Page 2 of Leaping Into Love

True words. My mate’s arrival is a good omen indeed. “You’re right.”

“Of course I am.” A squawk punctuates his words, even though they passed through lips instead of a beak, and his black eyebrows descend over equally dark eyes.

This time when I croak, it’s with amusement. With confidence, too, because the tingle of old magic wraps around me, casting its cloak, guarding my true appearance with the town’s protective glamour. Something that only happens when outsiders are near, meaning she didn’t change her mind and go back where she came from. She’s here.

She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s here for me.

chapter two

tiana

The houses get farther apart as I drive down the side street. The last several are set back from the street enough that I can’t read the numbers, or even make out whether they have numbers. My GPS doesn’t share my growing concern that I might’ve missed the address. The dot for my destination stays ahead of my location on the screen, with just a pinch to go, whatever a pinch equals in actual distance.

When several beats go by without another house coming into view, I’m a split second from doing a U-turn and heading back to the downtown to ask someone—anyone except for that butcher—for human directions. Then, a sign marks the laneway I’m looking for. Not with the coordinates I fed into my GPS at buttcrack-of-dawn o’clock this morning. A modestly sized rectangular wooden sign simply reads, ULPHIA MANOR, in a traditional, all-caps font. Pretentious in a vintage way.

Hard-packed gravel crunches beneath my tires as I slowly make my way onto the estate’s property. To the left and right, dense but not wild greenery stretches as far as the eye can see. Directly ahead, a hint of what must be the estate’s main house is visible through a canopy of swaying willow branches.

It’s the sight of the house—the very large, grand house—that brings my breath to a lurching halt, along with my car when I hit the brake pedal a little too hard. Because now that I’m here, literally seconds away from turning this wild leap into a firmly planted step, it occurs to me I might not be alone on this property, as I assumed. Just because the owner needs a full-time, live-in groundskeeper doesn’t mean the estate is unoccupied.

I should’ve asked. The phone interview went so well and so quickly, I just rolled with it. Maybe subconsciously I didn’t want any details that might’ve kept me from taking the job.

The question of the moment is, would I still be here if I’d known the property owner, my boss, would be living on-site? Of course I would. It’s still my dream job, even if I’m under someone’s watchful eye on a daily basis. And that probably won’t be the case anyway. If the owner can’t look after their own grounds, they’re probably too old and feeble to be following me around two acres’ worth of property, especially the parts beyond the neatly manicured lawn that lies between my car and the wide, faded brick facade.

Exhaling, I release the brake. Before my foot has slid the few inches to the accelerator, it jerks back to the brake pedal again.

Two handsome men who don’t appear the least bit old or feeble are now part of the view that lies ahead. Casually, they make their way to the center of the house, where they stop and stand in front of a small center porch. Both sets of eyes are locked on my stationary car, or rather, locked on me, inside the unmoving vehicle. One man’s hands are in his pants pockets, and the other has his arms crossed over his chest. Neither waves nor motions me to continue forward. They just wait. Stare.

I could put the car into reverse and be out of here in a blink. That might be the smart thing to do since I’m alone on a very private piece of property with two strange men, and nobody knows where I am because there’s no one in my life to tell. Those men could murder me, chop me up, and dump my bits in the bog that’s somewhere on the grounds, and no one would be the wiser.

But they don’t know that. They probably assume I have a family and friends, people who’re aware of my new job and location. I should be safe. Odds are they’re totally harmless. Based on how attractive they are and how impeccably dressed, they could be a romantically committed couple who hired a live-on-site groundskeeper for their fabulous estate. But I kind of hope they aren’t, because the one with the suspenders is kind of cute.

Once again, I slide my foot off the brake. The car creeps forward, passing what feels like a “there’s no going back now” boundary—a low stone wall separating bushy greenery from a manicured lawn. From there, the driveway splits left and right, forming a loop in front of the beautiful old manor house.

I consciously follow it to the right so that when I stop in front of the men, they’ll be on the passenger side of the car, putting six feet of metal between us when we meet face to face. Assuming they don’t come around to greet me, that is. Something tells me they won’t. The same unidentifiable “something” giving me a tingly sensation I can’t seem to shake.

It’s not a bad tingly feeling. If it were, I’d be gunning the engine and kicking up gravel as I tear out of here. It’s not exactly the feeling I got when I was driving through town, but not completely different either. More like the sensation has morphed. Gotten deeper under my skin somehow.

I probably just need a shower, some bland-yet-nutritious food, and a good long sleep. Half a day of driving on top of several weeks of building nerves has come to a tipping point, that’s all.

Shutting off the car, I take a big breath in, then let it out slowly and as inconspicuously as possible. Not that I think they’d judge me for being nervous. Any normal human would be at a time like this. Hopefully, these men are normal humans. Only one way to find out.

My land legs aren’t quite ready as I step onto the gravel, and I grab the open car door to steady myself. It’s only a couple of seconds, a brief wobble, but one of the men, the cute one, is by my side so fast, he might as well have leapt over the hood.

“Allow me to help you,” he says, one hand reaching for my elbow, then withdrawing and averting his wide-eyed gaze, as if touching me or looking at me directly might turn him to stone. “Apologies. I reacted instinctively when you lost your footing. I assure you I will not enter your personal space or touch you against your wishes.”

Wow. Quite a first impression from…whoever he is. “No apology necessary, really. Where I’m from, people don’t think twice about invading someone else’s space. Bumping, nudging, pushing, groping, you name it. I’ve never had someone apologize for touching me, let alone apologize for almost touching me in an act of assistance.”

The man’s lips—wide lips that I shouldn’t be taking note of—curve this way and that before settling into a straight line. “Then it is a very good thing you’re from here now, and no longer from there. You’ll find everyone in Rita’s Hollow to be respectful, Miss Kyriakopoulos.”

“That’ll be a nice change from the city,” I say, extending a hand for him to shake.

He blinks reddish-brown eyes that should appear a bit too big and set too far apart, but on him, they just look…right. Then his gaze drops to my waiting hand, which he takes in his palm with a gentleness that almost seems reverent. Rather than pump my hand like anyone else would, he simply holds it. “Henry Whitmore.” He bows his head. “It is an absolute hon—” Whatever he might’ve said gets cut off by a loud cawing noise.

Definitely a bird noise, though there are none in the sky above us when I look upward.

Henry clears his throat, darting a glance over his shoulder, meeting the narrow, dark-eyed gaze of the other man before returning his attention to my face. “An absolute pleasure to meet you, Christiana.” He releases my hand and returns both of his to the pockets of his old-timey trousers. Pinstriped and pleated, complete with leather button suspenders. Maybe he has a business meeting to attend, or just came from one. “I’ve been looking forward to your arrival since we spoke on the phone.”

“Ah, I thought your voice seemed familiar. It’s so kind of you to take time out of your day to meet me here.” I’m fishing for answers I should already have, and would have, if I’d thought to ask some basic questions during that call. Such as, does anyone live on site, and are you from an employment agency or are you the property owner? Now it feels weird to ask those directly.