Private Property (Rochester Trilogy 1)

I have no idea why this particular man has one, or is out using it tonight, until he turns off the lights. The engine goes quiet. He returns to me holding something small and shivering beneath his jacket. He shoves it into my freezing hands, and I fumble with my phone before pushing it into my jeans pocket.

“Here,” he says. “You’re good at taking care of things, right?”

There’s a spark of fur covering tiny bones. It takes me a second of curling it close to my body to realize that it’s a kitten. It mews, more movement than sound, its small mouth opening to show small white teeth. “Why do you have your kitten outside in the storm?”

“It’s not mine. I saw it walking along the cliffs from my window when it started raining. Then it slipped and fell over the side. It took me this long to go down and search for him.”

Shock roots me to the ground. “The kitten fell off a cliff?”

“Consider this your interview. You keep the small animal alive. You get the job.”

I cuddle the poor kitten close, though I’m sure my body provides precious little heat. He and I are both soaked through. “He just fell off a cliff. He needs a vet, not a bedtime story.”

The man. Beau. No, I can’t call him by his first name. Mr. Rochester. He makes a sweeping motion with his hand toward the vehicle. “You can take the ATV anywhere on the cape. I seriously doubt you’re going to find a vet open right now.”

He doesn’t wait to see what my answer will be. He stalks toward the house. My suitcase lolls in a particularly large puddle. Probably everything is soaked inside. He picks it up like it weighs nothing and carries it with him. I’m left following behind, as bedraggled and lost as the kitten I’m holding. It sinks its claws into me, apparently deciding I’m the safest bet in the storm.

Mr. Rochester presses numbers on a keypad, and the door swings open.

CHAPTER TWO

Apparently he was serious about this being an interview.

He leans back against the granite counter and folds his arms, watching me with a critical eye. Everything in here gleams in a hardwood and dark metal kind of way. It makes my scruffy, muddy appearance even more obvious as it’s reflected back off a hundred surfaces. Mr. Rochester himself looks coldly handsome. It isn’t right for a man so hard to look almost beautiful. The kitchen lights reveal piercing brown eyes and thick brows. His nose is long and flat on the top. His mouth is pressed into a thin line of displeasure.

I hold the drenched kitten away from me, trying to see if anything is broken. Not that I would know what to do about it if it were. It wriggles in what seems to be a normal kitten fashion? I have very little experience with pets. My life is divided into two halves. The before and after. Before, my dad was allergic to pets but he always promised that when I got older I could get a puppy. After he died, I bounced through foster homes. Occasionally there’d be a dog. Or two. Or three. In the last house there was an entire pack of them who roamed the house and the woods nearby as if they were the same thing. They weren’t exactly domesticated.

Mr. Rochester lifts an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with my nanny abilities.

“I’ve never had a cat,” I say, though it comes out more like a question.

“Then act like it’s a baby.” His dark hair will turn brown when it dries. It’s a stark contrast to my black curls, which stay the same color wet. Now that we’re inside I can see that he’s tall, built, and white. A green sweater hugs a broad chest and narrow waist. Wet denim cling to muscled thighs and drips onto the marble tile.

“You know, I already signed a yearlong contract with the agency for this position. We had multiple rounds of interviews, including one that was videotaped for you.”

He shrugs, unimpressed with this. “You’re locked in for a year. I’m not. I can fire you anytime I want if you don’t do a good enough job.”

Great. Holding the kitten in one arm like a football, I search through the drawers and cabinets for something marked Emergency Pack for Stray Kittens.

All I end up with is a large metal mixing bowl and a stack of flour sack dish towels.

I take him to a white ceramic sink and fill the bowl with warm water. Without any actual training in animal care, I’m working under the knowledge that a hot bath sounds amazing to me right now. It’s the only thing I can think of that would work this chill from my bones.

When the water’s the right temperature I fill the bowl only a few inches and then settle the kitten inside. She responds with a small, broken meow that hurts my heart.