Page 54 of Faking Cinderella
“Just the wind,” I whisper to myself as I hustle the rest of the way into the cabin, texting Cyril to watch for wildlife on my way.
When I step inside, Rhys isn’t immediately in sight.
He’s not in the kitchen, nor is he in the dining-slash-living room serving as his bedroom either.
Good news, though, is that there are no obvious booby traps.
If I were him, I’d absolutely be plotting the revenge of a lifetime against me right now. Though it’s hardly like he’s personally damaged by me protecting my identity from relatives I didn’t know I had until I took a DNA test online a few months ago in a last-ditch effort to findsomethingthat I could use to prove that my father had illegitimate children who could one day cause problems for him, and therefore Aurora Gardens too.
“Hello?” I call.
No answer.
I study the room for anything out of place, then step carefully through.
He didn’t have time to plant anything here.
But then, I’m not sure how long he’s known who I am.
Was it a test, telling me that his bride ran away with his stepbrother? Cyril hasn’t gotten me the full dossier I asked for on that yet.
Apparentlysomethings take more than a couple hours, which is annoying as hell. Though I do appreciate Cyril’s text back that he’s at the cabin and there’s no visible wildlife or other problems for me to worry about.
I know he’s only one man, and while he’s good, he can only work so fast solo.
But solo is necessary.
The more people who know where I am and what I’m doing, the more people who might slip.
“Is anyone home?” I call again.
I peek down the hallway to the two doors and find the hallway bathroom door closed, with the sound of running water behind it.
I knock. “I’m back. Don’t scream.”
“Are you coming in?” is the response I get.
Not exactly what I would’ve expected, but then, every day seems to be full of surprises.
“No,” I reply.
“Your loss.”
My brain betrays me and flashes images of a wet, naked Rhys, chest broad and soaped up, his large hands reaching down to?—
Shut up, brain.
“Such a fucking man,” I mutter.
“Heard that.”
I flip the door off, more out of agitation with myself for fantasizing about someone who’s undoubtedly about to blackmail me than irritation with his comment, which was absolutely made just to bait me.
“Saw that too,” he announces.
Does he have the hallway bugged?
I leave him to his after-work shower and head into my bedroom, where I drop the knock-off Louis Vuitton bag that Margie carries on my bed and check that nothing in the room has been disturbed.
