Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Mrs. Fletcher’s lips thin with disapproval. “Not the sort of place the Waters family would frequent.”
I bite back a laugh. If she only knew about my collection of fetish photography from my short time at NYU, before my immune system staged its coup. The pristine Waters princess with her very not-pristine collection of kink and BDSM shots. Dad nearly had a stroke when he found my portfolio during one of my hospital stays. The entire collection mysteriously vanished afterward—another casualty of illness and Daddy’s damage control.
“Right.” I try to keep a straight face. “But isn’t it where everyone goes now?”
“For a certain element.” She sighs, relenting slightly. “Though some respectable families attend their events, too. The old boundaries aren’t what they were. It’s a shame.”
I nod, even though I don’t agree. Always the people pleaser. “The soup is really good.”
After dinner, I get too restless to stay inside, despite the cold evening air. I layer up even more than usual, grab my phone, and slip out the kitchen door into the garden.
The night has transformed the landscape into something out of a gothic fairy tale. The moonlight barely breaks through the fog, casting everything in a silver haze. The maze hedges look taller in the darkness, their shadows stretching across the wet grass. The air tastes different at night. Heavier. Saltier. Electric with the ocean that surrounds us on all sides.
Gravel crunches beneath my boots as I follow the winding path. Dew has already formed on the ornamental grasses that line the walkway, tiny droplets reflecting what little light manages to penetrate the mist. In the distance, an owl calls, the sound both mournful and warning.
Night shift clocking in, day shift clocking out.
No sign of the gardener—Damiano—on the main grounds, but there are lights on in the greenhouse at the far edge of the property.
Curiosity wins over caution. I head down the gravel path past the maze entrance, my boots making too much noise on the loose stones. The greenhouse windows glow amber against the darkening sky, warm light spilling out between plants pressed against the glass.
As I get closer, I’m hit with a rush of earth and growing things—the opposite of the antiseptic hospital smell that’s become my second skin. I stop at the door, suddenly unsure. Am I trespassing? Technically, my father owns this building and pays whoever works inside, but that doesn’t mean I should barge in.
Before I can decide, the door swings open. The man from the maze fills the doorway like he was carved to fit it perfectly. He’s taller than he looked from my balcony, with a presence that instantly makes the space feel smaller. His dark hair hangs loose now around a face that belongs on the cover of some “Hot Gardeners of Italy” calendar: sharp cheekbones, straight nose, and eyes that fix on me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. The tattoos I glimpsed earlier cover his forearms completely, intricate botanical illustrations intertwined with what looks like ancient symbols. The dark ink disappears beneath his white tank top, hinting at more artwork mapped across his body.
“Ms. Waters.” His voice carries just enough of an accent to make my name sound exotic. “You’ve come back to Heathens Hollow.”
“I have.” I stand a little straighter, refusing to be intimidated, even though he towers over me. “You’re Damiano Ricci, right? The groundskeeper.”
Something like amusement flickers in his eyes. “Yes. Among other things.” He doesn’t move from the doorway. “Did you need something?”
The question doesn’t sound like something an employee should ask, but then, he doesn’t look like anyone’s employee either. He talks to me like we’re equals. Like I’m the visitor on his territory, not the other way around.
“I saw the maze from my window,” I say. “It’s more elaborate than I remember.”
“Your grandmother’s design was basic. I’ve expanded it over the years.” A pause. “With your father’s approval, of course.”
“Of course.” I stuff my hands into my cardigan pockets, suddenly aware of how my fingers feel like ice cubes. “Mrs. Fletcher mentioned you work with medicinal plants.”
He narrows his eyes slightly, assessing. “You’re ill.”
Not a question and not delivered with that awkward pity everyone gives me. Merely a straight observation, like he’s commenting on the weather. I appreciate it more than I should.
“What gave it away? My ghost-girl complexion or the fact that I’m dressed for the Arctic in June?” The sarcasm just comes out. It feels like forever since I’ve talked to someone who wasn’t treating me like a specimen or a sob story.
Unexpectedly, his mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile but definitely not a frown. “Neither. It’s in your eyes. That look people get when they’ve been hurting for a long time.” He steps back from the doorway. “Come in if you want. It’s warmer inside.”
I hesitate. A little warning bell goes off in my head. Strange man, isolated greenhouse, all the horror movie red flags. Dad would lose his shit if he knew I was here, but I’m so cold, and the promise of warmth is too tempting.