A half hour later, I arrive at Anthony’s sprawling estate—the castle where one day I will be his queen. The driver pulls forward so I can enter the code to open the security gate. I wonder if I will ever stop having these pinch-me moments that this is my life. Swarley’s run-in with the cat probably ruined my chances of ever giving someone a good massage again. I will miss some of my favorite clients, but taking care of the day-to-day tasks around here will be a full-time job.

“Anthony?” My voice echoes across the cathedral ceiling as I shut the front door. The grand marble entry gives way to an even grander split staircase.

“Miss Montgomery.” Kim, Anthony’s full-time cook, greets me in the foyer, curling a strand of shoulder-length black hair behind her ear. I envy her perfectly straight hair, flawless Asian skin, and shy demeanor.

Her presence calms me. I hope when I move in here, Anthony keeps her here to cook for our family.

She frowns as her gaze affixes to my wrapped hand hugged to my chest. “Oh, dear …”

“My sister’s dog chased a cat on our walk. He didn’t seem to care that the leash was wrapped around my hand. Supposedly, it’s not broken, but I wonder if they read the X-ray wrong. It’s the worst pain imaginable.”

Kim grimaces. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. Me too. Where’s Anthony? I tried calling him.”

“He’s in his office.”

“Thanks.” I take a few steps toward his office and turn back to Kim. “You’re here late.”

“Mr. Bianchi requested I make some meals and freeze them since I will be on vacation next week.”

“Oh. Lovely. Where are you going?”

Kim’s expression morphs into something between nervous and scared. “Um …”

I shake my head. “Sorry. It’s none of my business. I hope you have a nice trip. We’ll probably eat out most of the time.” I gesture to my hand. “Clearly I won’t be doing any cooking.”

A constipated smile settles onto Kim’s face as her head dips into a cautious nod.

I knock twice on Anthony’s office door.

“Come in.”

I ease open the solid cherry door.

“There’s my angel.” Anthony shuts his laptop and leans back in his leather chair behind the presidential-looking desk.

He’s twenty years my senior, but at forty-nine he’s the sexiest silver fox I’ve ever seen. Okay, maybe the second sexiest silver fox I’ve ever seen. I once dated a guy in his early fifties who looked like the Pretty Woman version of Richard Gere—but with straight teeth and more muscle definition. He died unexpectedly during a routine procedure to repair a hernia. I wasn’t in his will. Apparently, three months of deep-throating isn’t enough to get as much as a pair of diamond and white gold cufflinks. Lesson learned.