The Virgin Intern(16)

I shake my head. “You’re not going to let it go, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Fine. My parents died in a car crash when I was sixteen. I didn’t have any other family, so my uncle took me in. It was either him or the foster system. He and my father were not on good terms, so it wasn’t exactly a thing he did out of love. I moved out as soon as I turned eighteen, and went to Los Angeles. I wanted to be a singer. I worked as background singer and a songwriter, but I could never really get anywhere with my own stuff. Finally it got to the point where I couldn’t pay the rent, so I had to ask my uncle if I could come back and live with him while I got my feet under me.” I gloss over exactly how bad it got, and how much I didn’t want to ask him for help.

“How’d that go?” Andrew asks.

“About as well as you’d expect. My uncle didn’t think much of a career in music, so he wasn’t exactly surprised. He stipulated that when I moved back in with him I was going to make an attempt at a serious career. He paid for a paralegal course and told me he’d hire me at the firm if I passed. As part of the agreement, I had to keep the job for at least a year. I actually don’t think he expected me to do it.”

“But you did.”

“Yes. So now I’m stuck in Florida for a year.” I fidget with my hands. “Though it hasn’t been all bad.” I look over at him and flash a small smile.

Andrew is quiet for a little while, and it looks like he’s thinking. Finally, he asks, “Do you have your music with you?”

“At the guest house?”

“Yeah.”

I shrug. “Some of it.”

“I’d like to hear it sometime.”

The thought of that turns my stomach in knots. It would be like him seeing me naked. I mean, he’s already seen me without clothes…but it’s a different kind of naked. “Maybe…” is what I say out loud.

A while later, Andrew chuckles. “I understand now why you were so panicked about Roger finding us together.”

“Yeah. I’d like to avoid that.”

He glances over at me and says, “I think that can be arranged. Your uncle only sees what he wants to see.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” I say. “He’s watching you pretty carefully.”

“For business. He’s not watching my personal life.”

I know that’s not true, but I don’t say anything. We’re pulling up to the gates of the Sterling Estate, and the size of it still blows me away. Instead of continuing to the guest house, Andrew pulls up to the main mansion. I forgot that the meeting would be in there, and suddenly I’m nervous all over again. He parks the car in the massive driveway and turns to me. “Ready?”

“Ready,” I say. “Oh, and let’s not mention the car if we can avoid it. I don’t need another failure for him to add to the list.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he laughs. “But won’t he notice that your car is missing?”

“Believe it or not, he’s paying more attention to you right now than to me. He barely notices that I’m there, he won’t notice the car.”

Andrew gives me a look that I can’t quite puzzle out, but it doesn’t matter because now we’re at the doors and going into the mansion, and…whoa.





Chapter 8




The inside of the Sterling mansion is just as impressive as the outside. A little chime sounds as we pass through the doorway into a spotless white entryway. My first impression is of soaring ceilings, open space, and clean lines. While the guest house feels somewhat homey, this feels modern and palatial. Even if it is impressive, I could never imagine living here. I feel like I would always be afraid of breaking something in my own house. Besides, I can’t believe I’d ever need this much space—though having my own recording studio would be nice.

One of Mr. Sterling’s staff guides us through several hallways to a dining room with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the back of the house and the gardens. A huge table dominates the space, and my uncle and Mr. Sterling are already seated. Even though I’ve seen pictures, he’s not what I expected. He looks younger than his photographs, and an air of sadness hovers around him, I assume because of his recent loss.

“Ah, there you are,” my uncle says. “Timothy, you’ve already met my colleague Andrew Finch, and his is my niece and paralegal Naomi Grayson.”

“Hello,” Mr. Sterling says while shaking my hand. “Thank you for coming to help.”

“My pleasure,” I say, wondering if that phrase is too formal. I’m not exactly sure how to interact with a millionaire on trial for his wife’s murder.