The Boyfriend (The Boss 7)

“A big fat check, I presume.” He put his arms out to Olivia. “Come on, give Afi a kiss goodnight.”

“Night night,” she said, climbing onto his lap to kiss his cheek.

I took Olivia’s chubby little hand in mine and said, “Let’s go.”

Though I’d never wanted kids, I didn’t want to screw up the one that had been entrusted to us. Olivia needed friends who weren’t thirty-plus years old. She needed friends who could pretend to be Rapunzel with her and who weren’t bored out of their minds playing blocks and trucks.

But with our weird life, could we even give her that?

* * * *

The holidays swept in seemingly without warning; before we knew it, we were dropping Olivia off with Valerie and Laurence and flying to England. They would catch up with us on Christmas Eve, along with several members of my family as well as Neil’s brothers and their families. It would be the first time so many of them were in the same place, at least since the wedding, and we wanted time to make sure everything was being done properly at Neil’s country estate.

And, because we wanted to spend time with El-Mudad.

Our car, which I had sarcastically nicknamed “Of The Somerset Maybachs,” rolled down the crushed stone driveway toward the house. I was grateful for the tinted windows; guests still wandered the grounds, taking in the elegant Christmas decorations in the gardens on their guided tours. Some would still be in the house, inspecting all the weird and creepy relics Langhurst Court had to offer. The place was spooky and awful, like if the house from Crimson Peak had a baby with Hogwarts, and for some reason, people liked to visit it.

Which was why we pulled past the front entrance and through a gated side courtyard, away from prying eyes.

“This is probably what it feels like to be royalty,” I said, and I didn’t mean it in a good way.

“I doubt anyone is going to snap a photo of us, darling. I’m the least interesting wealthy person in England,” Neil reassured me sardonically.

“It’s just weird. I mean, I want to see El-Mudad, not a bunch of strangers just strolling through where we’re supposed to be living.” Why Neil loved this place and this life, I had no clue. It was just another of those things that I didn’t understand because I didn’t come from old money and slightly noble blood. There were portraits of his ancestors on the walls of Langhurst Court.

Robert, the butler, met us at the door with Joan, the head housekeeper. They both wore smart Navy suits pressed to perfection.

“Mr. Elwood, Ms. Scaife,” he greeted us. “Welcome home.”

This is not my home, I mentally snarked, and I could have sworn Neil heard it because he seemed to try to hide a chuckle.

“Thank you, Rob. Did our guest arrive?” Neil asked, glancing up at the windows as though he could catch a glimpse of El-Mudad.

“Yes, sir,” Rob answered. “We’ve put him in the Gray Apartment, as you requested.”

The rooms were named. The Gray Apartment occupied the opposite corner of the floor where our rooms were located. A door adjoined them through Neil’s dressing room, though it was usually locked. It would be unlocked for this visit, and the staff was professional enough not to bat an eyelash at the request.

They knew what we were going to be up to.

“Mr. Elwood, Ms. Scaife,” Joan said with a nod of her brunette pixie cut to each of us. “Mr. Ati is taking tea in the Morning Room. Would you like to join him or shall I take him a message?”

“We’ll join him!” I said eagerly, grabbing Neil’s hand. “Come on, is it far?”

Joan followed us through the door and into the checkered-floor and dark, gothic wood foyer. “There are still tours on the first floor of the west wing. I could take you through the staff corridors if you’d like to avoid those.”

“No, that won’t be necessary, thank you,” Neil told her. “What time do tours end today?”

“There should only be two more groups after this one, and the gardens close at seven. Dinner will be served at nine, and I will have a full copy of the public schedule left in your room.”

“Thank you,” he said, giving them both nods before letting me pull him away. “Sophie, you don’t know where you’re going!”

“I kind of do,” I giggled. “I know that the west wing is this way.”

“You’re going to run us through a tour group and get embarrassed,” he warned and took the lead.

As it happened, we weren’t able to avoid tour groups entirely, but aside from a few curious glances, nobody seemed to care about our presence. In New York, we occasionally wound up in society columns. I’d been snapped sitting beside Deja at a Laurence & Chico show in a photo that had run in Vanity Fair, and even that small level of public awareness had disturbed me. So, it was weird to have strangers strolling through Neil’s house, but an oddly comforting reminder that we were rarely recognized.