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“We’re here,” Mom said when we pulled up to a gate. The driver entered the code and two heavy black gates swung inward.
The first thing I noticed was the gold and blue domed turret attached to the three-story estate. There was no way on Earth I could call it a house.
It was a cross between a mansion and a castle and fit for royalty. Palm trees provided little shade for the Spanish-style cream-colored villa. Expert landscaping decorated the driveway circle where drivers dropped off guests. Parking must be underground.
The Vaulteneau cliffside estate was true to its name by being right on the cliff. Other than a rocky drop, nothing stood between it and the ocean. I couldn’t fathom the views and my heart did a little flip thinking about sunsets and seeing the stars at night.
It would be a writer’s paradise.
Mom offered me an encouraging smile that did nothing to quell the storm in my gut.
9
MATTHIAS
When my assistant Franky shook me awake, I was rolled up in my covers, still wearing my Tom Ford suit. I remembered taking the muscle relaxer but apparently I hadn’t even bothered to undress. The wrinkles in the fabric were as bad as a wadded-up piece of paper.
“Hey sleepyhead,” Franky said in a sing-song voice. “Long night?”
I could smell hints of dark roast coffee and a warm breakfast.
“Long day and night,” I corrected, knowing nothing would surprise her at this point.
Franky had seen me in every state of dress and undress, usually if I was drunk. A few times, she helped get me to bed, while once or twice she had to forcefully put me in the shower.
She was twenty-five and cute, with medium-length reddish-blond hair and hazel eyes. She had about a million freckles, a wide mouth, and crooked teeth.
Paparazzi went nuts when they saw us together, snapping photos left and right, thinking we were an item. Matty Vaulteneau’s assistant or latest fling? Story on page three, type of headlines. Now that Zoey was in the picture, some of the headlines made it seem like I cheating on my assistant.
I hired Franky last year. She took care of what I needed, and never ratted me out to Dad. She was a godsend, if I were being honest.
Franky was more like an older sister than an assistant. For one thing, she liked to boss me around like an older sister, and I figured if she was really my assistant, then I’d be the one bossing her around. Maybe I was her assistant and just didn’t know it. The main point was that neither of us had a romantic tendre for the other, which made the working relationship, well, work.
Bravely, I cracked an eye. Sunlight poured through the windows and I felt as offended as a newborn vampire.
Sitting up, I angled myself toward the door. Franky carried a large cup of coffee. In her other hand was a flaky croissant that I prayed was warm and gooey with a chocolate center. Without much ado, Franky handed over the coffee.
“Heaven,” I breathed out as soon as those glorious dark, bitter notes hit my tongue. I admired her goal to start her own nutrition business. I’d even offered to finance her, but she’d turned me down flat multiple times. “Your coffee is out of this world, Franky. Double your salary.”
“You say that every weekend.”
“Yeah, but I mean it this time.” I bit into the chocolatey croissant and about melted.
Franky chuckled. “Says the hungover college student.”
I gave her what I hoped was a bite me look as I shook off the last of my sleep hangover. “Not a single drop. Got home late.”
With a disapproving tone, she asked, “Zoey?”
Franky leaned against my desk, which was cluttered with textbooks, as she took stock of my bedroom. The blinds had been left open and the sun was in full swing, which highlighted just how messy the room was.
Clothes, mostly sweats or casual attire, were piled in a corner. Video game consoles and remotes were haphazard on the couch and coffee table. Towels and swim gear had been dumped on the edge of the king-size bed.
“Don’t start on me,” I groaned, rubbing my scratchy face. “I already know what you’re going to say.”
“That Zoey’s not your type?”
“I suppose that’s the polite way to say my coach is blackmailing me,” I offered. “What’d you expect me to do?”
