marry someone fancy and respectable, with a country estate to match but not better our own. And to appear in Harper’s Bazaar articles...have tea at Kensington Palace.’ I can’t help rolling my eyes. ‘I’m exhausted just thinking about what they wanted for me.’

‘You don’t strike me as someone who’s into the society scene at all.’

‘I’m not.’ I shake my head. ‘Their wedding anniversary is in a week, and it’ll be a who’s who of the British aristocracy. And, yes, Harper’s Bazaar will be there.’

‘You don’t want to go?’

‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘It’s just—’

Thunder rolls around the apartment and I swear the windows shake in their frames. We’re going to die.

He holds me tighter. ‘It’s just...?’

I don’t know if he’s trying to distract me from the storm or if he’s really interested in my dysfunctional family, but talking is distracting me and distractions are good. Besides which, having opened up to him, I’m not finding it easy to curtail my thoughts.

‘I’m always trotted out as proof of their happiness. Their marriage is a success. They’ve had a child. An heiress. I swear they actually call me their heiress during their toasts every year—like that’s my soul function in life. To inherit.’ I shake my head. ‘I hate that. I’ve hated it for as long as I have understood their expectations. Or lack thereof. My existing is sufficient for their needs. My ambitions are irrelevant and slightly offensive to them. And my working for you is definitely tantamount to slashing the family tapestries.’

‘You make them sound like selfish bastards.’

I laugh. ‘Do I?’

‘Are they?’