Disoriented, I snap awake and bolt up into a sitting position, twisting this way and that. I'd only just gotten used to the rental house when I left, and now I'm here in a foreign environment again. A blade of warm sunrise bisects the room, slicing across my legs. Everything is bathed in warmth and shadow until I throw the curtains open and yawn, stretching onto my tiptoes until my back pops.

After I yank on a pair of lounge pants, I pad out into the hallway. The garden glows, and the pool is full of gold stolen from the sunrise. The air has the peculiar feel of early morning, cool and damp enough for dew to cling to leaves and windows. The sun is just coming up.

I'm not sure why I woke until I find Aiden in the living room, reading the news on his tablet. The coffee lured me from sleep. It draws me by its scent, like a cartoon mouse after cheese.

"Can I have some?"

He looks up, and I feel a tug inside my chest. I keep telling myself it's my imagination, but there is something about the way he looks at me, almost startled before his expression settles. His gaze lingers a few beats too long before he says, "Coffee, you mean? Of course. The pot is on the counter."

I pour myself a cup and breathe in the aroma, letting the heat flow into my chest from the inside. It's chilly in here. I take a sip and let out a small mmm before joining him, sitting on the far end of the sofa with my legs tucked under.

"You take your coffee black," he notes without looking up.

I shrug. "Ever since I started drinking it."

"When was that?"

"Twelve? Fourteen? I'm not sure. It was there and I got hooked on it, I guess. I drink four or five cups a day."

"Then you'll fit in," he says with a quiet smile. "The boys should be waking in about half an hour. Why don't you start breakfast?"

I stand up with my coffee cup, grumbling. "I didn't realize I was the maid, too. Maybe you should get me one of those little outfits."

I flash with embarassment for snapping at him when I catch the look on his face, as if he's actually thinking about it. Heat spreads in my chest and grips my throat. I turn away without making my apology and rush behind the kitchen counter.

"What's on the menu?" I ask, hoping I didn't sound as choked to him as I did to myself.

"Oatmeal and jam with eggs on the side for the boys. There's a plate of cold bacon in the fridge—heat it up. I'll have eggs as well and a bagel, one side with cream cheese and one side with raspberry jam. Did you get all that?"

I bristle, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I don’t remember cook and maid being part of this job. I’m supposed to be learning important skills from this?

"There's a dozen eggs in the fridge. Just cook them all."

Frowning, I grab the oatmeal container and portion out enough for both boys while butter melts in the fry pan, and cut a bagel with a bread knife. I watch the butter skimming around the surface of the pan, nervous. I’m not exactly the world’s best cook, and definitely not the most experienced.

I'm not sure what to make of Aiden. He wants me to think he's not watching, but every time I look up he turns back to his reading, and I can feel his gaze roaming over my back as I take the eggs out and crack them into a mixing bowl. I wonder how the chefs on television do this without smashing the eggs and prying them open with their thumbs, stopping half a dozen times to pick flecks of shell out of the bowl. By the time they’re all cracked the butter is foaming brown. I throw another pat in, hoping I haven’t ruined this before I started.

Thank God he didn't ask me to fry a dozen eggs over easy. I'd make a mess of that.

The smell of the bacon slowly turning between paper towels in the microwave draws his sons out of hiding. I set the jam jars and plates on the counters, and begin serving up the food. Meanwhile, I’m frantically stirring the eggs, trying not to overcook or undercook them or dump the whole thing on the floor when I go to serve.

Crap, I didn’t put out plates. I slide the pan off the burner so the eggs don’t turn to rubber while I set them out. No time to half-ass being fancy with the silverware; I drop a knife and fork on each plate and put a pile of paper napkins in the middle of the table.

The eggs haven’t turned to rubber yet. I portion out some of the eggs for myself, and one piece of toast.

"That's not enough," Aiden says, glancing at my food as he settles onto a stool at the counter next to his sons.

What, he’s micromanaging my eggs now?

Jason glares at me. Tim, the younger, senses the tension and eats his breakfast slowly, trying not to be so obvious about staring at the adults as his offending brother.

Whatever Jason might be thinking or wishing to say, he keeps his mouth shut and chews his oats with the grim determination of a soldier marching to war. Sullen he may be, but he's still a teenage boy, and he cleans his plate. They both do.

Aiden and I are still eating when they run back to their rooms to get dressed for school.

He sips his coffee and studies me over the rim. I do the same, glancing at him every time I take a sip.

"After they're gone, I'll ask you to dress professionally. You're coming with me today."

"I thought I was a nanny."

"Not much for a nanny to do while the boys are at school. You're here for experience, so experience you shall have."

The way he says experience stokes a furnace in my belly.

"You don't eat much."

I glance down at the plate and wring the napkin in my hands until I catch the motion and go still. "I follow a diet plan. Dad hired a dietician for me."

"When did he do that?"

"When I was fourteen. It was a birthday present,” I add, glowering at my meager portion.

“Why?”

“He said I was getting too fat, and I was lazy. I needed more exercise. The dietitian came first, then the personal trainers. Last year he took me to consult with a plastic surgeon. The doc pawed my face and scribbled all over me with markers. Wanted to chop up my nose, do something involving grinding to my chin, and give me boob and butt implants.”

“I take it you declined.”

“Yeah.”

Declined might not be the best word. Tantrum would be a better descriptor. I told my father they’d have to drag me kicking and screaming and biting into an operating room.

I don't know what to make of his expression now. He studies me, then rises. "Go change for work. We'll see the boys off and then be on our way."

I rinse my dishes and slip off to change. After I lock the door, I lay out my clothes on the rumpled bed. I packed business casual with a few around-the-house outfits. I run my fingers over the various items I've brought to wear, then slip into a white blouse and a pencil skirt that clings tight around my butt. I almost put on a jacket but leave it behind and undo one more button than usual. With my hair pulled into a conservative ponytail and my glasses perched on my nose, I look just this side of professional.

When Aiden calls out, I'm standing in front of the mirror toying with the collar of my blouse. Shaken out of my reverie, I slip on the sneakers his assistant gave me and step out.

When I meet him in the living room, he's dressed smartly in a suit, and I suck in a breath at the sight of him. He has barely noticeable at his temples in his otherwise jet-black hair, and the way he looks at me freezes my feet in place as though my legs have turned to stone.

I smile and force myself to take the few steps down to stand next to him.

The boys emerge in their school uniforms, packs slung, and we ride the elevator down together. It's bigger than usual, but feels small and cramped with the four of us inside. Aiden has a stifling presence, a raw charisma…

He's sexy, I admit to myself. I can't stop thinking about him no matter how hard I try. It's like trying not to picture something after someone else tells you not to think about it. I find my self imagining things I never thought I'd want to try with anyone. I never saw the appeal of some grasping, grunting man on top of me having his way, but I can't stop picturing him gripping my shoulders, pressing me into the bed, the two of us sinking down together as…

I'm staring. I tear my eyes away and look at nothing in particular, my arms prickling as I wonder if he can smell it on me, sense it. I don't know what would be worse—if he could taste how horny he makes me on the air around him, or if he didn’t notice at all and was just indifferent. He's…him. I must be like a crushing little girl to him, no more worthy of notice than all the other women mooning at him in his tower.

Two cars pick us up. One bears the boys to school. The other waits for Aiden and me. He opens the door for me, a perfect gentleman, and I slide across, tugging at my skirt as I become embarrassed to show so much leg. Why didn't I get one that went over the knee?

He sits next to me, and I fight the urge to use the rocking motion of the car to tumble into him.

"Ready for your first day at work?"

I nod, worried I'll sound choked up if I speak. I fiddle with my hair as I ride, glancing at him as he checks his email.

I swear he’s sneaking glances at me.

"We're here," he says as we dive beneath his building.

Lilah fights the urge to look out into the atrium as we step out of the elevator. She shies away from it and keeps her eyes focused on something distant, refusing to acknowledge the height. She scurries out a little too fast, then waits for me to catch up.

"We're not going to the office yet. With me."

Visibly curious, she follows me down the hall and around to the conference room. This is not the banal table setup I use for meetings with her father and his ilk. I stand at the center of a bank of floor-to-ceiling screens. The telepresence setup links the other rooms in ultra-HD, as if we're speaking through a window.

Lilah flinches when it all comes up, and edges closer to my shoulder. "What do you want me to do?"

"Pay attention."

She nods and listens intently as the meetings begin. I give her credit. She's not bored by it. She actually seems fascinated. I check my watch and give a nod. In another room, Maria connects me to the rocket team.

We face a room of scientists and engineers seated around a table.

I turn to Lilah, and she nearly jumps out of her skin when I address her. "Do you know what this is about?"

She shakes her head, and her ponytail swish-swishes her back.

"It's not a trick," I whisper, then I raise my voice. "We're counting down to the first-ever privately funded interplanetary probe, Lilah. We're sending a robot to Mars."

"Now?" she chirps, then turns a little red as I laugh softly.

"The countdown is more of a six-month thing, but yes. It's time for a progress report."

Lilah edges closer, listening as I go over the data with my team, flipping through the reports on my tablet. She looks over my arm to read along with me.

"I have no idea what that says," she whispers.

"We'll bring you up to speed."

The meeting takes over an hour. I lean over and offer her whispered explanations whenever I can. She leans closer, and I feel her presence, a kind of implication of her skin prickling my own when I sense her body heat. She looks absolutely fascinated.

After the meeting ends she says, "So you do robots, too.”

"The first one is a simple rover, yes. The next in the series will be automated habitats. Shelters that build themselves on the Martian surface, even build food. Eventually, astronauts will land."

Lilah clears her throat.

"Say it," I say.

"My dad says this stuff is a waste of time and energy. You could be using all this research to sell food or something, I guess."

I smile.

"Who says I'm not? It's a field test, Lilah. If the auto-habs can work on Mars, it'll be trivial to deploy them in disaster zones and impoverished nations. I have so much money I can't spend it in a thousand lifetimes, and when I'm gone what will that matter? This," I point to the image of Mars on the screen, "this lasts."

"What about your family?"

I flinch, my voice catching in my throat. "They matter too. I want them to be proud of me."

Lilah examines me through narrowed eyes, her expression difficult to read.

"Think about it," I say, turning her to look at the screens. "A human being walking on another planet. So far away that it takes radio signals two hours to travel back and forth. The experience of that."

"I can't imagine walking on another planet," she says, her voice growing soft. "I can barely imagine walking in a park."

I turn to her sharply. "What?"

"Nothing." She sighs. "It's nothing. Isn’t there more work to do?"

"It's noon. It's time for lunch. Have you ever had a cheesesteak?"

She blinks. "Me? A what?"

"A cheesesteak. You don't live under a rock. You know what a steak sandwich is."

"I do?"

Astonished, I move in closer. "You're mocking me."

She shakes her head. "Fine. I know what a cheesesteak is. I’ve never had one, though. Dietitian, remember? Cheesesteaks and 1400-calorie-a-day diets don’t mix."

Her voice twists in a strange mixture of embarrassment and frustration, and it's both endearing and heartbreaking. I just want to put my arms around her.

"I think we need to fix that."

I slip my headset in my ear. "Maria, I'm taking a long lunch. Reshuffle my afternoon schedule."

“But sir…”

“Do it.”

“Where should I tell everyone you are?”

“Giving Lilah a walking tour of the city. Except if Roland calls, tell him I’m eep in an engineering department, and Lilah is in…” I glance at Lilah, and she shrugs. “Down in accounting.”

“Yes, sir,” Maria says, her tone flat.

Stepping outside feels like more than passing through a door. It's crossing a threshold. Aiden puts on sunglasses as we pass through the first floor of the tower. The glass walls, five stories high, bathe the entryway in light. I stick close to his back, growing more and more apprehensive as he heads for the door.

As we step outside he rolls up his sleeves and loosens his tie. I do the same. The late spring air is warm when it’s still and cool when it kicks up into a breeze. I squint at the sun, and Aiden gives me a look.

"You didn't bring sunglasses?"

"I don't have any," I admit.

He looks at me in genuine surprise, and my embarrassment makes me wring my hands.

"We'll get you some. Come on."

We walk. Outside. It's so loud. There are so many sounds and people. They look at him, at me. He all but ignores it, casually passing through the crowds on the broad sidewalk. I resist the urge to grab his hand to keep from getting swept up and carried away.

We haven't gone far, but it feels like miles by the time a gentle tug of my wrist pulls me behind him into a shop. The air inside is a cool breeze. Aiden spins a rack of sunglasses and gestures.

"I need these to see," I point out, tapping the clear glasses I wear.

He sighs and plucks them from my face, taking them gingerly in his big hands. Folding the earpieces, he tucks one into my blouse, hanging from the button. I'm not sure if I feel the back of his hand brush my breast or it's just wishful thinking, but it makes my legs shudder.

"Pick out a pair you like."

I choose a practical-looking one and hand it to the cashier. Aiden pays before I can hint at trying to do it myself, and slips my purchase on my face.

My prescription isn't that bad, and unground lenses like these improve my sight a little bit. Very far-off objects are a little fuzzy, but I'll make do.

He stops me with a hand on my arm and points me at a mirror. I almost don't recognize myself.

"It's a good look for you. Come on."

He takes my wrist and pulls me outside. I stumble to catch up with him. Suddenly he lets go, as if he did it without thinking. He shoves his hands in his pockets as I walk beside him, wild-eyed.

I've been in cities before—in a car. It feels alien to walk around in one. What's strangest of all is that hardly anyone pays any attention to us. A see a few flickers of recognition for Aiden, but no one recognizes him.

I'm thankful for the exercise regimen, but running on a treadmill isn't the same as pounding ground on a city sidewalk. Aiden catches on to my fatigue and slows as the ache in my feet changes my gait. I lean against a tree in a planter and lift one foot, then the other, to rest them a bit.

"You're definitely not out of shape," he says, looking me over.

"I'm not used to this kind of walking. I don't get outside much."

"We're almost there, then we can sit."

"Where are we going?"

"Not Pat's," he says. "Good, but too tourist."

I blink a few times, even though he can't see through my shades. "What’s Pat’s?"

He laughs. "On second thought," he says, "follow me."

We walk. A lot. Finally I see it—a food stand with some tables on the sidewalk. He stops me before we approach. "Do you like onions?"

"No."

"Do you want cheese?"

"Sure."

"Regular, or Cheez Whiz?"

The memory shivers up from the back of my head. I was what, nine? Ten? I don’t remember where we were, but I was with my father. It was some charity event, something like that. It wasn’t nachos and Cheez Whiz, but I had a piece of bread in my hand, and I was reaching for gooey cheese dip with it, and his hand hit my wrist like a whip. He made me run and clean the cheese off my dress, his hissing voice sharp in my ear.

“Don’t touch that. You’ll get fat.”

“Regular then?”

“No!” I blurt, “Cheez Whiz. I want Cheez Whiz.”

He blinks, surprised by how forceful I am. “If you want it, you’ll have it.”

Aiden guides me up to the window, cash already in his fist. He barks at the man behind in the glass in what may well be a foreign language. "One wit’ Whiz, one wit'out Whiz."

Before I can comment he pulls me by the arm to the next window and orders fries and two sodas. At the third he pays, and collects our order that fast. He carries it all in a cardboard tray.

Then he plops a cheesesteak in front of me. It's so heavy it thuds on the table. I unwrap this thing, stopping to clean my fingers on napkins, and stare at it. He expects me to eat all this? It's as big as my head.

Aiden takes a big bite of his, chews, swallows, and gulps down soda. "Try it," he urges.

I lift it in both hands and take a dainty bite while Aiden shakes his head, bemused.

"Just eat it."

I glower at him and spread my jaws wide, taking as big a bite as I can. I jerk back as it fills my mouth, and start to chew. It's intense. The shredded beef has a heavy, smoky flavor, and the cheese mellows it. The roll is hot and chewy, and has coarse salt on one side.

I draw the sandwich back and wipe warm cheese from the corners of my lips with my finger. Aiden is staring at me. "How is it?"

I don’t answer. I just stare at it. Then I begin to devour it.

It's so good I end up eating it purely for the taste, along with the best French fries I've ever tasted. Aiden finishes his much faster and spends the rest of the time leaning on the wrought iron table, watching me eat.

I’m stuffed. There must be steak sandwich in my esophagus. I’ve eaten so fast it burns, but I want more anyway. I struggle to choke down one more bite, then surrender.

"I can't finish," I plead, stifling a burp.

He takes the remaining third or so and chomps it down in three quick bites, looking at me as if he expects me to be impressed.

Then he burps, and I lose it. I giggle into my hand.

Why is he staring at me like that?

"Come on, let's walk it off."

"We'd have to walk to South Carolina to walk this off." I sigh.

Despite the big ball of meat and cheese in my stomach, I feel light on my feet as we walk. Across a few streets, we take a path into a park. The air changes—cleaner, fresher, heavy with the scent of dew and leaves and flowers. I draw closer to Aiden, my nerves jangling at the shadows and spaces between the trees. The path closes in, branches twisting together above.

I tuck away my sunglasses and put my clears back on. Aiden pushes his up his head. "You seem nervous."

"This is all new to me."

"Were you joking, or have you really never walked in a park?"

I slow my pace, and he slows with me, studying me as he walks. My arms fold around my chest on their own.

"I really haven't," I admit. “Not…like this. If there was a charity event or a company picnic or something, but I was always surrounded by people. Minders. My father kept me close by until I was a teenager, but then he started putting guards on me. He hired a stone-faced old woman to follow me around and glare at me in his absence.”

"You sound ashamed. There's no need for that. I'm not trying to judge you. Just understand you. You're almost a stranger to me."

"Almost?"

"I do remember you," he says with a shrug. "Your father had a habit of displaying you.”

It got worse as I got older. He always had me trot out where they could see me, under orders not to speak, and stand there almost at attention with my hands behind my back. Oh, and I had to smile, always smile, whether I liked it or not. Then I was sent off while the men handled their affairs.

Except one time. "He had me serve drinks once."

"I wasn't there for that," he says, surprise in his voice. "What do you mean?"

"Like a waitress, I suppose. It was before I started school—I mean college. He had me carry a tray of cocktails to his friends."

Aiden looks away for a moment, his face clouded. Then he turns back. "What an utter waste of a talented individual."

I smile, but it’s a little forced. "It's kind of you to say that."

I remember that day as clear as a bell, much as I don’t want to. Father had arranged an all-day gathering with some other businessmen, all old men like him. He told me I’d be joining him, then an hour before the meeting he presented me with an outfit to wear. A short skirt, tight turtleneck, and a string of pearls. Oh, and matching stiletto heels that made me feel like my ankle was going to snap at any second.

The rest of that night is a blur. I can remember, I just don’t want to. It’s like knowing the monster is right behind me, but it can’t get me if I don’t look, the temptation always there.

Some client or partner of Father’s wrapping his arm around my waist, pulling me onto his lap as I struggled to balance a tray of cocktails, wormy cold breath on my neck and a withered, frigid hand on my thigh before I shook him off and stormed out of the room. I didn’t even have the courage to throw down the drinks.

What was I? Fifteen?

"What do you want to do with your life?"

“Huh? What?”

“You seem a little distracted. Lost in thought?”

“I spend so much time lost in thought I should get a post office box there.”

Aiden laughs. “Seriously. What do you want to do with your life?”

It's not a question I'm used to hearing very often—at least not from someone who cares.

Without answering, I shrug.

"I mean it," he insists.

I stop. “I don't know."

"There must be something."

"Sometimes I think I could be a teacher. Maybe a college professor. Or…write. Or draw. Something artistic. Express myself.”

"Write what?"

I glance back and forth and bite my lip.

"Well?" he says. “I’m not going to bite you.”

"Romance novels."

He looks at me with a blank expression.

"I read them!" I blurt out, half insistence and half confession.

"Who's your favorite author?"

"Vanessa Waltz."

"I don't know her. What does she write?"

I feel the heat on my cheeks. "Uh, Married to the Bad Boy," I mumble.

"Married to the what?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Have you written anything before?"

I scuff my shoe on the ground, embarrassed. "Yes, but I never show it to anyone."

"I'd like to read it."

I stiffen at the thought of Aiden reading my stilted, amateurish descriptions of sex and scramble to change the subject. "Can I ask you something?"

He draws closer as we walk. "Of course."

"You're a doctor, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"What are you a doctor of?"

"General medicine. When I was a younger man I had different plans, too. I saw myself becoming a sort of country doctor. I don't actually enjoy the city. Visiting for the culture and ambiance, yes, but I don't wish to live here."

"Sounds like neither of us has much of a choice in what we want." I say.

Aiden stops.

I take a few steps forward without thinking and turn away from him. I switch back to sunglasses to hide my wet eyes, but he catches my wrist and pulls them back down, taking them in his hand. I blink, desperately trying to draw the first hint of tears back up where they came from.

Aiden steps closer, sweeping the sunglasses, and his hands, behind my head. He rests his arms on my shoulders, and a strange feeling floods through me. Anticipation and a little fear, but it's a pleasant, goose-bumpy fear, like a scary movie or cresting a roller coaster—or what I imagine a roller coaster to be like, anyway—like I'm moving, and I've left my stomach behind when he tastes my lips and brushes a tear from my cheek with his thumb at the same time.

I freeze at his touch, but only for a moment. I lean in, hungry, tasting him back, breathing in his scent. He feels huge and I feel tiny as he leans over me and tilts my head back. My hands move up his sides under his arms, and I feel his heart hammering against my palms. I wonder if he feels my pulse through my lips the way his throbs against mine.

He jerks back, visibly shocked. "I shouldn't have done that."

I don't know what to say. My brains are scrambled, all hope of a reaction gone. I can only stare at him open-mouthed as he peels my hands away from his body.

"This way. I'll call for a car to take you home…to the apartment. The boys will be back soon."

"But…"

Then he's walking away.