The car’s headlights scraped over the wrought-iron gates like a spotlight interrogating me.
I pressed my damp palms into my skirt, watching the black metal scrollwork glide past the window as the driver eased us through. Beyond, the Cross estate rose from the coastal fog—stone and glass and sharp angles, perched above the ocean like it thought it owned the cliffs, the water, the sky.
“Ms. Evans?” The driver’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror—polite, unreadable. “We’re here.”
As if the looming mansion wasn’t obvious.
“Right.” My voice came out thinner than I meant. I cleared my throat, tried again. “Thank you.”
The car rolled to a stop under a covered entrance lit with recessed golden strips. No ornate chandelier, no old-money flourish. Just clean lines, warm light, and an undercurrent of something colder I couldn’t name.
I gathered my tote bag and my cheap, too-small suitcase, the wheels thunking once on the smooth stone as I stepped out. The air smelled of salt and pine and money. Somewhere beyond the darkness, I could hear the ocean chewing at the cliffs, steady and unforgiving.
Exactly like the man who owned this place, if the internet was to be believed.
Liam Cross: hostile takeovers, ice-blooded negotiations, a portfolio that made governments nervous. And I was here to change his kid’s bedtime routine.
My breath hitched without my permission. Not a panic attack, I told myself. Just nerves. It had been two months since my last one. I could do this. I had to. Rent and student loans were not impressed by my pride.
The front doors opened before I could reach for them. Not by a butler, not by a housekeeper. By him.
He filled the doorway, all six-plus feet of broad shoulders in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my car had, back when I’d still had one. The light framed him in stark relief: dark hair cut close at the sides, a hint of stubble on a strong jaw, tie loosened like he’d just ripped it free from someone’s throat.
His eyes were the worst—cool gray, assessing, as if he were evaluating a line item on a balance sheet.
“Brooke Evans.” My name in his mouth wasn’t a greeting; it was confirmation. That I matched some file he’d studied. That I was, in fact, the risk he’d chosen.
I straightened my shoulders. “Mr. Cross. Thank you for—”
“Liam,” he cut in, already turning away. “Come in. We’ll make this quick.”
Of course we would.
I stepped into the foyer and stopped. The space was all glass and stone and soft, expensive silence. A staircase floated along a wall like an art installation. To the right, the living room opened out toward the ocean: floor-to-ceiling windows with the night pressed against them, waves casting faint moving light into the room.
No family photos. No toys left out. The place felt like a model home someone forgot to move into.
He walked ahead of me, long, unhurried strides, not checking if I followed. This was not a man who worried about being disobeyed.
“Your bag.” He flicked a glance at the suitcase in my hand. “Someone will take it up. We’ll talk in my office.”
“I can manage my own—”
He stopped so abruptly I nearly ran into him. I caught myself, fingers grazing the fine wool of his sleeve before I yanked them back like I’d touched a live wire.
