Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
I usher her to my car, and she climbs in the front seat, buckling up automatically.
“Car rules,” I declare just to be sure, “always wear your seatbelt, don’t touch the control panel without asking, and drinks and food are allowed as long as you clean up your trash when we get out. Sound good?”
Grace nods as I pull out of the parking lot, following the GPS’s directions to the address Cameron gave me for their house, but she also asks, “Who controls the music?”
“Either we agree or we take turns. You can go first.”
I’m being nice, but you can also learn a lot about someone based on their musical taste. I’m expecting a full breakdown of the latest Taylor Swift album from Grace. Instead, after pairing her phone with the stereo, a K-pop song starts and then Grace starts to sing… in Korean.
Stunned, I ask, “You speak Korean?”
She grins proudly but corrects me, “I wish, but no. I just memorized the songs. Stray Kids are my favorite.”
Given the scrolling information on the car’s screen, I deduce that’s the band name, and she hasn’t taken a liking to actual lost children.
Once upon a time, that’s what I would’ve been considered. A lost child, maybe even a lost cause. There aren’t many with the type of upbringing I’ve had who come out unscathed. I’m definitely not. There are scars that run deep and damage that can’t be undone, but I’ve made the most out of what I’ve experienced and have come to enjoy the no-strings-attached life I’ve created for myself.
Especially today, because it brought me here. To Grace.
“That’s still impressive,” I praise.
“La-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.” She’s fully immersed in the song, even doing some dance choreography moves in her seat, and I can’t help but appreciate her enthusiasm for everything she does.
She dances and sings the rest of the way home, and when I turn into the driveway the GPS directs me to, I stare at the house in front of me in awe. “Whoa. Grace, your house is massive.”
“Huh?” She glances out the windshield like her house magically supersized while she was at school. “It’s just home.”
No, it’s not. I work for families with money. Otherwise, they couldn’t afford to have a private nanny, especially a live-in one. Plus, my services come at a premium because I’m worth it. However, the Harrington home is easily three times bigger than Bianca’s house and I thought it was large. “I should’ve asked your dad for more money,” I whisper, and she laughs. “A lot more money.”
“Come on. I’ll show you where your room is,” Grace tells me, unbuckling and jumping out as soon as I shift my car into park.
She barrels toward the front door, presses a button on her phone to unlock the electronic security system, and then waves at the doorbell camera. “Hi, Dad!” To me, she explains, “He gets an alert when I get home.”
We go inside, and she closes the door behind me as I glance around. From the foyer, I can see a formal living room and a fancy dining room that both look pristine and untouched, so I’m guessing they don’t get used often. Grace runs past the stairs, and I follow her into a large open area with vaulted ceilings that houses the family room, kitchen, and breakfast nook, though ‘nook’ is probably a misnomer since I’ve been to restaurants smaller than the space. It does seem more lived in, though, with a sense of use and enjoyment despite being obviously done by a decorator with coordinated groupings of pillows on the couches, fancy candles on the table, and pretty but generic art on the walls.
Grace dumps her backpack on the island and yanks the fridge open. “I’m starving!” she announces, digging into a drawer and coming out with a cheese stick. “Want one?”
“Sure, thanks.”
Once we’re both munching on cheese sticks, she leads me around the rest of the house, sounding like she’s done this tour guide gig before. “Down there are Dad’s office and his bedroom.” She points to two closed doors in a hallway behind the formal living room, then swings her finger over to the other side of the house. “And over there are the gym, mud room, garage, and a guest bedroom. There’s a bathroom under the stairs too.” She heads up the stairs, waving for me to follow her. “Up here is the media room.”
She opens the door to a dark gray painted room with a large screen on one end and two rows of long, black leather, reclining couches. There’s a glass-front refrigerator filled with a variety of drinks and snacks, plus a small kitchenette that looks stocked with treats.
At the next door, which is just across the hall, she says, “My room.”
She reveals what’s clearly a young girl’s room with blush pink walls, gold accents, and white bedding with pillows in shades of pink in various textures from fluffy faux fur to tufted velvet. There’s also a desk, a dresser, and a television in front of a beanbag chair that’d probably fit three people on it.