Chapter 6: The Welcoming Committee

Vaughn looked down at the golden retriever planted by my boots.

"Maple," he said, his voice flat. "Ball. Now."

Maple's tail thumped against the stone, but she refused to budge.

Daphne offered a thin smile. "At least someone here knows how to welcome a guest."

Vaughn stepped in, cutting the distance between us until the heat of his morning workout drifted over the terrace. He crouched down, took the ball from Maple's jaws, and straightened up.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.

"Keep to your schedule, Thorne," he said, clipping each word short. "Leave my meals on the island, stay out of the gym, and don't knock on my door unless the roof is caving in."

He wheeled back, launched the ball fifty yards toward the tree line, and watched the three dogs take off in a dead sprint. Without another word, he walked up the terrace stairs and slid the heavy glass door shut behind him.

"Don't take it personally," Daphne said, smoothing the lapel of her blazer. "He’s like that with everyone who isn't on the team payroll."

"I'm here for six grand a month," I told her. "He can scowl all he wants."

She led me around the eastern corner of the house.

The grounds were vast and quiet, shaded by coastal pines and manicured hedges. Near a row of white hydrangeas, an older man in faded overalls looked up from his pruning shears. He had weathered skin and calm, clear eyes.

"Morning, Vernon," Daphne greeted him. "This is Freya. She’s taking over the domestic contract."

Vernon tipped his cap, his expression easy. "Welcome to Belmont, Freya. If you ever need help hauling firewood or getting the service gate unstuck, you come find me."

"Thank you, Vernon," I said, offering the first genuine smile I'd managed all morning.

Past the hedges, the lawn sloped down toward an infinity pool perched over the bluffs. Tucked into the far corner of the deck sat a single-story stone guest house with wide glass walls facing the ocean.

"The casita," Daphne said, unlocking the front door. "Your quarters."

I stepped inside.

The air smelled of clean cedar and fresh laundry. An island separated the kitchenette from a living area furnished with a low sofa, leading into a bedroom with a king bed and ocean views.

Our three-room trailer back in Ashwood Bay could have fit inside this living room twice. At home, the walls smelled of damp drywall and old cooking oil, and the plumbing groaned whenever someone ran the tap. Here, everything was silent, spotless, and completely foreign.

"Can I ask you something straight, Daphne?" I said, setting my canvas bag on the counter.

She paused by the door. "Go ahead."

"The Tritons are fighting for a wild-card spot," I said, nodding toward the main house. "Vaughn Mercer is their franchise hitter. Why is he hiding out here behind security gates in the middle of August?"

Daphne's polished executive composure tightened by a fraction.

"The official line from the front office is personal leave," she said carefully. "The reality is, if the sports media gets wind of what's happening behind these gates, his career is finished. He doesn't want you here because anyone with working eyes is a potential leak."

I looked out toward the empty coastline, letting her words sink in.

"You can tell your brother that you work here," Daphne added, pointing a finger toward me. "On one strict condition: zero social media, zero photos, and zero mention of his name in town. If anything leaks, the agency will hold you personally liable."

"I signed the agreement," I said. "I keep my word."

"Good." Daphne checked her watch. "Vernon has keys to the main pantry. My direct cell is in your file. And remember what I told you: clean his rooms, cook his food, but don't try to play therapist. A man who wants to be left alone will drag you down with him if you push."

She turned and headed down the stone path, her heels clicking against the pavers until the sound faded.

I walked over to the sink and ran the tap. Hot water flowed instantly, without sputtering or rust. I opened the fridge—spotless, cold, and ready to be stocked.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

A faint scrape rattled the lower glass of the front door.

I wiped my hands on my jeans and pulled the door open.

Maple sat squarely on the patio stones, panting with a massive golden grin. The soggy tennis ball rested neatly between her front paws, her tail thumping a frantic rhythm against the flagstone.

She had slipped away from the main house and tracked me all the way down to the pool.

A quiet laugh slipped out before I could catch it. I knelt on the patio, burying both hands into the thick fur around her neck. "You're going to get me fired on my first day, aren't you?"

Maple gave an eager huff, swiping a wet tongue across my cheek.

A prickle of awareness raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

My hands stilled in Maple's fur.

I looked up.

On the second-floor balcony of the main house, Vaughn Mercer stood with his hands braced against the railing. He hadn't changed out of his workout clothes. The coastal wind whipped his dark hair, his broad frame stark against the gray afternoon sky.

He wasn't moving. He wasn't shouting.

He was just standing there, looking down at his dog leaning into the new hire, his expression shadowed and completely unreadable.