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screw up
) and Pollyanna pep talks (
you’ve got this
) for most of the drive, but I sit up a little straighter when I catch sight of water through the trees, and I strain to get a better look.
    Mick sees my movement. “That’s Frenchman Bay. It’s even prettier on a sunny day.”
    I nod, but I actually sort of like that it’s overcast. It seems to suit my mood. The glimpses of water become more and more frequent, and even with the gray skies, it looks like a postcard.
    “How much longer?” I ask. My palms are clammy.
    “Not long. The Langdon estates are right on the water outside of town.”
    Langdon
estates
? Interesting. There’s rich, and then there’s
rich.
Now I’m really wishing that my online research on the Langdons had been more thorough.
    And when Mick turns onto a tree-lined drive, I’m wishing I’d hired a full-on private investigator because I’m pretty sure the building to my right is an honest-to-God
stable.
    “How long have you worked for the Langdons?” I ask, now completely confident that Mick is a full-time employee for a wealthy family and not just an occasional luxury.
    He doesn’t meet my eyes in the mirror this time. “Long time,” he says finally, his tone terser than it was before.
    Got it. No chitchat about our employer.
    Then I see the house. Actually,
house
is a stretch. It’s more like a compound.
    There are at least three buildings within easy walking distance of the main house, which rivals the grandest of the Hamptons homes I’ve been to. I’m still gaping when Mick comes around and opens the door for me. The house is neither modern minimalism nor ornate ostentation. The only time I’ve seen anything like it was when my parents and I spent Christmas in the Swiss Alps at a resort chalet. It’s three stories of perfectly maintained wood, gray stone chimneys, and high-peaked roofs.
    I can’t help but picture it in the snow, maybe adorned with white lights at Christmas. Not that I’m trying to romanticize the whole thing, but I have to admit…it’s not a bad place to banish oneself.
    “Mr. Langdon would prefer you stay in the main house close to Mr. Paul,” Mick says, taking my suitcase out of the trunk. “But if that doesn’t work out, there’s plenty of room in the staff house—the ‘small house,’ as we call it.”
    I frown a little at what I think must be a hidden meaning in those words. Why wouldn’t it work out for me to stay in the main house?
    I follow Mick through the front door, doing my best not to gape. I’ve been in so many nice homes that I’m generally sort of immune to all the bells and whistles that money can buy, but this is gorgeous in an unfamiliar way. There’s none of the ostentatious snobbery of Park Avenue, nor the trying-too-hard casualness of Hamptons beach homes. Instead it’s sort of this rustic beauty. In place of a marble foyer with a crystal chandelier, there’s a spacious entryway opening to a wide wooden staircase. There’s almost nothing in the way of home decor save for a hunter-green area rug, but that actually kind of works. Too many frills would take away from the natural beauty of the exposed wood.
    It definitely feels like a man’s home, and I find myself wishing I’d bothered to look up what happened to
Mrs.
Langdon. Because while it’s gorgeous in an imposing sort of way, it’s clear that no woman has called this home in a long time. Maybe ever.
    I follow Mick into the biggest kitchen I’ve ever seen. The stove in the middle of the room has like eight burners, and the fridge is at least twice the size of ours at home.
    Mick is murmuring something to a middle-aged woman whose apron over her jeans and button-down blue shirt identify her as the one responsible for whatever smells so delicious on the stove.
    “Ms. Middleton, this is Linda Manning.”
    “Olivia, please,” I say with a smile.
    “Call me Lindy,” the gray-haired woman says, shaking my hand in a friendly enough manner, although it’s clear that