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are the kind I expected to find in a place like this: image-heavy coffee table books about the estate. They have titles like Huntington Manor: A Photographic Tour , or The Architecture of Huntington Manor. Or even Settlers of Barberville: A History of the Region. But buried beneath all of those, I find a book that makes my insides twist.
    It’s called The Cunninghams: The Unauthorized Story.
    I stare down at the gold embossed letters on the cover. This is a joke, right? This can’t be real.
    But when I flip it open, the reality’s too hard to ignore. It’s the entire history of my family, starting with my great-great-grandfather and working forward. The last few chapters are the worst. Those are the chapters that talk about my father, Calder, and me. There’s even a photograph of the three of us from some charity function. One of the last times we were all together, more than two years ago. I touch the picture, sliding my finger across my father’s face. I’m starting to feel numb.
    But I keep flipping. I flip until I find myself face-to-face with a picture of… well, me. It’s the one the tabloids made famous last year. The one where I’m hugging a boy from the orphanage I helped renovate. It was taken several months before my father’s death, and I look like the perfect little saint.
    Now, though, it just makes me feel like the perfect little fraud.
    Even the first time I went over to Chiang Mai, back when my father was alive and I had no real problems to worry about, was there ever a point when I wasn’t thinking about myself? I worked for Cunningham Cares International because I thought it would make me feel less guilty about my wealth. I can’t even remember the name of that boy in the picture.
    “Doing a little light reading?”
    The voice startles me, and I drop the book. My fingers feel thick, and my brain seems to be working about half as fast as it needs to. I know I should be nervous that someone just caught me looking at a photo of myself—if he got a good look at the picture, right here next to the real thing, he might recognize me—but I can’t bring myself to care. I just feel cold and empty.
    “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” he says as I slowly get to my feet. I’m still so dazed by the book that when I do look up, it takes me a moment to recognize the guy in front of me.
    Red-brown hair. Dirty white T-shirt. Perfect biceps marked with scratches from a hundred tiny pieces of glass.
    Casanova himself is standing in front of me. Blood rushes in my ears.
    “What are you doing here?” I say. My voice is a squeak. Already, my eyes are taking it in: the bandages wrapped around various parts of his body. The toolbox in his hand. He was supposed to be fired. He was supposed to be gone.
    “Someone needs to fix this window,” he says casually, cheerfully. As if he weren’t the one who broke it only this morning. As if I weren’t the girl who cornered him and tried to get in his pants only a few short days ago.
    “I guess you got stuck with clean-up duty?” he asks when I don’t say anything immediately.
    “Unfortunately,” I manage.
    “Well, looks like we’re about to become good friends, then.” He turns and strides over toward the window. “Though I guess you could say we became good friends a few nights ago.”
    I’m too stunned to reply. And when he turns to grin at me, I look quickly away, letting it all sink in.
    He wasn’t fired. He’s going to be working right next to me. And he’s not going to let me forget about what I did the other night.
    One thing’s for sure: this day’s about to get a whole lot more awkward.

CHAPTER THREE

    I need to get out of here. I should go talk to Mr. Haymore. Maybe I could convince him to let me outsource this particular task.
    But what would I say? I can’t exactly explain the situation to that stodgy old buffoon. And if I walk out of here and leave all of this crap all over the floor, he’ll fire me for sure.
    I crouch back down