Their Paid Girl

Their Paid Girl - Part 14

          To be perfectly honest, I had been expecting slightly toned-down versions of Adam, with a hint of the inherited arrogance and smug contempt that their son seemed to emit, just with an added touch of cold and frigid politeness. Instead, I could not have been more unprepared.

          His parents stood at the foot of a winding staircase, waiting eagerly for their son. As soon as we stepped in, me on Adam’s arm, his mother detached herself from her husband and walked quickly to Adam.

          I shrank back as she hugged him, already sensing the familiar burning feeling of shame in my gut, even though the worst was yet to come.

          Then her eyes opened as she let go of Adam, and our gazes met. The fire in my stomach intensified.

          I hated the expression in her eyes – it would have been so much better if she’d been scornful. Or uncaring. Or even if she outright showed me that she didn’t think I was good enough for her son. I could’ve dealt with that all evening long.

          But no – she had to show with her eyes that she wanted to like me. And worse – the hopeful, open, trusting expression she wore now was asking me a silent question: will you be the one?

          Face flooded with heat, I stared at the hard marble floor. Adam’s father had left the staircase banister and now had his hands on either of Adam’s shoulders, warm hazel eyes sparkling at the tall young man. It was clear that Adam hadn’t gotten the shallow end of the gene pool.

Father and son were both impossibly handsome, though Adam’s shattering blue eyes had been inherited from his mother – and those same eyes were still staring at me; I could sense their warmth.

          “You must be Shawna,” a gentle voice said, and I forced myself to look up.

          “Mrs. Ferrell,” I smiled wanly, my own tone sounding far too tense.

          “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, dear,” the woman smiled, and I suddenly found myself in a flowery embrace. Everything about her was so motherly and feminine – from the Mexx dress to the florid perfume. Hesitantly, I hugged her back.

          Mrs. Ferrell, unlike her husband, was not extraordinarily beautiful. Her large deep blue eyes and her thick wavy hair made her pretty; but she sort of held your attention with the way she looked at you, and the graceful floating thing she did when she moved. Maybe she wouldn’t be called a beauty, but her sweetness made her extremely attractive.

          Miserably, I wondered what exactly God had against me. Why was I stuck here overnight with such a perceptive person, so willing to accept me? After years of being kicked around from place to place, home to home, relationship to fake relationship, this kind of readiness to take me in was hard to wrap my mind around. I felt my body tense.

          A housekeeper appeared just as the butler came back with our luggage; it turned out they were a married couple and took care of the Ferrell’s countryside estates. After being introduced, the butler took my bags upstairs to where a room had been prepared for me; the housekeeper left to set out refreshments.

          “You mean, this isn’t your usual home?” I asked in surprise when it was just me and Adam’s mother. The guy in question was standing a little off, talking to his father, quite at ease.

          Mrs. Ferrell smiled. “No, didn’t Adam tell you?” his mother cast a loving look at her son before continuing. “We usually live in the city, but Adam insisted that we come down here to meet you. He wouldn’t even consider us meeting you halfway; he must have really wanted to spend the time with you that it took getting here,” she grinned at me, one fine eyebrow quirked.