It was a simple ad. And a damn compelling one too.

Basic live-in caretaker for a client whose grandson needed to be looked after. You were certified, had experience, and needed a place to live. With that, and the monthly salary, it was almost too good to be true. Until you started digging into the neighborhood and discovered the house you would have to live in was across one of the country's most prolific murder houses in the country, with the kind of horror stories that tanked the whole neighborhood's market value and quieted the blocks around it.

You didn't believe the ghost bullshit.

When you saw the ad, you were half a state away. It was more than a few hours drive with no stops except the shady gas stations where nobody asked questions about what a girl like you was doing alone. By the time you'd made it to the upper middle class suburbia of sprawling mansions listed in the email with the interview details, you'd already run yourself ragged with the trip. You'd spent the last of your money on the pitiful half tank that got you this far and everything you owned only filled up half your trunk. This was it.

Ace the interview or accept the unfortunate fact that you were officially fucked.

Constance was worse than you imagined.

The woman who answers the door greets you with a smile like a knife. It's sharp and glints at you as she takes you in. Briefly, she seems to reconsider the whole prospect of an interview. You had showered at a gym nearby and the clothes you were wearing were the cleanest you had. You'd washed them in the laundry before packing them into your suitcase, so they still carried the faint scent of some sort of breezy detergent. So you knew you were clean, presentable, and as fresh faced as you were going to get. All you could do is stand under her discerning eyes and hope it was enough.

After contemplating for a moment, she seems to come to an agreement with herself, pushing the door open and stepping aside to let you in. She has a cigarette in one hand, and a distasteful look that almost passes for subtle. If not for the dissatisfied glimmer in her eyes, you might mistake her for welcoming.

She leads you to a patio in the backyard, sitting down at the table overseeing a rose garden. It was beautiful, and if you were sitting across anyone else, you would have loved being there.

"Usually, the help I'd prefer would be a little more," she crosses her legs as she sits across from you, and you half expect her to outright insult you, but instead she finishes with," experienced." She doesn't elaborate, but you wince at the remark.

You were barely 20, and probably younger than most people would have liked. With no family, no ties, and no roots. You could be anywhere one day, then gone the next. In fact, that's exactly how you'd been living.

"Well, I do have experience being a caregiver, ma'am- it's all in the resume I sent for review." You try to force a smile. Her gaze sits cool and heavy on you, discontent at your appeal.

The rest of the interview goes about as well as you would expect.

Constance is an old fashioned Southern Belle, of a proud and pure Virginian bloodline, with all the style, attitude, and values of a slighted Hollywood A-list wannabe from a bygone time. She briefly mentions 'the immigrant crisis' and all but calls you colored to your face. By the time you can feel the interview nearing it's end, you've grit your teeth and all but ground your teeth to powder. This really is all you have for now, and you steady yourself imagining where you'll go after the first month's check comes in.

"Now, you're a pretty, polite little thing. I would imagine someone as young and," narrowed eyes roam over you, searching, unraveling you," pleasant looking as you could have their pick of work."

You try not to frown at her question. It's not so unreasonable. The truth was there was work everywhere, not necessarily as much money, but everywhere nonetheless. She thought you were signing away your life, but that was impossible. You didn't have anything to give up. No friends, no family, no home. This was perfect for you, and somehow, you got the feeling that was exactly what she was looking for.

"I just want to do some good. This seems like a good place to start." It's a pathetic attempt at an explanation, and you want to believe it more than she does.

You can tell Constance doesn't buy it, the same way you can tell that it doesn't matter how you answered her question. Every other sentence, she'd been listing reasons why she didn't want to hire you, yet here she was, still at the table.

For some reason, she was just as desperate as you were.

Constance sighs at your answer, apparently unable to find what she'd been searching for through the duration of the interview. Instead, her gaze shifts behind you, to some far off place you can't follow. You think there might be a hint of resignation in her eyes.

"The job is yours. If you want it."

At that, you smile.

"Of course."

Her house is just as beautiful on the inside as it is on the outside.

There's an older sense of charm to the decor. In the intricate firmament that swirls along the walls, and the delicate chandeliers that hang in above the lobby and in the dining room. She guides you through all of the rooms in the house except Michael's, lingering in the garden. The tour ends in the kitchen as she pulls to a stop, her hands are on the sink behind her back as she faces you. "You can have your pick of the guest rooms. No one is going to be visiting while you're here."

Across the counter, there's a line of freshly bought flowers, still in the starter pots. A withering look crosses her face when she catches you looking at them, and she waves one hand through the air. "For the garden," she offers, the light from the windows streaming down on her and creating an outline against her southern up-do.

"Now, about Michael," she wrings her hands, "He's sensitive- delicate. He doesn't always understand certain things. Lately , he's had issues with bedtime. Getting him off that damned game is like trying to wrestle an elephant down in a waterhole. He's still young, so I hope he'll grow out of his more... unsightly behaviors. That's what I need you here for, to teach him and look after him when I'm busy or away- running errands and the like."

"That sounds perfect. I've dealt with my fair share of tantrums and I've been cooking since I was little. I make an excellent cook," you know you are trying to sell yourself when you've already got the job, but you can't help it. Constance seems so dissatisfied with this, with you, and you wonder how long she had been waiting for someone to interview before you came.

Constance simply looks at you, part belittling, part amused.

"I'm sure you are," she scoffs. "Anyways, Michael's nap time should be over by now. I'll only be a moment," then she disappears down the hallway, and when she comes back, it's with Michael Langdon in tow. He is not what you were expecting.

He's not a child, first of all.

Constance raved about her grandson since you got there. Just like grandmother's tended to, she rambled on about how perfect he was, how beautiful and angelic. In her eyes, he was a cherub of physical perfection, complete with a halo of golden curls and bright, sky blue eyes. A ceraldine gaze so endless you could fall into it. She talked about him like he was her life's pride, and you had sarcastically thought that if you didn't know otherwise, you'd think she was talking about a long lost lover.

It turns out, her rants weren't entirely exaggerations. The man in front of you is just as beautiful as she described, if not somewhat boyish. He stumbles sleepily after Constance, not noticing you. A fist balled at his eyes, clearing away any sleep in his eyes as his other wraps securely around Constance's. His voice is higher than you were expecting, you hear it as he yawns, stretching his arms above him.

His shirt rides up at the movement and without meaning to, your gaze darts to his lower abdomen and the soft tufts of blonde hair trailing off into a pair of. sweatpants that hang devastatingly low on his hips.

Your mouth falls open at the sight, and your eyes dart between Constance and Michael.

Constance barely blinks, lighting a cigarette as Michael finally sets his eyes on you. His fidgets with his hands, looking up at you with innocent, questioning eyes, and you remember to close your mouth.

Constance says nothing, looking out the window and blowing smoke into the air.

"Hello, Michael," you send a reassuring smile to him as you step forward, holding out a hand. "It's very nice to meet you."

He glances at Constance, and hesitantly steps towards you, taking your hand loosely in his. His hand is bigger than yours, and wraps around yours entirely as he shoots you a shy, beautiful smile.

"It's nice to meet you too."

AN:

First chapter ends kind of abruptly, but I just wanted to publish it already so I can get the second one going. As always, thank you for reading.

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