Private Property (Rochester Trilogy 1)

I’ve never meant to be tempting in my life.

He does not answer me with words. Instead he closes the door in my face.

CHAPTER THREE

I wake up at six a.m. to an overcast day and texts from Noah. His face appears next to his words, that lazy grin, his dirty blond hair. The kitten stretches beside me and mews, clearly interested in finding more milk for the day.

How was the flight? Did you meet the family?

Shana covered your shift yesterday. Pissed off a bunch of your regulars.

Are you ready to come home yet?

At least my waterlogged cell phone continues to work.

Noah was placed in my last foster home before me. He took me under his wing. Taught me the unspoken rules. Snuck food from the kitchen when I was punished and made to go without dinner. He’s my best friend in the world, and I hate disappointing him.

Met the uncle, I swipe into my phone. Seems kinda strict.

We know all about strict. The foster home we shared was built on ever-shifting rules that we would inevitably fail. It was cold and uncomfortable and filled with fleas—but it was a roof over our heads and questionable food on a plate each evening.

He texts back right away. Miss you already.

Guilt sits heavy in my stomach. He didn’t want me to sign this contract, but I couldn’t keep working shifts at the diner and the grocery store forever. I barely earned enough to cover my share of the rent, much less what it would take to go to college.

Only three percent of kids who age out of the foster care system ever get a college degree. I’m going to be in that three percent even if it kills me.

I’m going to trade in this one year for a new future.

This job will change my life.

Assuming I keep it. That seems uncertain based on the way Beau Rochester spoke last night.

Leaving the kitten in bed, I shower quickly and step out of the room with my hair still wet. I don’t have to count the doors to know which one belongs to the child. Paige. That’s her name. Paige Rochester. The door is open, and there’s an argument in progress.

“It’s twenty degrees outside,” says a low voice I recognize as Beau. “You can’t walk around in a T-shirt from Reading Rainbow and a goddamn tutu.”

A small but furious voice. “It’s Reading Railroad, and it costs two hundred dollars.”

“I don’t care what it costs. If it’s not long sleeves and pants and socks and a sweater, it’s not going to fucking—I mean, it’s not going to fly.”

When I reach the doorway, I’m confronted with the view of a man, six foot something, built with lean muscles and a hard expression, facing off with a mutinous little girl wearing a red shirt with a black railway engine on it and a black tutu.

Both man and little girl look extremely stubborn and severe about the issue. It would be almost comical, how alike they look despite their differences, if I didn’t worry I was about to be caught in the middle of this dispute.

“Good morning,” I say brightly.

Mr. Rochester glances back at me. “Thank God you’re here. Surely dressing a child in the morning is part of your job description.”

“Yes,” I say, drawing the word out. This is heading for a disaster if I’m thrown into her life this way, as some kind of enforcer. Yes, I’ll have to impose rules on her but she also needs to see me as a caregiver. As a kind person in her life. “But we haven’t been introduced.”

He gets a sardonic glint in his eye. “This is Paige Marie Rochester. The reason for your new paycheck. Paige, this is Jane… what was your last name again?”

“Mendoza. Jane Mendoza.” I give the girl a tentative smile. “I hope you’ll call me Jane.”

Her mutinous expression doesn’t change.

I take a step into her bedroom, shivering at the chill that pervades the air.

Unlike my room it’s bursting with color. It’s painted pink with posters of unicorns and dragons pinned up. Her bedspread sports pink-red roses. Despite the profusion of girly pink, it’s clear where this girl’s true passion lies. A Monopoly board dominates the center of the room, pieces spread across, real estate cards in disarray. Crinkled money peeks out from the bottom of the dresser and from inside drawers.

I sit down on the bed, trying to act casual, as if I attempt to befriend grieving six-year-olds every day. “I’d love to get to know you better, Paige. What kind of things do you like? I already know you like Monopoly. I’ve played that game, but I’m not very good at it. I bet you are.”

She doesn’t answer.

Mr. Rochester lists things like he’s cataloging some strange species of animal. “Her favorite hobbies are ignoring the things I ask her to do, throwing things on the ground. And saying that she wishes I was dead. Oh, and she demands Pop-Tarts for dinner.”