This is terrifying.
“Nice to meet you, Emerson and Mark.” He shakes their hands.
“Likewise. Please look after my friend,” Emerson whispers as her eyes flicker to mine.
Mr. Masters nods, smiles, and then pulls my luggage behind him as he walks to the car. Emerson pulls me into an embrace. “This is shit,” I whisper into her hair.
“It will be fine. He’s probably really nice.”
“He doesn’t look nice,” I whisper.
“Yeah, I agree. He looks like a tool,” Mark adds as he watches him disappear through the crowd.
Emerson throws her new friend a dirty look, and I smirk. I think her friend is more annoying than mine, but anyway . . . “Mark, look after my friend, please?”
He beats his chest like a gorilla. “Oh, I intend to.”
Emerson’s eyes meet mine. She subtly shakes her head and I bite my bottom lip to hide my smile. This guy is a dick. We both look over to see Mr. Masters looking back impatiently. “I better go,” I whisper.
“You have my apartment details if you need me?”
“I’ll probably turn up in an hour. Tell your roommates I’m coming in case I need a key.”
She laughs and waves me off, and I go to Mr. Masters. He sees me coming and then starts to walk again.
God, can he not even wait for me? So rude.
He walks out of the building into the VIP parking section. I follow him in complete silence.
Any notion that I was going to become friends with my new boss has been thrown out the window. I think he hates me already.
Just wait until he finds out that I lied on my resume and I have no fucking idea what I’m doing. Nerves flutter in my stomach at the thought.
We get to a large, swanky, black SUV, and he clicks it open to put my suitcase in the trunk. He opens the back door for me to get in. “Thank you.” I smile awkwardly as I slide into the seat. He wants me to sit in the back when the front seat is empty.
This man is odd.
He slides into the front seat and eventually pulls out into the traffic. All I can do is clutch my handbag in my lap.
Should I say something? Try and make conversation?
What will I say?
“Do you live far from here?” I ask.
“Twenty minutes,” he replies, his tone clipped.
Oh . . . is that it? Okay, shut up now. He doesn’t want a conversation. For ten long minutes we sit in silence.
“You can drive this car when you have the children, or we have a small minivan. The choice is yours.”
“Oh, okay.” I pause for a moment. “Is this your car?”
“No.” He turns onto a street and into a driveway with huge sandstone gates. “I drive a Porsche,” he replies casually.
“Oh.”
The driveway goes on and on and on. I look around at the perfectly kept grounds and rolling green hills. With every meter we pass, I feel my heart beat just that bit faster.
As if it isn’t bad enough that I can’t do the whole nanny thing . . . I really can’t do the rich thing. I have no idea what to do with polite company. I don’t even know what fork to use at dinner. I’ve got myself into a right mess here.
The house comes into focus and the blood drains from my face.
It’s not a house, not even close. It’s a mansion, white and sandstone with a castle kind of feel to it, with six garages to the left.