It isn't until I return to Grace and Chloe's for dinner that I realize I completely forgot to ask Julian about the address Dr. Thorne had given me. Instead, I ask Grace—once I've finished wolfing down my second helping of jambalaya, that is.

"Ooh, Lakeside Avenue," she says, studying the card with the address. "That's posh real estate. I don't know it well, but I doubt there's a house on that street that would sell for less than a million."

I frown at that. Until I find a job, I'll be living off my savings, which honestly aren't as robust as they should be. Thorne hadn't mentioned rent, but 'posh' sounds out of my price range.

"Who walks around with their address printed on business cards, anyway?" Chloe asks, turning the card over to inspect the other side. "It's just his address, too. Like, no name, no phone number..."

"Well, he did say he was looking for a rent partner," I offer, although it doesn't make sense to me either, really.

"Hm. Well, what's your impression of this guy?" Grace asks, leaning towards me across the table. "I mean, he obviously likes animals, so point there, but then again Buffalo Bill loved his dog, too."

"I —" Honestly, I'm not sure what I think of Ambrose Thorne. "I don't know. I mean, I've talked to him twice, for a total of less than ten minutes. He's...attractive, and seems a little...arrogant, maybe. Other than that, I don't know."

"Do you want us to come with you to look at his place?" Grace asks. "We could run interference for you."

"Oh...no, that's not necessary," I say quickly. "Besides, I don't know if I'll even check it out."

"Okay. And don't rush into anything if you do," she adds. "You're welcome here, Noah, for as long as you need."

I return her smile, though I know it doesn't really reach my eyes.

I'm grateful, of course, but part of me is already eager to be gone. Not because of Chloe or Grace, or their house—both they and it are wonderful; and I know in my head that what they say is true, just like I know that what Dane said is true.

It's my heart that refuses to believe it; that's still too full of hurt to have room for anything like trust—especially in the idea that people love me, and actually want me around.

~ ☾ ~

The following afternoon finds me standing on the sidewalk in front of 411 Lakeside Avenue, repeatedly looking from the address on the card in my hand to the tarnished brass numbers affixed to the brick wall in front of me.

Through an iron gate I stare up at the house—the mansion—rather, trying to decide if this is more likely to be a joke or a mistake.

I don't know a lot about architecture, but I recognize the style as being something like Colonial, or maybe Greek Revival. It has pillars and gables, three stories, rows of windows with actual shutters, and multiple brick chimneys rising from a roof with more levels and angles than I can count. It also appears to have seen better days.

The grounds at least, seem to be in disrepair, with what was once a garden of some sort now a wilderness of overgrown rosebushes and weeds. The paint on the trim also looks to be peeling in places, and one of the upper windows is broken.

Overall, it gives a romantically haunted impression that sends a shiver down my spine.

A shiver that turns into a startled gasp as a voice speaks suddenly and very close at my back.

"Bit of a wreck, isn't she? But it's what's inside that counts."

I turn, resisting the reflex to press my hand over my heart like the heroine of some Victorian drama, and find Ambrose Thorne watching me with a curious look in his brown eyes.

"Mr. Hunter. Didn't think I'd be seeing you so soon." His arms are full with two brown paper bags stuffed to the brim with groceries, and a dog-leash is looped around one wrist. At the other end of this is the golden retriever, head still stuck in the plastic cone, watching me with pure adoration in its eyes.

As if I didn't already feel guilty enough for running it over.

"I, uh, I was in the area," I lie. "I thought I'd have a look. At your place, that is."

Thorne smirks. "Well, come on in. I'll show you 'round." He circles me and balances on one foot, trying to unlatch the rusty iron gate blocking the footpath with his other.

I move to help, opening it and standing aside while he and the dog go through.

"Oh, no—I don't want to trouble you," I say. "Besides, I don't think this is the place for me. It's much too..."

I search my vocabulary but come up blank.

"Grand?" Thorne supplies, his smirk sharpening. "Don't worry about that. It was my granda's place. I inherited it last year after he finally kicked off. Place is a shambles, honestly. I can hardly keep up. But come on, really, at least take a look—I think you'll fit right in."

Reluctantly, and wondering if I ought to be insulted that he thinks I'll 'fit right in' with a place he describes as a 'wreck,' I follow him through, closing and latching the gate at my back.

The footpath is paved with old bricks—probably red at some point in the past but now worn to a pitted brown. Moss and weeds grow between the cracks, and I snag the toe of my shoe on an uneven one and stumble, instantly mortified as I catch myself against Thorne's lower back.

"Steady on, now," he says, turning to look at me over his shoulder with an arched brow. "We're hardly so well acquainted yet."

Face on fire, I take a step back, mindful of the treacherous bricks, and stammer an apology. "I'm s-so sorry—I t-tripped."

Holding my gaze just long enough to make me sweat, he winks. "Well, you do have to watch your step around here. Hold this a minute, would you?"

Handing me one of the bags and then rummaging in his pocket for a set of keys, he unlocks the front door and steps through. I follow, still holding the bag.

The door opens onto an entryway, and I see lots of dark wood paneling—maybe cherry—hardwood floors, and antique light fixtures. A set of double stairways sweep up in a wide curve to the second floor, and between them an open archway leads to a living room.

To the left and right of the foyer are dark double doors which stand open, revealing a dining room on one side and a library on the other.

Tossing his keys into a bowl on a small antique table by the door, Thorne unclips the dog from his lead and hangs the leash on a row of coat hooks. The creature runs off, vanishing into the depths of the house.

"Kitchen's this way," he says, leading me between the stairs and turning to his right, down a hallway or gallery and through another wide arch.

I have to admit the place has charm. A deep farm-style sink, stone countertops, an old fridge with a turquoise finish, a monstrous old stove, and a butcher-block prep-table dominate a space any cook would be proud to call home.

"No dishwasher, I'm afraid," Thorne says as he starts unloading his groceries into the fridge. I see a lot of meat, some dairy and vegetables, a few condiments, and a six-pack of dark beer. "Granda was old-fashioned that way: would starve to death before he cooked himself a meal, but thought having a machine wash his dishes was a sure way to turn a man to sloth."

"Were you, um, close with him?" I ask, just for something to say. I've set the bag I carry next to his, and started to unload it, handing him items as he puts them away.

"With granda? Nah, not really. I grew up near Glasgow, then moved to the States to live with my older brother when I was fifteen. Then he was killed in an accident, and I ended up here for a year before I turned eighteen. Miserable time, really. I hated the place, and I hated that old man—almost as much as he hated me. Never thought he'd will me his 'fortune,' such as it is. Figured he'd rather burn it down."

"Oh."

That was quite a bit more information than I'd expected to receive, and I paused a moment to think of what to say next, but he speaks again before I do, taking the onion I was holding and tossing it into a basket beside the stove.

"Well, let's get on with the tour, shall we? There's quite a lot to see."

Feeling a little lost, I follow him from the kitchen, back along the hallway to the stairs.

"Living room, as you can see," he says, pointing to the wide archway. I peek in and see a broad, open space with high ceilings and a wall of tall windows. The furniture appears uniformly antique, early twentieth century, if I had to guess. He gestures down the hall in the opposite direction. "And down there's a private parlor—a 'smoking room,' as granda called it—library on the left, and then a workshop, and the garage."

Turning, he walks back towards the foyer and ascends the stairs.

"Second story has five bedrooms, three baths, an exercise room, and the home theatre. Top level's the attic, old servant's quarters, another guest room and bath, and storage. I'm thinking you might like this room at the end," he says, striding down the hall.

Opening a door, he waves me through.

He's right—I do like it.

It's a lovely light blue—the walls, the furnishings, the accents—and has a calm, sea-side energy that feels peaceful and refreshing. A four-poster bed covered in a blue quilt dominates the space, and an old sea-trunk takes the place of a dresser against one wall. There's also a little writing desk and a chair, and a cushioned window seat set in a large bay window shaped like a half-hexagon, framed with whispy white curtains. A woven sisal rug covers the dark wood floor, the color of which creates a palette reminiscent of a wind-swept dune.

"Well?" Thorne asks, again so close at my back that he makes me jump.

"It's beautiful," I admit.

"Of course, you'll have your own bathroom as well, and the run of the house, pretty much. Can you cook?"

"Uh...well enough," I say, blinking.

"And how do you feel about housework?"

"H-housework?"

"You know—laundry, dishes, sweeping, washing up. That sort of thing."

"Oh...fine. I mean, I don't mind doing my share."

"See, what I'm looking for is someone to help me out, really. I can't keep up with this place on my own, and I can't sell—for various reasons. I work long hours at the clinic, and then I come home and—well, I just can't do it all."

"Uh..."

"Of course, in return I'll significantly reduce the rent. In fact, if you agree to cook and clean, and maybe tidy the yard a bit, I won't charge you at all for the first few months."

Indignant, I draw myself up to what height I have. "It sounds like what you are looking for, Dr. Thorne, is a house-keeper, not a house-mate. Perhaps you should advertise more clearly, in the proper channels. Good day."

I turn, ready to stalk away with my pride intact, but he catches my elbow and gets in front of me, blocking my path.

"I'm sorry, please. I haven't been clear," he says, his thick brows drawn and a frown on his finely-shaped lips. "I don't mean you'd have to do all the work—just some. Make enough for two when you prepare a meal, be willing to do a bit of cleaning now and then. I don't expect you to spend more time at it than you would in a place of your own—especially given the size of this one. What I'm saying is...I'd want you to treat the place as if it were your own, basically. Not like a hostel, or someplace you bear no responsibility for. Could you do that?"

I stare up at him, feeling my own frown weighting the corners of my lips. When he puts it that way, it sounds reasonable—attractive even. How else would I ever have a chance to live in a place like this? And with so much space and so many rooms, and he being as busy as he was, we'd probably never even see each other. Luxury and solitude? That was a sore temptation indeed.

"I could do that," I say.

His face breaks into a heart-stopping smile. "Wonderful. I'll give you a key and you can move in tomorrow if you like."

"Oh, I..." I hadn't actually meant that I agreed.

"And if it doesn't work, it doesn't work. No strings," he adds quickly, seeing my hesitation. "It's not like you'd be trapped here or anything."

"You don't have a pit in your basement, do you?" I ask.

"What?"

"Never mind."

He gives me a sidelong look and then grins. "Come on—let's get you that key, and then we can go grab some drinks and celebrate. There's a sweet little pub just down the street. What do you say?"

Feeling a bit like some low-budget Faustus, fully aware I'm about to make a dreadful bargain with this handsome Mephistopheles, but unable to stop myself, I nod and seal my fate.

"Sure," I say. "That sounds like fun."