Page 29 of Liar Byrd
Brown leather. Glossy mahogany desk big enough to seat a family of six. A wall-to-wall shelf packed with leather books. Probably original first editions. There’s even a sliding ladder to access the top shelf.
I feel like I’m in an office of an English king.
“I’m Nash,” he says, taking a seat.
And although I wait for a last name, he doesn’t give me one. Is he so well known around here that he expects me to know it already? Or is it as simple as Gabriel, if this is the Gabriel Mansion, like it said on the job advert in town?
“Jessica Bradley,” I say, testing out my new stolen name as I perch on the chair on the other side of his desk.
“Do you have a resume?”
Shit.
Why did I not prepare for a question so obvious that I should have seen it coming long before I started the walk up to his mansion?
“A resume?” I echo weakly, a flush spreading from the back of my neck.
“With your experience, yes.”
I clear my throat, shifting around in my seat as I struggle to meet his gaze while I lie right to his face. “I, uh, had a bus journey from hell. My bag… well, I…”
Lately, every word out of my mouth has become a lie. I barely recognize myself from the girl I used to be. But something about his expression silences my lying tongue. It isn’t because he’s handsome. Something about him makes me not want to lie to his face. “I don’t have a resume.”
“Okay.”
Just okay?
When he opens his mouth, probably to kick me out, I blurt out. “But I can do the work. I’ve cleaned before, and I can cook. You don’t have to ask me to do something twice. I’ll get it done the first time. If you give me a chance, I can prove to you that I’ll be the best maid you ever had, and you…”
A slight twitch of his mouth distracts me. It’s almost a smile, but there’s a somberness in his gaze that makes me think he isn’t the type who smiles often. If at all.
“What?” I prompt.
“You really want the job, huh?”
I nod, praying to every god except the one that Jeremiah believes in. “I really do.”
He sits back in his seat, his leather chair squeaking and his expression impossible to decipher. “And you have no resume?”
I shake my head.
“References?”
I twist my fingers together, struggling to meet his gaze. “I don’t have that either.”
“But you want an opportunity to prove yourself?” He steeples his fingers together on the surface of the desk, and my gaze lingers on his long, strong fingers. They’re not rough and calloused like mine from cleaning, cooking, and digging vegetables in the compound.
This isn’t someone who works with his hands. It’s someone wealthy enough to hire a housekeeper and a maid. And presumably, someone who has realized I have nothing to offer him.
Smiling politely, I push myself to my feet. “Thanks for seeing me. I know it’s late, and I interrupted?—”
“It’s yours.”
I stare at him, half standing, my mouth gaping open. “Huh?”
With no change to his expression, he pushes himself to his feet. “The job is yours. Nance, our housekeeper, is busy with dinner and doesn’t like interruptions when she’s cooking. She’s not usually so curt. I’ll show you to your room. You can rest this evening. Nance will bring up a tray to your room, though you’ll eat with Nance and the other staff in the kitchen from now on.”
I continue to stare at him. “You mean it? The job is mine?”
