you might wake up to find a bear on your back porch and then heading into the home office to write stories that take place in exotic urban locales.
To my mom, Peggy,
for always encouraging me to simply be me.
And many thanks to Robyn, Gabby, Nicola,
for giving me coaching on my Australian phrases.
BIRCH Manor was the last constant left. The only thing remaining in her life that had always been there. Everyone else, her mother, her piano teacher, her fans … they were gone. The house was all she had.
Until the bank took it, at least.
Noelle sighed and looked out the window, her stomach tightening as the glossy black Town Car drove through the open wrought-iron gates and around the circular drive, stopping in front of the door to the manor.
She moved away from the window and hoped her guest didn’t notice the twitching curtains. It was too sad really, that she’d been reduced to this. Waiting for her home to be taken, watching for the financier coming to appraise the property. Waiting to be evicted. She had no idea where she would go.
The check she’d gotten last week had come with a handwritten note informing her that this would likely be the last royalty check for the foreseeable future. The company wasn’t selling her old albums anymore, and several of her digital albums had been taken down from the big websites. No one wanted her music.
Not that the royalties had been amazing over the past year. Hardly anything really, enough to buy a latté on the odd occasion. Now she wouldn’t even have that any more.
Suddenly she wanted the hot, frothy drink so badly she thought she might cry.
She was a sad case. Poor Noelle. She’d throw a pity party if she thought anyone would come. Well, the bank might if there was something to repossess. She laughed into the vast, empty entryway, then straightened her skirt and took her place in front of the door, not really sure why she was bothering to play hostess, only that it was reflexive. Her mother would have expected it of her. Demanded it.
Of course, her mother wasn’t here.
Noelle sucked in a sharp breath and reached for the doorknob. Her fingers tightened around it, waiting for the knock, and as soon as it pierced the silence, she tugged the door open. Her heart skipped, spinning a downward spiral into her stomach as she took in the man standing before her.
Tall and broad, in a suit that was definitely not of the standard-issue, bank-employee variety, but quality, custom made and tailored to flatter his amazing, masculine physique.
His lips curved into a smile, not a warm one, but one that she felt down to her toes. His eyes were dark, deep like chocolate, but without any of the sweetness. Her stomach tightened, a strong, sharp craving overwhelming her.
For coffee. Still coffee.
“Ms. Birch?” He had a nice voice too, rich and luxuriant, just like the suit. Why couldn’t it have been obnoxious? Nasal or high or something. But no, it was low and husky, smooth with a drop-dead-sexy Australian accent adding flavor to his words.
“Yes. Are you …” She changed tactics mid sentence, decided to go for something more forceful. “You’re from the bank.”
He stepped past her and into the house, his eyes sweeping the room, and her, in a dismissive manner. “Not exactly.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I came in lieu of the assessor. I’m interesting in making an offer on the property.”
“It’s in foreclosure.”
“I know. And I’m considering purchasing it before it goes to auction. I need to take a look and let the bank know what I intend to pay for it.”
“Really? Why didn’t I think of that? I would have given them … well, I think I might have five dollars in my bag over there.” She gestured to the red purse hanging on its hook by the door. “Think they’d go for it?”
“Not likely.” His answer was clipped, annoyed. Why was he annoyed? She hadn’t barged into his home early on a Saturday morning. She was the one who got to be annoyed. It was her right.
“Too bad,” she said, fighting to keep her tone light, flippant. Unaffected.
“From what I’ve seen of your loan information, you’ve been delinquent for months.”
Delinquent. She hated that term. Like she was a criminal or something because she didn’t have any money. Like she wouldn’t have paid the mortgage if her bank balance ever managed to exceed double digits.
“I’m aware of why you’re here—or, at least, I’m aware of what I did to make the bank take my house back.” The words stuck in her throat. “I don’t need a rundown from you.”
“Good. Because I’m not here to give it.”
“No. You’re here to find out if you want to move into my home before the bank has even thrown me out onto the streets,” she bit out. She never would have spoken to anyone that way a year ago. She would have been gracious, smiled, been faultless in every way. But that veneer had started eroding over the past year. She just felt angry now. Battered. Like she was dying slowly inside as life chipped away at her very last foothold.
She’d been trained never to show strain or fatigue, never, ever to give the tabloid media a reason to gossip about her. But the past year had been like hell on earth. A constant barrage of blows that never seemed to end. Every time she tried to stand up and dust herself off, something else would hit. And this seemed like the knock-out punch. Because what would she do without this last piece of security? Without this last link to everything she used to be?
Everything she would never be again.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Noelle,” he said, his dark eyes locked with hers. She felt like he could see her—not just that he was looking at her, but that he truly saw into her, beneath her polished veneer to the cluttered mess beyond.
She wanted to hide. Not just from him, but from everything.
Isn’t that what you’ve been doing for more than a year now?
Yes. Head down, trying to survive. Trying not to draw media attention. Too defeated to try and track her mother down. Because, as the lawyer she hadn’t been able to afford had pointed out, the money had all been in her mother’s name, so the battle would be long and expensive. It would devour the fortune that she was trying to win back. And if she didn’t win … it would mean the kind of debt she could never crawl out of. It all seemed impossibly hopeless.
“Then do enlighten me, Mr …?”
“Grey.” He extended his hand and she accepted the offer, his strong, masculine fingers curling around her slender, pale hand, engulfing it. Making her feel warm, too warm. “Ethan Grey.”
Ethan
