Page 1 of On Thin Ice

Chapter 1

The morning after Sinclair kissed me, I felt awful. Not because of the kiss, but because I’d barely slept. So much had happened over the past twenty-four hours and I had no one I could talk to about it, no one to help me process.

That person was usually my father, but there was no way I could tell him what I was going through right now. Although I knew my dad loved me unconditionally, how would he feel about the fact that I had been kissed by our worst enemy—and done nothing to stop it?

In fact, I’d done the opposite. It had been something I’d been craving for a while now, even though it contradicted so much of what I felt.

As I arose, putting on sweatpants and a soft pink t-shirt, I tried not to think about any of it. But it was difficult. I’d spent all night reliving that kiss—the way his mouth felt against mine, the hardness of his chest against my fingertips. The way he smelled…the way he tasted.

His voice in my ear.

His words, though…they’d said the exact opposite of what his body had. And I heard over and over his last words: “Have a good night, Annalise.”

Before last night, my body had ached for him but, this morning, it was my heart. He’d said, “I don’t know why I did that. I shouldn’t have.” And I felt the same way—directed at myself.

In my entire life, I could love anyone. Why was I falling for a Whittier?

After washing my face and pulling my hair up into a ponytail, I tiptoed downstairs to take care of the dishes. Even though it was before six, sunlight filled the mansion from all directions.

Everything in the kitchen was where it had been when I’d left—an obscene amount of dishes stacked beside the sink. Again, this was a big reminder of how different this world was from mine. Sometimes, my dad and I would have dessert on a different plate or have a bowl of soup next to a plate that held a grilled cheese sandwich, but we didn’t have twelve courses or however the hell many there’d been last night—and each one had been distinct with a different food. It wasn’t like someone had asked for seconds.

And the dishes themselves were crazy, full of items I’d never tried and I didn’t know that I’d want to. Caviar, crème brûlée—and what was the difference between Romano cheese and Pecorino Romano? And did anyone really care? And yet, while serving, the chef had asked us to be precise.

I may have failed at that a bit.

As I ground beans for the coffee, I tried not to focus on the humiliation I’d felt earlier that night—not just being in that stupid overly sexy outfit, but also receiving all that unwanted attention from one of Sinclair’s handsy employees. Even being rescued by Sinclair couldn’t wipe away that feeling of shame.

Even as I went through the motions in the kitchen, my tireless brain continued processing the night before. I’d hoped moving—doing something—would help, but it wasn’t.

I gave the dishwasher a quick peek and knew there wasn’t enough room for everything in there, and, besides, I was pretty sure this china needed to be washed by hand. I knew there was a dish drainer somewhere around here that Edna used. It was, of course, under the sink. The chef had used a number of skillets but either he or the sous chef had washed them, because they were piled on a dish towel beside the sink, clean and dry, ready to be put away.

I had no idea where anything went—but I managed to find places where I thought everything belonged. I hoped I wasn’t making Edna’s job more difficult.

Then I filled the sink with hot water and glanced at the intricate details on the delicate china while remembering that the flatware was made of actual silver, and I was glad I was passing on the dishwasher.

And then I remembered—this wasn’t all. There would be glasses in the beverage nook as well. I didn’t know if Edna washed them in the small sink in there or brought them in here, but I decided to bring them here. My father always had a specific order in which he washed, and I’d always followed it, finding it to be good advice: glasses and mugs first, then dishes, plasticware, silverware, and miscellany. Pots and pans always came last because they were the dirtiest and greasiest.

I was happy I wouldn’t have to deal with them.

The beverage nook had a ridiculous number of glasses. There had only been eight guests—nine people dining—and yet there were over twenty glasses of various shapes and sizes that I needed to remove from here. And that didn’t include the ones already in the kitchen that the servers and I had taken from the dining room.

When I went into the pantry area to fetch Edna’s cart, I saw it again…that master key. Just like the week earlier, I was tempted to snatch it and see if it worked on the doors on the second floor of the east wing.

But I couldn’t betray Sinclair’s trust again, at least not so soon after all that had happened. It wouldn’t be long before he returned to his beastly ways and then I’d have no problem snooping again.

Before long, I was washing glasses, occasionally taking a sip of freshly brewed coffee, and I was glad I’d come down so early. I didn’t want Sinclair to know that I’d told Edna I would take care of it—and I wasn’t sure what time he arose on Saturdays.

That was why I’d gotten up so early.

After washing all the glasses, I had only rinsed half before the dish drainer was filled. So I found a tea towel and dried them, one by one. As I stacked them all on the tray, I realized some of them belonged in the kitchen.

Soon, I found all the places the other glasses belonged in the beverage nook and returned to the kitchen to continue. When I put the smallest dishes and silverware in the water, I knew they’d need a little time to soak, so I decided to toast an English muffin for breakfast.

Even keeping my hands busy didn’t stop my mind, and I decided to play some music. Although I liked a lot of dance music, I usually listened to artists like Korn and Disturbed because many of their lyrics seemed to tell my story. But today I decided I wanted to hear the music from last night, because the lack of lyrics had somehow spoken to my soul.

I remembered Rodrigo had called one of the pieces The Four Seasons. Doing a quick internet search, I found an old band from the fifties or sixties named that, but that couldn’t be right. But once I scrolled past them and the hotel, I found an entry for Vivaldi, saying that The Four Seasons was a group of violin concertos written over a period of a few years. But I didn’t care about that. I wanted to hear it.

Rodrigo had said with a touch of sarcasm and possibly boredom that “they all” played this piece. I assumed he’d meant every fine dinner he’d had to serve at, but I hadn’t had the opportunity to hear it over and over like he had.

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