Chapter 5: Meeting The Client

The wind off the harbor cut straight through my thin coat, but it was the vibration against my hip that finally snapped my attention back. My phone was blowing up.

I tugged a frayed sleeve down over my knuckles and tapped the cracked screen.

JONAH: Tell me you didn't sign yet.

JONAH: A live-in gig forty miles out? You don't even know who this guy is, Frey.

JONAH: Answer or I'm taking the bus downtown right now.

I tapped back quickly:

Contract is signed. The first wire is already pending. Speed dial one is you, speed dial two is the agency. Go to homeroom.

A sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb, the passenger window gliding down with a low hum. Daphne sat behind the wheel in oversized sunglasses, pointing a manicured finger toward the passenger seat.

"Get in, Freya. We have forty miles of coastline to cover."

I tossed my duffel into the back and climbed in. As the car merged onto the northbound expressway, I pulled the agency paperwork from my bag, checking the blank principal line on the briefing sheet.

"You never gave me his name yesterday," I said, glancing across the console.

Daphne kept both hands on the wheel, her profile cool and unbothered. "Because if I'd told you yesterday, you would have looked up his press clippings and panicked."

"I don't panic over athletes."

"Good," Daphne said dryly. "Because your new employer is Vaughn Mercer."

My breath caught at the name.

Vaughn Mercer. The Ashwood Bay Tritons' franchise third baseman. The power hitter whose face covered billboards on every highway in the county. Jonah had three of his rookie cards sealed in hard plastic on his bedside table.

"The guy who skipped media day last week?" I asked, my voice flat. "The one the sports blogs say is having a clubhouse meltdown?"

"The very same," Daphne replied. "He bought Belmont Estate three years ago to escape the city, and right now, he wants the rest of the world kept outside the gate. That includes the front office, the press, and especially the domestic staff. Keep to your schedule, ignore the scowl, and you'll collect your check every thirty days."

I leaned back against the headrest, staring out at the gray ocean rolling past the highway barriers.

Two days ago, Griffin had tossed half a million dollars onto a bed to scrub me from his clean-cut image. Now I was driving north to cook and clean for the biggest name in the same dugout. But my mother's continuous oxygen tanks were arriving Friday. For six thousand a month, Vaughn Mercer could be as miserable as he wanted.

Belmont Estate sat isolated on the coastal bluffs, framed by dense pine woods and a sheer drop to the water. An iron security gate swung open at the click of Daphne's remote, letting us roll up a long gravel driveway that wound toward a three-story stone house.

"Stay out of the back tree line," Daphne said as she cut the engine. "The property borders the state reserve, and black bears drift down toward the perimeter fence."

"Understood."

She led me down a wide stone staircase that wrapped around the west terrace. The path opened onto a broad lawn overlooking the Pacific.

In the center of the grass, a man stood with his back to us, wearing low-slung gym shorts and a dark shirt stretched tight across broad shoulders. He cocked his right arm and launched a ball fifty yards down the bluff. Three massive dogs took off in a blur of fur, their paws tearing into the turf.

The man turned to follow their path.

Dark, uncombed hair fell across a heavy brow. Thick morning stubble shadowed a blunt, stubborn jawline, framing stormy gray eyes that looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

He spotted us instantly.

"No," he called out, his voice a rough scrape across the open lawn. "Absolutely not."

He covered the distance in long, aggressive strides, stopping five feet from the terrace steps. He stood well over six feet, dense muscle and heat radiating off him into the cold sea breeze.

"I told you yesterday, Kensington," he said, focusing entirely on Daphne. "Cancel the contract. I don't need a babysitter, and I don't want strangers wandering through my halls."

"She is not a babysitter," Daphne replied, smooth as glass. "This is Freya Thorne, your residential housekeeper. The contract is executed, the direct deposit has cleared, and you are legally required to provide reasonable access to your staff."

Vaughn finally looked down at me.

His gray eyes took in my worn sneakers, my faded sweater, and the scuffed canvas bag gripped in my hands. There was no mocking smirk like Griffin’s, no polite cruelty wrapped in public relations talk. His hostility was pure, defensive barricade—the blunt warning of a man guarding a perimeter.

"You're out of your depth, kid," he told me, his tone clipped and dismissive. "I work odd hours, I don't do conversation, and the last three people Daphne sent up here couldn't survive thirty-six hours of my schedule. Do yourself a favor. Get back in the car before you unpack."

I adjusted the strap of my duffel and met his stare without yielding an inch.

"My normal schedule is sixty hours a week between industrial floor degreaser and drunk men yelling at the bottom of the ninth, Mr. Mercer," I said evenly. "Unless your domestic routine involves throwing live grenades, I think I can survive your bad mood."

A muscle in his cheek gave a tiny jump. He wasn't used to people who didn't shrink from his size or his tone.

"And as for the car," I added, tilting my chin up, "the agency already transferred the first installment to my account. I don't do refunds."

The wind whipped between us, loud in the sudden standoff.

Daphne crossed her arms, the faintest trace of satisfaction touching the corner of her mouth.

Vaughn leaned in a fraction, his voice dropping into a low, dry rasp. "You think you're funny, Thorne?"

"I think I have six thousand reasons to ignore your temper, sir."

Before he could fire back, a heavy commotion burst through the hedges near the cliff path.

All three dogs came barreling across the turf. A husky and a dark shepherd mix slowed their pace near the patio, panting into the salt air. But the massive golden retriever bolted straight across the grass, completely ignoring Vaughn’s sharp command.

"Maple, heel," Vaughn snapped.

The retriever didn't even twitch an ear. She charged straight past his knees, skidded to a halt on the wet flagstones in front of my sneakers, and dropped a soggy, mud-caked tennis ball right across my laces.

She sat squarely on her haunches, her tail thumping a rapid, happy beat against the stone, looking up into my face with bright, expectant brown eyes.

Vaughn stopped dead.

I didn't hesitate. I crouched down on the stones, picked up the wet rubber, and scratched the thick gold fur right behind her ears. Maple leaned her heavy head straight into my palm, letting out a soft, contented huff.

"At least someone on this property has manners," I murmured, glancing up at him.

Daphne let out a short, quiet laugh behind me.

Vaughn stared down at his dog, completely betrayed by his own four-legged security. The dark frustration in his face cracked for half a second, replaced by pure, baffled disbelief.

He snatched the ball from my hand, his knuckles brushing against my fingers—warm, rough, and calloused from a lifetime of gripping bats.

"Maple, inside," he muttered, turning his back on us before he could lose any more ground.

He took two strides up the terrace, paused, and looked back over his shoulder, his gray eyes narrowing in a final, reluctant warning.

"Stay in the casita when you're off the clock," he said, clipping each word short. "Breakfast is at six-thirty sharp. If it's cold, you're out the gate."

He pulled the heavy terrace door open, whistling the dogs inside, and let it click shut behind him.

Daphne stepped up beside me, watching his silhouette vanish into the kitchen. "I told you you'd do fine."

I stood up, wiping the damp dog fur from my palms onto my jeans.

He was rude, defensive, and completely miserable. But unlike Griffin, who smiled while slipping a knife into my back, Vaughn Mercer put every single one of his thorns right out in the open.

"Show me the casita," I said.