The Stopover

by Swan, T L

  This man is odd.

  He slides into the front seat and eventually pulls out into the traffic. All I can do is clutch my handbag in my lap. Should I say something? Try and make conversation? What will I say?

  “Do you live far from here?” I ask.

  “Twenty minutes,” he replies, his tone clipped.

  Oh . . . is that it? Okay, shut up now. He doesn’t want a conversation. For ten long minutes, we sit in silence. “You can drive this car when you have the children, or we have a small minivan. The choice is yours.”

  “Oh, okay.” I pause for a moment. “Is this your car?”

  “No.” He turns onto a street and into a driveway with huge sandstone gates. “I drive a Porsche,” he replies casually.

  “Oh.”

  The driveway goes on and on and on. I look around at the perfectly kept grounds and rolling green hills. With every meter we pass, I feel my heart beat just that bit faster. As if it isn’t bad enough that I can’t do the whole nanny thing . . . I really can’t do the rich thing. I have no idea what to do with polite company. I don’t even know what fork to use at dinner. I’ve got myself into a right mess here. The house comes into focus and the blood drains from my face.

  It’s not a house, not even close. It’s a mansion, white and sandstone with a castle kind of feel to it, with six garages to the left.

  He pulls into the large circular driveway, stopping under the awning.

  “Your house is beautiful,” I whisper.

  He nods, as his eyes stay fixed out front. “We are fortunate.”

  He gets out of the car and opens my door for me. I climb out as I grip my handbag with white-knuckle force. My eyes rise up to the luxurious building in front of me. This is an insane amount of money. He retrieves my suitcase and wheels it around to the side of the building. “Your entrance is around to the side,” he says. I follow him up a path until we get to a door, which he opens and lets me walk through. There is a foyer and a living area in front of me. “The kitchen is this way.” He points to the kitchen. “And your bedroom is in the back-left corner.”

  I nod and walk past him, into the apartment.

  He stands at the door but doesn’t come in. “The bathroom is to the right,” he continues.

  Why isn’t he coming in here? “Okay, thanks,” I reply.

  “Order any groceries you want on the family shopping order and . . .” He pauses, as if collecting his thoughts. “If there is anything else you need, please talk to me first.”

  I frown. “First?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t want to be told about a problem for the first time when reading a resignation letter.”

  “Oh.” Did that happen before? “Of course,” I mutter.

  “If you would like to come and meet the children . . .” He gestures to a hallway.

  “Yes, please.” Oh God, here we go. I follow him out into a corridor with glass walls that looks out onto the main house, which is about four meters away. A garden sits between the two buildings creating an atrium, and I smile as I look up in wonder. There is a large window in the main house that looks into the kitchen. I can see beyond that into the living area from the corridor where a young girl and small boy are watching television together. We continue to the end of the glass corridor where there is a staircase with six steps leading up to the main house. I blow out a breath, and I follow Mr. Masters up the stairs. “Children, come and meet your new nanny.”

  The little boy jumps down and rushes over to me, clearly excited, while the girl just looks up and rolls her eyes. I smile to myself, remembering what it’s like to be a typical teenager.

  “Hello, I’m Samuel.” The little boy smiles as he wraps his arms around my legs. He has dark hair, is wearing glasses, and he’s so damn cute.

  “Hello, Samuel.” I smile.

  “This is Willow,” he introduces.

  I smile at the teenage girl. “Hello.”

  She folds her arms across her chest defiantly. “Hi,” she grumbles.

  Mr. Masters holds her gaze for a moment, saying so much with just one look. Willow eventually holds her hand out for me to shake. “I’m Willow.”

  I smile as my eyes flash up to Mr. Masters. He can keep her under control with just a simple glare.

  Samuel runs back to the lounge, grabs something, and then comes straight back. I see a flash. Click, click.

  What the hell?

  He has a small instant Polaroid camera. He watches my face appear on the piece of paper in front of him before he looks back up at me. “You’re pretty.” He smiles. “I’m putting this on the fridge.” He carefully pins it to the fridge with a magnet. Mr. Masters seems to become flustered for some reason. “Bedtime for you two,” he instructs, and they both complain. He turns his attention back to me. “Your kitchen is stocked with groceries, and I’m sure you’re tired.”

  I fake a smile. Oh, I’m being dismissed. “Yes, of course.” I go to walk back down to my apartment, and then turn back to him. “What time do I start tomorrow?”

  His eyes hold mine. “When you hear Samuel wake up.”

  “Yes, of course.” My eyes search his as I wait for him to say something else, but it doesn’t come. “Good night then.” I smile awkwardly.

  “Good night.”

  “Bye, Brielle.” Samuel smiles, and Willow ignores me, walking away and up the stairs.

  I walk back down into my apartment and close the door behind me. Then I flop onto the bed and stare up at the ceiling.

  What have I done?

  It’s midnight and I’m thirsty, but I have looked everywhere and I still cannot find a glass. There’s no other option; I’m going to have to sneak up into the main house to find one. I’m wearing my silky white nightdress, but I’m sure they are all in bed.

  Sneaking out into the darkened corridor, I can see into the lit-up house.

  I suddenly catch sight of Mr. Masters sitting in the armchair reading a book. He has a glass of red wine in his hand. I stand in the dark, unable to tear my eyes away. There’s something about him that fascinates me but I don’t quite know what it is. He stands abruptly, and I push myself back against the wall. Can he see me here in the dark?

  Shit.

  My eyes follow him as he walks into the kitchen. The only thing he’s wearing is his navy-blue boxer shorts. His dark hair has messy, loose waves on top. His chest is broad, his body is . . .

  My heart begins to beat faster. What am I doing? I shouldn’t be standing here in the dark, watching him like a creep, but for some reason I can’t make myself look away.

  He goes to stand by the kitchen counter. His back is to me as he pours himself another glass of red. He lifts it to his lips slowly and my eyes run over his body. I push myself against the wall harder. He walks over to the fridge and takes off the photo of me.

  What?

  He leans his ass on the counter as he studies it. What is he doing? I feel like I can’t breathe.

  He slowly puts his hand down the front of his boxer shorts, and then he seems to stroke himself a few times.

  My eyes widen. What the fuck?

  He puts his glass of wine on the counter and turns the main light off, leaving only a lamp to light the room. With my picture in his hand, he disappears up the hall. What the hell was that? I think Mr. Masters just went up to his bedroom to jerk off to my photo.

  Oh. My. God.

  Knock, knock.

  My eyes are closed, but I frown and try to ignore the noise. I hear it again. Tap, tap. What is that? I roll toward the door and I see it slowly begin to open. My eyes widen, and I sit up quickly. Mr. Masters comes into view. “I’m so sorry to bother you, Miss Brielle,” he whispers. He smells like he’s freshly showered, and he’s wearing an immaculate suit. “I’m looking for Samuel.” His gaze roams down to my breasts hanging loosely in my nightdress, and then he snaps his eyes back up to my face, as if he’s horrified at what he just did.

  “Where is he?” I frown. “Is he missing?”

  “Th
ere he is,” he whispers as he gestures to the lounger. I look over to see Samuel curled up with his teddy in the diluted light of the room. My mouth falls open. “Oh no, what’s wrong?” I whisper. Did he need me and I slept through the whole thing?

  “Nothing,” Mr. Masters murmurs as he picks Samuel up and rests his son’s head on his strong shoulder. “He’s a sleepwalker. Sorry to disturb you. I’ve got this now.” He leaves the room with his small son safely asleep in his arms. The door gently clicks closed behind them.

  I lie back down and stare at the ceiling in the silence. That poor little boy. He came in here to see me and I didn’t even wake up. I was probably snoring, for fuck’s sake. What if he was scared? Oh, I feel like shit now.

  I blow out a deep breath, lift myself up to sit on the edge of the bed, and I put my head into my hands. I need to up my game. If I’m in charge of looking after this kid, I can’t have him wandering around at night on his own. Is he that lonely that he was looking for company from me—a complete stranger?

  Unexplained sadness rolls over me, and I suddenly feel like the weight of the world is on my shoulders. I look around my room for a moment as I think.

  Eventually, I get up and go to the bathroom, and then walk to the window to pull the heavy drapes back. It’s just getting light, and a white mist hangs over the paddocks.

  Something catches my eye and I look down to see Mr. Masters walking out to the garage.

  Wearing a dark suit and carrying a briefcase, he disappears, and moments later I see his Porsche pull out and disappear up the driveway. I watch as the garage door slowly closes behind him. He’s gone to work for the day.

  What the hell?

  His son was just found asleep on my lounger and he just plops him back into his own bed and leaves for the day. Who does that? Well, screw this, I’m going to go and check on him. He’s probably upstairs crying, scared out of his brain. Stupid men. Why don’t they have an inch of fucking empathy for anyone but themselves? He’s eight, for Christ’s sake!

  I walk up into the main house. The lamp is still on in the living room and I can smell the eggs that Mr. Masters cooked himself for breakfast. I look around, and then go up the grand staircase. Honestly, what the hell have I got myself into here? I’m in some stupid rich twat’s house, worried about his child who he clearly doesn’t give a fuck about.

  I storm up the stairs, taking two at a time. I get to the top and the change of scenery suddenly makes me feel nervous. It’s luxurious up here. The corridor is wide, and the cream carpet feels lush beneath my feet. A huge mirror hangs in the hall on the wall. I catch a glimpse of myself and cringe.

  God, no wonder he was looking at my boobs. They are hanging out everywhere, and my hair is wild. I readjust my nightgown over my breasts and continue up the hall. I pass a living area that seems to be for the children, with big comfy loungers inside it. I pass a bedroom, and then I get to a door that is closed. I open it carefully and allow myself to peer in. Willow is fast asleep, still scowling, though. I smirk and slowly shut her door to continue down the hall. Eventually, I get to a door that is slightly ajar. I peer around it and see Samuel sound asleep, tucked in nice and tight. I walk into his room and sit on the side of the bed. He’s wearing bright blue and green dinosaur pajamas, and his little glasses are on his side table, beside his lamp. I find myself smiling as I watch him. Unable to help it, I put my hand out and push the dark hair from his forehead. His bedroom is neat and tidy, filled with expensive furniture. It kind of looks like you would imagine a child’s bedroom being set out in a perfect family movie. Everything in this house is the absolute best of the best. Just how much money does Mr. Masters have? There’s a bookcase, a desk, a wingback chair in the corner, and a toy box. The window has a bench seat running underneath it, and there are a few books sitting in a pile on the cushion, as if Samuel reads there a lot. I glance over to the armchair in the corner to his school clothes all laid out for him. Everything is there, folded neatly, right down to his socks and shiny, polished shoes. His school bag is packed, too.

  I stand and walk over to look at his things. Mr. Masters must do this before he goes to bed. What must it be like to bring children up alone?

  My mind goes to his wife and how much she is missing out on. Samuel is so young. With one last look at Samuel, I creep out of the room and head back down the hall, until something catches my eye.

  A light is on in the en suite bathroom of the main bedroom. That must be Mr. Master’s bedroom. I look left and then right; nobody is awake. I wonder what his room is like, and I can’t stop myself from tiptoeing closer to inspect it. Wow.

  The bed is clearly king-size, and the room is grand, decorated in all different shades of coffee, complimented with dark antique furniture. A huge, expensive, gold and magenta embroidered rug sits on the floor beneath the bed. The light in the wardrobe is on. I peer inside and see business shirts all lined up, neatly in a row. Super neatly, actually. I’m going to have to make sure I keep my room tidy or he’ll think I’m a pig. I smirk because I am one according to his standards of living.

  I turn to see his bed has already been made, and my eyes linger over the velvet quilt and lush pillows there. Did he really touch himself in there last night as he thought of me, or am I completely delusional? I glance around for the photo of me, but I don’t see it. He must have taken it back downstairs.

  An unexpected thrill runs through me. I may return the favor tonight in my own bed.

  I walk into the bathroom. It’s all black, gray, and very modern. Once again, I notice that everything is very neat. There is a large mirror, and I can see that a slender cabinet sits behind it. I push the mirror and the door pops open. My eyes roam over the shelves. You can tell a lot about people by their bathroom cabinet. Deodorant. Razors. Talcum powder. Condoms. I wonder how long ago his wife died. Does he have a new girlfriend?

  It wouldn’t surprise me. He is kind of hot, in an old way. I see a bottle of aftershave and I pick it up, removing the lid before I lift it up to my nose.

  Heaven in a bottle.

  I inhale deeply again, and Mr. Master’s face suddenly appears in the mirror behind me.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growls.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There are no words meaningful enough to thank my wonderful team.

  I don’t write my books alone. I have an army.

  The best army in the world.

  Kellie, the most wonderful PA on earth.

  You are amazing. Thank you for all that you do for me.

  Keeley, not only are you an amazing daughter, but you’re now a wonderful employee. Thank you for wanting to work alongside me. It means a lot.

  To my wonderful beta readers: Mum, Vicki, Am, Rachel, Nicole, Lisa K., Lisa D., Nadia, and Charlotte. Thank you. You put up with a lot and never whine, even when I make you wait for the next chapter. How I got so lucky to have you come into my life and to be able to call you my friends, I will never know.

  To Rena, you came into my life like a breath of fresh air and somehow adopted me. Thank you for believing in me. You’re the yin to my yang, or the ting to my tang.

  Vic, you make me better, and your friendship is so valued.

  Virginia, thank you for everything you do for me. It is so appreciated.

  To my motivated mofos. I love you to bits. You know who you are.

  To Linda and my PR team at Forward. You have been with me since the beginning, and you will be with me until the end. Thank you for everything.

  To my homegirls in the Swan Squad. I feel like I can do anything with you girls in my corner. Thanks for making me laugh every single day.

  This year I’m adding someone new to my list.

  Amazon.

  Thank you for providing me with an amazing platform to bring my books to life.

  I am my own boss.

  Your belief and support of my work this last year have been nothing short of amazing.

  And to my four reasons for living, my b
eautiful husband and three children.

  Your love is my drug, my motivation, and my calling.

  Without you, I have nothing.

  Everything I do is for you.

  Gratitude.

  The quality of being thankful.

  Readiness to show appreciation for and to return kindness.

  Trust in the universe.

  It always delivers.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  A psychologist in her former life, T L Swan is now seriously addicted to the thrill of writing and can’t imagine a time when she wasn’t. She resides in Sydney, Australia, where she’s living out her own happily ever after with her husband and their three children.