Sigh of Relief

Chapter 1

Nila

I knew it was going to happen, but that didn't stop me from living in denial – my dream house has finally been bought off. And it's not like the houses I search up on Zillow when I'm bored either, this is the house.

It's been used as a holiday home for rich families over the years, but at least I was comforted by the fact that it was only temporary. But the last time I'd been in the area, I'd seen construction vans parked outside and suspected that people were moving in. I came back home from my run that day to find that it was put up for sale.

To be honest, a lot of the houses in Garnett look exactly the same so I don't even know why I've become so fixated on this particular one. I guess it's evolved from a childish dream to some kind of nostalgic obsession. I remember the first time I walked past it in 9th grade, on my way to a party I had to sneak out of the house to go to. Back then I used to think all I had to do was go to a good college, get a job and save up because that same house would be waiting for me.

I didn't consider struggling to live paycheck to paycheck or working at a job I hated for convenience. And of course, I have since realised that even if I hustle and save as much as I can for the rest of my life, there are some things I can never have.

The house is a perfect blend of French eclectic and modern architecture – the exterior a cream and black brick, arched windows decorated with hanging plants and a garden of flowers surrounding the front porch. Past the lawn, a row of bushes always kept carefully manicured line the driveway and encircle two waterfall fountains on either side.

From what I'd heard, the couple who'd moved in had just relocated from Manhattan and both were partners at two Big Law firms in New York; they had to be filthy rich to afford a place like this. Well, obviously, they're lawyers in New York. I hope that means my salary is going to be well above average, but the rich aren't exactly known for generosity.

I walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell, consoling myself as I stare at the rose bush. It's someone else's home now and I will only be taking care of it – if this interview goes well.

By the time I've reminded myself of why I'm going through this torture, someone answers the door, but I'm no longer thinking about budgeting, or what I'm going to cook for dinner. All I can think is wow.

Standing in the doorway is Noah Kingston, hopefully, my future employer, and I now realise I am not prepared for that.

My first mistake was assuming he would be a grey-haired, middle-aged man, but instead I'm looking at a giant of a man who seems to be in his early to mid-thirties. His dark blonde hair is perfectly dishevelled with a few strands hanging over his forehead and he has a neatly trimmed beard a few shades darker.

But, damn, his eyes. His glasses make the colour a bit harder to see, but I can tell that I wouldn't mind spending hours studying that blue-grey shade. I want to kick myself for not doing at least a few minutes of Internet stalking. But it shouldn't affect me either way.

"Good afternoon, Mr Kingston," I start as I offer my hand with a polite, professional smile. There's no sign of recognition so I add, "I'm here for the interview."

An awkward beat of silence passes before he shakes my hand. "Nice to meet you. Please, come in."

He opens the door wider to let me pass through and quietly watches me admire the interior as he shuts the door. It's ten times better than the pictures.

"This house is beautiful, sir."

And I'm not just saying that to be polite. I feel kinda scared to walk across the polished walnut floors. The house is large but still manages to give that feeling of a cozy cottage – the windows are bordered by a forest green frame and lacy curtains, letting in heaps on natural light; the tall ceilings are lined with decorative beams. It's perfect.