I lift a framed photo off a desk and wipe the non-existent dust beneath. Before I place it back, I examine the picture. It’s two boys—Howard’s grandsons I think. The one with the auburn hair and goofy grin has his arm around the one with the bronze tan and sandy blond hair and an attention-demanding Yale sweatshirt.
I don’t know their names yet.
Or wait, I don’t remember them.
Grandma told me what they were in passing, but I was only half listening and now all I remember is that they were old-money names—the kinds of names that sound like they should be last names and not first names.
In L.A., we had names like Ocean and Sea and Skye and Plum and Pilot. Nouns. Here it’s like people pluck surnames from their family trees and call it good.
I return the picture frame to its home next to the shiny blue lamp and make my way to the en suite bathroom. Dragging in a breath of sea salt air, I tug on a pair of yellow latex gloves, grab a scrub brush, and drop to my knees. Months ago, I thought for sure I’d be spending my summer at the pool between putting in hours at the fro-yo shop, but here I am, on an island with no internet polishing some rich asshole’s toilet.
But in all fairness, I don’t know if the sandy blond Yale guy is an asshole. It probably isn’t fair of me to make assumptions like that, but anyone who summers on an island and sails seven days a week and has a name like Remington or Bexley or Ellington or … THAYER.
His name is Thayer.
That’s right.
Anyway, anyone who summers on an island and sails seven days a week and has a name like Thayer … and has a disgustingly wealthy grandfather and attends Yale statistically isn’t the most down-to-earth, relatable kind of person. At least not in my experience.
Not to mention the fact that I’ve caught him staring at me a few times now—the first time was shortly after I’d arrived. The second time was when I was helping Grandma wash breakfast dishes and Thayer came in to grab a green apple from the fruit bowl (which I swear was nothing more than an excuse to be in the room) and locked gazes with me the entire time.
I’m not sure what his end game is, but I’ll have no problem informing him that he’s not my type—if it comes to that.
My hand throbs from gripping the handle of the scrub brush too tight, so I stop and rest for a second. Sweeping my hair out of my eyes, I take a look around at all the marble and penny tile and shiny silver hardware that surrounds me.
It’s beautiful and timeless, and I hope these people know how lucky they are to have a place like this as a second home.
“Oh. My bad,” a guy’s voice sends my heart ricocheting into my throat, and I glance up to find Mr. Yale Sweatshirt himself standing in the doorway of the bathroom.
Shirtless.
Glistening with sweat.
Like he’s just gone for a run or a hike or whatever the hell people can do to work out on a rock-and-cliff-covered island.
I’ve been here four days now and he’s yet to say a single word to me. He simply stares at me with those stormy sapphire blues that I’m sure make all the campus girls swoon.
The burn of bleach cleaner stings my eyes. “I’m almost done. Give me two more minutes.”
I don’t know if I’m allowed to tell him to wait or what the rules are in this kind of scenario. Grandpa said something about how we’re supposed to be seen and not heard and we’re never to argue with any of them or refuse a single request, but it seems ridiculous to be so formal with him given the fact that we’re practically the same age.
“No problem.” He grabs a towel within arm’s reach and dabs at his damp forehead, messing up his hair in the process. I have an urge to finger comb it back into place for him, but I’m pretty sure touching these people in any capacity goes against the house rules too. “I can wait.”
I don’t tell him he could alternatively use one of the other dozens of bathrooms in this place.
Thayer lingers, watching me as I get back to scrubbing the marble penny tile floor of his bedroom-sized bathroom. I’m pretty sure you could fit an entire studio apartment in here. Maybe two if we’re talking Manhattan-style.
I wipe the rest of the bathroom down in a hurry and snap off my gloves, returning all the supplies to my plastic caddy, and then I squeeze past him.
“Lila, right?” he asks when I’m halfway across the room. I stop, pivoting toward him.
I realize now that we haven’t been properly introduced, nor have we been alone in the same room together. The only introduction I’ve received so far was on my first day on the job when I was pouring coffee in the dining room as Mr. Bertram went around the table spouting out names I had no intention of memorizing, and then he asked me to grab the creamer from the kitchen.