Private Property (Rochester Trilogy 1)

This is a wealthy house, though. A well-stocked house. There ought to be a linen closet somewhere with an extra blanket. Maybe even a fluffy pair of socks, though that might be wishful thinking.

Though there wasn’t one downstairs when I was searching for the washing machine. Nothing that I can remember in the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, the garage, or even the basement.

That leaves this second floor to search.

I open the door next to mine. It reveals a room that’s much larger, with a massive bed in the middle. It feels like I walked into the middle of someone’s room—not another guest room like mine. There’s a man’s watch on the nightstand. So maybe this is Mr. Rochester’s room? But there’s a teacup on the other side of the bed, as if a woman also lives here.

A jacket is slung over an armchair. It’s very casual. The way someone would leave their room if they intended to be back soon, but there’s a staleness to the air. The blanket on the bed—no one’s using that. Shadows from clothes peek out of the closet, but it feels wrong to touch anything here, a little bit like walking on a grave.

I creep back out quietly and close the door.

The next room is clearly someone’s study. There’s a large wooden desk engraved with scrolls, tall built-in bookshelves, and a large window. It draws me close until I’m gazing out at the most gorgeous view. It’s a clear view of the cliff—the land around the house, the growth of rock, and the spread of water. There’s a plate with leftover lasagna. I’m guessing this is Mr. Rochester’s office. He must have eaten here after we were done. How sad.

Why doesn’t he join us?

The final door’s at the end of the hallway. I turn the knob carefully, half expecting someone to appear. Mr. Rochester, most likely. It’s dim. Empty. A stairwell.

Not a linen closet. I should move on to the other side of the house, but I’m drawn by the heat coming down through the narrow passageway. I’m drawn by curiosity. Sturdy wooden steps lead me to a finished attic. There’s a metal bedframe in the corner, as if this was once used as a bedroom, but since then someone has added boxes and boxes of storage. There are shadows of old baby toys—a mechanical swing and a bouncer. They must have been Paige’s.

This also feels private, but less grim than the room down there. These are people’s heirlooms, their leftovers, the overflow of their lives. It does seem like if I found a blanket and pair of socks here, it would be fair for me to use them. After all, Mr. Rochester is supposed to provide room and board. Not freezing room and board, the regular kind.

That’s how I justify it to myself as I start peeking into the boxes.

There doesn’t seem to be much order to what’s here. I find beautiful china in a box with old crayons and Legos. Paintings stacked against an old row boat. There’s a journal lined with blue velvet that’s soft to the touch and missing the layer of dust over everything else.

A creak in the wood from behind me.

I drop the journal and turn just as a hand grabs my wrist.

My scream pierces the darkness.

Mr. Rochester looks down at me, his eyes fierce, his face glowing from the light of his phone. “What the fuck are you doing up here?”

“I’m sorry,” I say, instinctive panic making me desperate. It’s more than just fear of losing my job. It’s the reality of being in a tight space with an angry man. This hasn’t ended well for me before. I’m rambling because I’m nervous. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“A blanket,” I say, stumbling over the syllables. “And socks. I’m cold.”

He looks incredulous, as if he hasn’t noticed that it’s twenty degrees outside. His dark gaze takes me in all the way down to my bare legs, to my feet, my freezing toes. “You’re looking for a blanket. In a goddamn attic? Nothing is usable here.”

“Is there… a linen closet somewhere?”

He growls, the sound animalistic in the small space. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you come to dinner?” I really have no right to demand answers of this man.

It’s just an automatic reaction to his tone.

In the twenty-four hours since I met Beau Rochester, he’s taken on a larger-than-life space in my mind. He seems taller than men should be, stronger than they usually are. Fiercer in every way.

It’s a figment of my imagination, of course.

A side effect of meeting him in such a strange situation. But now that I see him standing over me, his chest bare, revealing muscles and a dark covering of hair, the gauzy light tracing the planes of his body, I realize it was accurate all along.