The main house kitchen is a study in sterile perfection. Cold marble, stainless steel appliances that have never known a fingerprint, and a view of the pool that feels less like a vista and more like surveillance. I’ve changed into a silk kimono I found in my old room, the fabric clinging to my damp skin. I’m perched on a barstool, a mug of tea going cold between my hands, my gaze fixed on the guest house. The blinds are drawn. No movement. He’s in there, probably ironing his running shorts and drafting a formal complaint in his head. The hollow, shaky feeling has solidified into a low, simmering fury.

The front door opens, the sound of heels clicking on polished concrete. A waft of expensive, clinical perfume cuts through the air. Amelia.

“Oh, good, you’ve made it here safely,” she calls out, her voice a smooth, practiced melody of concern. She rounds the corner into the kitchen, a vision in a cream linen suit, her blonde hair in a flawless knot. She’s already shrugging off her blazer. “You wouldn’t believe the day. A client had a histamine response to a vampire facial that looked like—”

“What the hell is going on here, Amelia?” I cut her off. My voice is quiet, which is worse than a shout. I don’t turn from the window.

She stops, blinks. “Excuse me?”

I finally swivel on the stool to face her. “The shirtless British professor currently squatting in my guest house. That. What is going on with that?”

Her perfectly sculpted brows draw together. It’s her ‘managing a difficult client’ face. “Imogen, language. And he’s not squatting. Sebastian is Arthur’s brother. He’s just taken a position at the university. We’re letting him stay in the guest house until he finds a suitable rental. I thought it would be a nice gesture.”

“A nice gesture,” I repeat, flatly. “You thought it would be a nice gesture to install a strange man in the place I always stay, and not think to, I don’t know, send a carrier pigeon? A smoke signal? A simple text that said, ‘Hey, don’t shower naked, a stranger has the keys’?”

She sighs, moving to the Sub-Zero fridge and pulling out a bottle of alkaline water. “It was a last-minute arrangement. And I’ve been in crisis mode all day. I assumed you’d come to the main house first. It’s not my fault you default to the pool house like a homing pigeon.”

“He walked in on me, Amelia.” The words hang in the cold air. “I was standing in the living room. Dripping wet. Not a stitch on. And he just… stood there. Looking. Then he had the audacity to tell me I was in *his* shower.”

For a fraction of a second, her professional mask slips. I see it—a flicker of something in her eyes. Not quite alarm. More like… calculation. Assessing the social damage. Then it’s gone. She takes a long sip of water. “Well. That’s unfortunate. But Sebastian is a gentleman. I’m sure he was perfectly mortified.”

“Mortified?” A laugh escapes me, brittle and sharp. “He was about as mortified as a Buckingham Palace guard. He called me ‘the proverbial loose cannon.’ He said you *warned* him about me.”

Now she has the decency to look slightly chastened. She sets the water bottle down with a soft click. “I may have mentioned you were… spirited. And that you were coming under… stressful circumstances. For context.”

“For context,” I echo, the fury boiling over. “So the context he had when he saw me naked was that I’m a ‘spirited’ loose cannon fleeing a natural disaster. Fantastic. No wonder his first instinct was to establish ‘house rules.’ He probably thinks I’m going to steal the silverware or burn sage in the living room.”

“Don’t be dramatic.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Look, it’s a minor misunderstanding. He’s Arthur’s brother. He’s lovely, actually. Very proper, very smart. You’ll barely know he’s there.”

“I already know he’s there! His presence has the density of a neutron star. He sucks all the air out of a room and replaces it with… with… repressed British judgment.” I stand up, the kimono flaring. “I can’t stay there with him.”

“You don’t have a choice.” Her voice turns firm, the big sister voice that brooks no argument. “The main house is being painted. The fumes are terrible. And all the other bedrooms are full of storage since the remodel. The guest house is the only habitable space. You’ll just have to… coexist. It’s a big space. Two bedrooms. Consider it a cultural exchange.”

“A cultural exchange between a feral cat and a marble statue.” I slump back onto the stool, defeated. The fight drains out of me, leaving a familiar, weary ache. Of course this is happening. Of course my sanctuary is gone. “He hates me already.”

“He doesn’t hate you. He doesn’t know you.” Amelia’s tone softens, just a hair. She comes over, rests a hand on my shoulder. It feels like a brand. “Just… try, Imogen. For me? Be civil. He’s family, practically. And it’s only temporary.”

I look past her, out the window. The sun is dipping lower, painting the prairie in long, melancholy shadows. The guest house sits silent, a little bunker of tension. Temporary. The word feels like a life sentence. I think of his blue eyes, that analytical sweep, the way he spoke to the wall. My skin prickles, remembering the heat of his gaze. It wasn’t just judgment. It was… attention. A focused, unnerving kind of attention.

“Fine,” I mutter, pulling my shoulder away. “I’ll be civil. But if he irons a sock in my presence, all bets are off.”

Amelia laughs, a short, airy sound that doesn't reach her eyes. It’s the laugh she uses when a client suggests injecting essential oils. “Now,” I say, my gaze narrowing on the perfect, honey-colored waves of her updo. “When did you go blonde?” With our Asian heritage, blonde is a declaration of war against nature, a high-maintenance siege on our natural black. “Is this the look for the wedding?”

Her hand flies up, a self-conscious sweep tucking a non-existent strand behind her ear. The gesture is so un-Amelia it’s more shocking than the hair. “Just trying it out,” she says, her voice carefully light. “Arthur mentioned he liked it.”

“It looks good,” I say, and I almost mean it. The contrast is severe, elegant. It makes her look like a stranger. “Maybe I should go blonde too. We could start a sister act. The Crane Blondes. I’ll handle the interpretive dance portions.”

She ignores the jab, her focus shifting back to the window, to the silent guest house. “He really is lovely, Imogen. Once you get past the… exterior.”

“The exterior that currently wants to deport me for improper towel usage? Charming.” I slide off the stool, the silk of the kimono whispering against my skin. The view from here is a diorama of my new prison: the pristine blue pool, the manicured patio, the guest house with its drawn blinds. A stage set for a play I didn’t audition for. “What’s his deal, anyway? Besides the obvious ‘repressed by centuries of British weather’ thing.”

“He’s brilliant,” she says, and there’s a real note of admiration there. It pricks at me. “A rising star in his field. Arthur says he’s the most disciplined person he knows. Ran track at Oxford. Still does. Reads Latin for fun.” She says it like it’s a list of virtues, a resume for sainthood. All I hear is: he will hate everything about you.

“Great. So he’s a fit, scholarly monk. And I’m the chaotic sprite who’s moved into his monastery. This will end well.” I turn away from the window, the image of him shirtless in the doorway flashing behind my eyes—the defined lines of his stomach, the damp hair at his temples, that arrested, analytical stare. My face grows warm. It wasn’t a leer. It was a… study. And being the subject of Sebastian Fairfax’s focused attention feels more intimate than a leer ever could.

“Maybe I should go to Arizona,” I say, the idea blooming like a desperate weed. “Mom and dad wouldn’t mind if I holed up in their Scottsdale condo while they’re sailing the world. It has that saltwater pool.”

Amelia rolls her eyes, a practiced, elegant motion. “It’s summer. You’ll die of heatstroke. Plus,” she adds, her tone shifting into something dangerously close to sincerity, “now that you’re here, you can help me plan the wedding. You’ve always been so creative. You have great ideas.”

The wedding is a year away, a distant, glittering event she’s been meticulously plotting since the ring hit her finger. She’s waiting for our parents to dock somewhere with cell service. “Or,” she continues, leaning against the cold marble island, “you could finish your degree. You’re just a semester shy of graduating. With Seb and Arthur both at the university, I’m sure we could get you in.”

“Let’s not have this talk again.” I mimic her eye roll, but mine is all frantic energy. “What do I want with a literature degree anyway? To become a professor? I’d rather be waterboarded with lukewarm tea.” The image of Sebastian, stern and scholarly, grading papers in the guest house flashes before me. I shudder. “Anyway. I better grab my things and head back to my prison. I’m sure the headmaster has already created a chore chart and is conducting a white-glove inspection of the shower.”