"Ugh, God—that's disgusting!" Jordyn exclaimed as Autumn received a delivery of several pounds of dried pig's blood a few days later. "What are they—vampires?"
Autumn held her breath as she maneuvered the bags of purple-black powder to a safe spot at the back of the kitchen counter. Even sealed, she caught a faint whiff of salmon. How odd. But the staff insisted that this was actually blood and not crumbled-up fish jerky.
"Just eccentric rich people," Autumn explained, staring at the bags. "I mean, look at what celebrities eat—gold-covered steak, pounds of caviar, diamonds, and all those weird protein shakes."
Jordyn curled her lip and flicked through social media at the kitchen island, the teen's signal that she was through with a conversation. Autumn shrugged and pulled out her list, laying it on the counter.
Vampires.
Autumn smiled to herself and shook her head. This world was filled with a lot of strange things, but vampires weren't one of them. Although, she did remember the stories her grandmother used to tell her about Romanian vampires, called strigoi. But strigoi, like other incarnations of vampires, couldn't walk around in the sun—and she distinctly remembered seeing Mr Westbrook standing in a patch of sunlight. He didn't seem too troubled nor did she smell anything resembling burning flesh.
"So, I'm going to need you to be my taste-tester," Autumn said, looking at her daughter.
Jordyn's head came up. "You want me to eat blood? Hell no." She made a gagging sound.
"You did before."
Her daughter's brown eyes widened. "When?"
"Do you remember those red velvet cake pops?"
"Ugh! Mom! That's so damn gross! UGH!" Jordyn hopped off the stool and ran from the room while Autumn chuckled to herself. "I can't believe you did that to me!"
Returning to her list, Autumn stared at the three desserts that would have blood in them. She'd start baking those first; everything else was a known quantity and didn't need to be perfected.
As she made some mental calculations, there was a knock on the door. Autumn walked over and saw the tall silhouette of Mr Feldman standing outside. "Hello," she greeted the butler, swinging the door open wide. "Does Mr Westbrook require more cinnamon rolls?"
Mr Feldman chuckled. For the last three days, Autumn had sent up a dozen large cinnamon rolls to her employer. This morning, the girl who came to collect them let it slip that she'd never seen the boss so excited to receive breakfast. The knowledge that Mr Westbrook was eager for something she had created caused Autumn to stammer and blush like a teenage girl.
"No, I believe he is all set." Peering over her shoulder, the butler said, "I see that the blood arrived."
Autumn followed his gaze with a quick glance. "Yes. I plan on making a small batch of the three desserts we discussed earlier and submitting them for Mr Westbrook's approval. That way, if there's anything he'd like me to change, I can easily do it."
"Well, you appear to have everything in order," Mr Feldman replied, nodding.
Autumn leaned on the wall. "There's more, isn't there?" He didn't come all this way to check on her delivery of dried blood.
The butler chuckled. "Very perceptive, Ms Milford. I just need you to come up to the house to look at the station we're setting up for you."
Autumn blinked. "You do?" That wasn't typical behavior as far as she knew. "Most events just set up a table for me and I lay the desserts out." And then get the hell out of there.
"I know," the butler conceded, "but we were looking to have you be present during the event to help serve."
Serve? She didn't serve. "Oh? Sure, sure," Autumn replied automatically. "But I didn't bring anything respectable." Think of the storefront, she told herself while inwardly cringing. Her people skills were okay, but she wasn't used to chatting with strangers for long periods of time. Especially rich strangers.
"Not to worry, we'll have a few selections brought over." He paused. "We do appreciate your adaptability, Ms Milford."
She had to chuckle at that. "I've been adapting to life for a long time, Mr Feldman." Getting pregnant and thrown out of her house at seventeen, moving in with her maternal grandparents, losing both of them within a year. It was adapt or fall—and Autumn wasn't going to fall.
"Indeed. So, are you busy right now? Shall we go up to the house?"
Autumn shrugged. "Why not. Jordyn! I'm going up to the main house with Mr Feldman!"
"Yeah, whatever!" the kid called back.
Autumn turned back to the butler. "She's just upset because she found out I tricked her into eating a cake pop with blood in it."
"It's an acquired taste," Mr Feldman allowed. "Shall we?"
"After you."
They trekked up to the house, which already had signs of preparation for the event. Several white vans were parked out in the courtyard; the front doors were open with workers passing in and out, carrying everything from rolls of carpet to tables to lighting fixtures.
Most of the furniture had been removed from the foyer, replaced by slim couches in brown leather and elegant, high-backed chairs that were pushed up against the walls leaving the floor bare. At the back of the room was a set of open double doors.
The area beyond the doors was obviously being set up as a ballroom. Autumn noticed a pair of workers in overalls at the far end laying down long, cream-colored boards for a dance floor. Dozens of tables rested against the walls, folded and stacked. Near the dance floor, an "X" was laid out in red tape.
"Looks good," she told the butler.
He nodded. "The kitchen is through here," Mr Feldman explained, indicating a door near the "X". "We'll keep all your extra trays right inside."
"Do you have tiered trays?" Autumn asked, staring at the length of the "X". If this was any indication of how long the table was going to be, it might not be enough. "Because I think I might have planned for too much."
"I'll check, but I believe we will have enough for everything."
" ... looks fine."
Autumn turned and saw Mr Westbrook enter with the same woman who'd escorted her to his office and a slim, dark-haired man around her age. Mr Westbrook wore dark blue slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Her heart gave an involuntary thump and she coughed into her fist to cover the faux pas.
Somehow, over the din of construction, Mr Westbrook heard her. He turned and smiled, an expression that caused butterflies to take flight in her belly as if she were a naïve teenager and not the single mother of one.
The dark-haired man suddenly pivoted and spotted Autumn. "Her—her," he cried, jabbing a finger in Autumn's direction.
"Me?" she asked, pointing at herself. What the hell is he talking about?
"Yes, you!" the man called out, marching quickly over to Autumn. "Sir. I can evaluate your skill with this young lady here."
"Evaluate his what?" Autumn exclaimed, drawing back.
Mr Westbrook reached them and laid a hand on the other man's shoulder. "See, Felix, Ms Milford agrees with me."
Undeterred, Felix turned to Autumn. "I need to evaluate Mr Westbrook's dancing skill, madam. This is a very prestigious event and he is required to open the dance floor with a waltz."
"With me?" Autumn stared at Mr Westbrook. "But I'm just a—"
Her employer blinked, but Felix answered for him. "No, no, of course not you. With a—a lady of esteem," he stated after a brief hesitation. Next to him, Mr Westbrook frowned.
"Forget what Felix is blathering about, Ms Milford. I'm sure you have better things to do."
"Sir," Felix pressed before Autumn could even say anything. "We don't have much time."
Mr Westbrook sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I understand that, Felix," he growled.
Autumn watched their interaction curiously. Honestly, when would she get the opportunity to dance, albeit badly, with a tall, handsome, rich man? It was something she could carry with her when her mood was low.
"One dance?" she heard herself inquiring.
Felix grinned and Mr Westbrook's eyes widened slightly. "Just one," Felix assured her. He pulled a cell phone from his back pocket and scrolled through what Autumn assumed was a playlist. "Do you know how to waltz, Ms Milford?"
"Not in the least."
Felix sighed. "Well, we'll do what we can. Mr Westbrook, if you please?"
He stepped up to her, shuffling slightly on his feet. "You don't have to do this, you know," he told her quietly, reaching for her hand.
"I don't mind," she replied, looking up into those dark, ocean-colored eyes.
"Thank you," he replied softly, fingers closing over hers.
They were strong, calloused fingers—not the sort Autumn expected from someone with more than enough money to afford weekly manicures. She looked down and noted faint paint stains beneath his blunt nails. This guy definitely wasn't your average millionaire.
At Felix's instructions, Autumn placed her free hand on Mr Westbrook's shoulder.
"Just follow me," Mr Westbrook said with a lop-sided grin. "I promise I won't lead you too far astray."
His shoulder was warm beneath her fingertips, muscles rolling beneath the thin white shirt. Intending to keep a respectable distance between them, Autumn failed completely and let her whole hand rest there. Mr Westbrook turned his head slightly—just a fraction of an inch, then looked down at her. Autumn stared back, an embarrassed flush creeping up her neck and touching her cheeks.
"No, keep it there," he said softly when she started to pull away. His other hand rested on her upper back, light enough to be respectful but it still sent a shiver down her spine.
Oh, God, she breathed, what is this man doing to me?
"Mr Westbrook?" Felix called out. "Are we ready to begin?"
"Sure, whatever," Mr Westbrook replied, still staring deep into Autumn's eyes.
Her whole body flushed hot beneath the intensity of his gaze. Somewhere, music began playing.
"Mr Westbrook?" Felix fairly shouted.
"Follow me," her employer murmured, taking the first step.
He led her easily, counting softly under his breath. Autumn tried to follow, but most of her brainpower was taken up by the feel of his hands on her. She stumbled and tripped, losing pattern and rhythm, but never once did Mr Westbrook appear to be upset or disgruntled with her inability to master a simple box-step.
What is it? she wondered as they completed a circuit of the room. Why do I feel this way?
She'd sworn off men and relationships ever since Jordyn's father left both of them high and dry, instead focusing all of her energy on raising her kid and making the best of the cards she'd been dealt. And yet, here she was, in the arms of a millionaire who had singled her out for some reason. She'd known this man for only a few days, but suddenly she felt as if she'd been transported into a Hallmark romance movie. Emotions didn't move this fast—did they?
"Ms Milford?"
"Huh?" Autumn blinked and looked up. Somehow, they'd stopped moving and Mr Westbrook was watching her with a peculiar look on his face.
God, he was close enough to kiss ...
Shaking her head, Autumn pulled her hands from his. No, this had gone all wrong. She shouldn't have led him on. "I have to go," she whispered. "Your desserts won't bake themselves, Mr Westbrook."
He stared at her. "Ms Milford—"
But Autumn was already moving quickly, passing by the housekeeper, dance instructor, and Mr Feldman, all of whom were watching her curiously. Her feet couldn't move fast enough; she exited the mansion and nearly sprinted down the driveway back to the cottage.