Page 53 of Liars and Liaisons

She pauses, pursing her lips. “A few years, I guess. Met him through my sister.”

“Your sister?”

“Yeah.” Her eyelids become hooded. “She was his student… hisfavoritestudent. Some people said she was the most talented singer and musician he’d ever encountered, which was why he agreed to mentor her. She had theitfactor or something like that. I’ve only been working for him since he went on sabbatical though.”

I take a second to try and picture Grayson as a mentor, and the only image that plays—on a loop in my head for days now—is of him sitting before me, coaching me to an orgasm. A shiver skates along my spine, like a phantom’s hand, and I chase the memory away.

When I look at her though, something steers me away from asking more about her sister. Something I’ve seen in Cora’s gaze when someone brings up her brother or in my father’s face the one and only time I asked about Kal.

So, even though I’m curious as to what happened between Grayson and Micah’s sister, I don’t ask. Don’t feel it’s my place to know.

“Whydidyou start working here?” I say instead.

She gives me a guarded look, and I lift one shoulder.

“I just mean … you’re young. Isn’t there anywhere else you’d rather be?”

Her hands still on a large russet. Sadness bubbles up in those bright blue eyes as she stares off into the distance, worlds away from me for several long minutes. Finally, she shakes her head, as if forcing herself to return from the place she traveled.

“I could ask the same of you,” she says. “You’reyoung, and you’re nice.”

That word again. When I said it to Grayson, it felt necessary. Like some sort of barrier between us. Now hearing Micah use it to reference me, it’s starting to grate on my nerves.

Which is ridiculous, because Iamnice. Or at least, I’m supposed to be.

Maybe that’s why I want to stay away from Grayson in the first place.

“Why would someone like you agree to be Grayson James’s plaything?”

“I’m not his…plaything.” I push at the skins, piling them high. “He said he wanted someone to keep an eye on him, basically. A maid-slash-nanny.” My head tilts. “Is he in some sort of danger?”

Micah frowns, digging at an eye with the tip of the peeler. “To himself? Absolutely. The man’s a volatile powder keg, waiting to explode. All about perfectionism and control, even outside of the realm of music. Did you know I’m not even allowed to go anywhere on estate grounds without Willow?”

“Because you have a tendency to get your fingerprints on everything. Besides, Willow isn’t allowed to go without you, either. I’m nothing if not a fair dictator.” The walking, talking powder keg enters the kitchen, fastening the cuffs of a dark green button-down. He doesn’t glance my way, only shoots Micah a withering look. “Do you enjoy talking poorly about me to guests, Miss Scott?”

“Oh, now, Violet’s a guest?”

I do my best not to take offense at that.

He levels her with a dark, unblinking stare. “She is whatever I say she is.”

The words are uttered with a sharpened edge, though it doesn’t feel directed toward me. If anything, I’m practically invisible to them.

Tender discomfort vibrates in my stomach, and I swing my legs off the barstool, landing on the tiles with a thump. Grabbing the hem of my T-shirt, I shove the discarded potato peels into it and carry them outside to the soil I’ve spent the last few days prepping.

“There are landscaping companies who do this sort of thing, you know.” A rock skips past me, kicked by the tip of his shoe. “I’m not sure why you’ve taken it upon yourself to resurrect the terrain of this property.”

Maybe if I bring enough life to the estate, the ghosts lingering in the halls will have no choice but to flee.

I don’t say that though. Don’t even turn toward the voice, instead focusing on the compost bin at the patio’s edge. It’s green with giant sunflowers painted on the sides—something Cora’s friend Lenny sent when I asked for ideas on how to brighten this place up. If he won’t let me travel to town, I’ll just ask the people I know to arrange deliveries and hope having this address is enough to keep them at bay.

“Do you even knowwhatI’m doing?” I ask.

“Composting. Enhancing the soil for whatever fucking plant you’re about to plague my home with.”

“People pay to have flowers planted in their yards. I think you might be one of the few sorry sacks who seems against adding a little beauty to his life.”

Brown loafers creep in at the corner of my vision. He crouches down, grabbing a handful of the skins and tossing it to the middle of the bin.

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