DRAMA NOVEL ONLINE HUGE HOUSE HATES: Chapter 2
The Carlton house is much more impressive than I envisaged. I guess my imaginative capacity is small for mansions with columns and gated carriage driveways. The removals van has already arrived, and my boxes and bags are already being unloaded onto the driveway. I feel like an imposter parking my beat-up Nissan on this grand driveway, wearing Doc Marten boots, a loose paisley dress, and a wide-brimmed black hat. It’s an outfit suitable for arriving at a cramped apartment in a terrible neighborhood, not a luxury home fit for a reality TV show about rich assholes.
I like my clothes and my car, and I definitely don’t like being somewhere that makes me feel as though none of it fits.
A man, who isn’t part of the small team of movers, emerges through the double-height doorway, and for a moment, I wonder if it’s one of Randolph’s sons, then I notice that he has gray hair at his temples, and I realize that he must be one of the staff.
Yes, they have staff. A housekeeper who cleans and does the laundry, and a groundsman who takes care of the outdoor spaces and cars. Can you believe it?
He looks up, noticing me across the driveway, and his head jolts back. Surprise widens his eyes, but I have no idea what he’s surprised about. Surely, he’s expecting me. He has his hands on a box of my cosmetics.
Placing the box back into the van, he makes his way toward me, brushing his hands against his pants. “Cora?”
“That’s me,” I say. “It looks like you drew the short straw dealing with the movers.”
“It’s my job,” he says, without emotion. “I’m Ross. I’ll show you to your room.” His eyes drift over me as though he’s thinking all the same things as me: cheap clothes, doesn’t belong, Randolph must have taken pity on her.
“Sure. Thanks.”
I lock my car, even though no one in this neighborhood will have any interest in rooting through my collection of cheap sunglasses or the receipts stuffed in the door compartment.
The entrance hall to the house is crazily impressive, with herringbone hardwood flooring and a ceiling height that would be more fitting in a cathedral than a home. The energy bills in the place must be astronomical in the winter.
I gaze up for so long that I feel my hat begin to slip, and my hand flies to keep it on my head as I spin in a slow circle.
A family portrait hangs above a large console table that must have been shipped in from a French chateau. The Carlton family, apparently over a decade ago, were captured by an oil painter who can only be described as mediocre. Randolph has his chin tipped up and his hand is resting on his eldest son’s shoulder in a pose that screams lord of the manor. The boys are all dressed in neat sweaters with their hair cut in a style ideal for members of the local country club. Mrs. Carlton is smaller than I expected, especially seeing as she birthed five sons. I don’t know how or when she passed away, but maybe it was from the exertion of such a large and demanding family. Her blue eyes stare out of the picture, judging me. Why are you here? she seems to ask. I wonder if my mom has seen the art piece, then I shake my head because of course, she has. She’s been dating Randolph for over a year. She must have spent a lot of time in his home while I was busy with college.
“This way,” Ross says, already halfway up the staircase that curves around until it reaches a landing on the second floor. I hurry after him, trying to absorb the rest of the decoration, but it all streams past me in a blur of expensive materials and unrestrained luxury.
“Randolph instructed that you be given the master suite,” he says.
“Yes, he told me.”
“It’s the best room in the house,” Ross says as his hand rests on the round brass doorknob. “You have a view of the gardens, a dressing room, and a bathroom. There’s also a balcony.”
“Wow. That beats my old room in every way.”
But I have no idea how much until Ross opens the door, and doves fly through in welcome. Okay, that part is an exaggeration, but not by much.
The room, which is now my home, is like something from one of those glossy home magazines that are out of my price range. A huge bed with a quilted white headboard that stretches to the ceiling is flanked by two marble-topped nightstands, complete with brushed gold and black velvet lights. The herringbone wood flooring continues through the room, but the bed stands on a plush cream rug that I know my feet are going to get lost in.
The dressing room is bigger than my old room, and the bathroom has a clawfoot tub and enormous shower with three different heads to meet all my water droplet needs.
I mean, who requires all this space?
Who desires all this luxury?
If I felt a little out of place before, I feel a whole lot out of place now.
Half of my possessions sit in boxes on the floor in the corner of the room, waiting to be unpacked so that they can look completely out of place too.
My clothes will seem lonely hanging in such a cavernous space. My shoes will look lost nestled in just a few of the many shoe shelves in the closet.
As I whistle in awe, the sound echoes through the room.
I have a room that is so large that sound echoes around it.
“I’ll go finish with the movers,” Ross says.
“I’ll come and help,” I say.
Ross glances at me with a disapproving expression, but I’m already at the door by that point. As Miss Independent, I’m not comfortable with other people doing things for me, especially if I’m not going to be able to return a favor.
As I reach the top of the stairs, the rumble of low masculine voices rises to greet me. I’m halfway down before my eyes make contact with the men in question, and I realize it’s not the movers.
I don’t intend to freeze and become a statue on the ornate curving staircase. It’s a ridiculous response to have towards anyone, especially five spoiled douchebags raised by a man I despise, but I can’t help myself.
The dweeby Carlton brothers that I saw in the oil painting have all grown up. There’s not a draped sweater or boat shoe in sight. The mental image I had created of these men is blasted from my brain like a bottle standing on a wall during shooting practice, and I short circuit over what it’s been replaced with.
Five gorgeous, tall, muscular men gaze up at me like I’m their virgin sister descending to attend my debutante ball. My gaze sweeps across them all, unable to register more than their overall swoon-worthiness. Ross descends the stairs, coming to a halt next to me, his eyes moving between my gawking expression and his employers below. He makes a snorting sound that feels derisive, then continues on his way.
And suddenly, I’m jolted out of the attraction haze and back to reality.
“Cora?” one of them says, his voice rising at the end in question.
I clomp down the stairs, coming to a stop in front of them, gathering all my stupid lustful thoughts and stuffing them below the ball of hate I have for this situation, and everyone involved.
When I don’t reply, the tallest man dressed in snug black jeans and a gray tee blinks his perfect sapphire blue eyes slowly and seems to fight a smile. “I’m Danny,” he says. “These are my brothers: Mark, Tobias, Alden, and River.”
He speaks and points slowly, and I’m not sure if that’s because he thinks I’m stupid or if he’s used to people getting confused during introductions with so many brothers who are so similar in age.
Alden has curly brown hair pulled up and secured behind his head and a beard that needs a good trim. Mark is the lightest in coloring, with dirty blond hair like his mom and eyes that aren’t quite blue and aren’t quite green in a way the ocean can change as the waves move over the seabed. Tobias has a shaved head and earrings in both his ears, and a tattoo peeking out of his collar.
In a million years, I wouldn’t have imagined that Randolph would have a son with tats.
River, the last brother, is wearing the flattest expression. I could be reading too much into it, but I get a clear feeling of resentment rolling off him like sonar. He has black curls and a close-cropped beard, and his energy feels the most challenging and dangerous.
In my mind, I quickly create ways to remember who is who. I label Danny Dark Blue because of his dark hair and blue eyes and because dark starts with D, like Danny. Mark, I associate with his mom because of their similar look, and his name starts with M. For Tobias, I think of a Twobias, in reference to his earrings, and with River, I focus on his dark, flowing energy, like a fast-flowing river at night. Alden is harder, but as the scruffiest, I imagine him lying on a couch in the den, just like his name.
My mom always told me my way of remembering names was interesting. In reality, it was probably another one of my character facets that she didn’t understand.
So, these are my new housemates. Or should I say, house hates!
The latter fits a whole lot better.
We might be living together, but that doesn’t mean we’ll be friends. I’m stuck in this ridiculous situation, but I don’t have to like it or like them: Carlton men are shady and best kept at arm’s length.
“Your dad has told me to move into the master suite, so that’s what I’m doing. I don’t want to be here, but I don’t have a choice. We don’t need to pretend to like each other or the situation. Just pretend I’m not here…pretend I don’t exist, and as soon as I can afford to leave, I will.”
Turning, I strut through the front door just as Ross is reentering with a huge box housing one of my favorite pots. It has twenty “fragile” stickers plastered all over it. “Be careful with that,” I say.
Nodding, he grips it more firmly. The movers have unloaded the contents of their small van onto the driveway and have already left. Grabbing a box, I turn, expecting to find the Carlton brothers still in the hallway, but as I reenter, carrying a heavy box of pottery books, they are nowhere to be seen.
I guess they’re giving me what I want.
I didn’t think the Carltons were capable of respecting boundaries. It’s a pleasant surprise that stays with me until the time it takes me to reach the top of the stairs, when it’s smashed into smithereens.
Because there, wearing nothing but a smile and holding a white towel, is Danny, strolling past me as though I’m a ghost he can’t see. My mouth drops open at the sight of his naked body; the corded muscle, and gloriously tanned skin. Even the way he walks with swagger combined with the most amazing posture is sexy as hell. If this guy isn’t a model, then he damn well should be.
And his cock. Oh, his cock. If I was a poet, I’m pretty sure it would inspire multiple sonnets.
He disappears into the bathroom as quickly as he appears, not locking the door behind him.
I blink, frozen to the spot as I process what just happened. There’s no way he didn’t see me coming down the hallway. There’s no way he didn’t know I’d be going back and forth to move my stuff. He knew, and he chose to walk naked through the house.
And then I get it. Pretend I’m not here, I said. Pretend I don’t exist.
Well, it seems the Carltons intend to do just that.
I can’t say I’m sorry to have seen Danny, who looks like David Gandy’s younger brother, in all his naked glory. It’s a sight that will stay burned into my mind for future self-love sessions, but damn, if I’m not mad as hell that they’re choosing to be assholes about what I said rather than respecting it.
If they think because I’m a Horton, I’m going to be a pushover, they’ve got another thing coming.
House hates it is.
Let the games begin.