I feel a wave of nausea run through my stomach. I know it’s just nerves, but staying home and spying on Mr. Masters while eating ice cream seems so much more appealing, right now.
Ah, Mr. Masters—the man who makes my stomach flutter, whose voice makes me imagine things that I shouldn’t be imagining.
I need to call an cab. I’ll have to ask him who I call because I have no idea. With one quick look in the mirror, I make my way up into the main house.
Mr. Masters has been snappy with me all day, and I’m not really sure why. We seemed to get along well after our nanny scotch the other night but today, after he heard me on the phone talking about tonight, we are back to square one.
Sam is sprawled on the living room floor, and Mr. Masters is sitting in his wingback chair, reading his book. Willow is sitting at the kitchen table doing an assignment.
“Oh my God,” Sammy yells. “You look so beautiful.”
I hold my clutch in my hands with white-knuckle force, and I swallow the lump in my throat. Mr. Masters' eyes rise over the top of the book, and he gives me the once over.
“Do you know what cab company I call, please?” I ask.
He smiles warmly. “You look lovely, Miss Brielle.”
A stupid smile crosses my face as I squeeze my handbag so tight I might break it. “Really?”
“Really.” His eyes hold mine.
I glance over to Willow who is watching me. “Do you like my dress, Will?” I ask.
She shrugs and goes back to her assignment.
Sammy jumps up from his place on the floor and circles me. “You look like a movie star.” He gasps. “Like a gold and glittery Barbie.”
Mr. Masters chuckles, and I feel the heat of it warm my blood.
“You have a beautiful laugh,” I say without thinking.
A scowl creases his forehead, and he stops laughing immediately. “I’ll have my driver pick you up.”
I frown, too. “I don’t want to bother you.” I twist my hands in front of me. “I’ll just catch a cab, honestly.”
“Don’t be daft.” He picks up his phone.
“But how much does your driver charge?” I ask. “I’m on a budget.”
His eyes rise to meet mine, he shakes his head, and then holds a finger up. “Hello. This is Julian Masters. Can you come and pick a guest up from my estate, please?”
I bite my bottom lip as I listen. How much does a damn private driver cost? Shit.
He nods. “I see, that’s fine, although I will need you to pick her up later tonight, too.”
Oh no. I shake my head. “No, I’m staying at Emerson’s,” I mouth.
He frowns and looks down at the floor to avoid my gaze.
“She will call you when she is ready to come home.” He listens for a moment, and then smiles. “Yes, please, and I would like Frank to pick her up—”
“Mr. Masters,” I interrupt. “I’m not coming home tonight.”
He puts his hand over the phone. “Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not,” I whisper.
“Yes. You. Are.” He looks away and continues listening. “Yes, and charge her fair to my account, please.”