Still, my instincts tell me to take what I can get. With free room and board, there’s still a chance I might find a part-time gig when the kids are at school. This is as good of an opportunity as I’m going to get.
“What about beyond the two months?” I ask him.
He looks at me curiously. “Two months?”
“Well, the whole Shenanigan Visa thingy.”
“You mean the Schengen Visa?”
I nod. “Yes, that’s what I said. I’ve been in Europe for a month already, which leaves me two months to stay here legally. Is there any way I can stay beyond that? I mean, unless you only wanted me to stay here for a short while.”
He frowns. He clearly hadn’t thought of this little predicament. “We’ll take it as it comes. That is the saying in your country, is it not?”
I nod. All righty. Well, as long as he’s okay with it then I’m okay with it. “Sounds good,” I say as I feel all the pieces fall into place. I can do this. I can live here and tutor a pair of brats under the watchful eye of a deliciously grumpy Italian dude and an old spinster housekeeper. I can save up money. Then I can go home. I don’t like the idea of returning to reality and responsibilities and my parents, but I’m sure in two months I will be dying to get out of this place.
I smile brightly at Signor Larosa and Felisa. “So, who is going to give me the grand tour?”
They exchange a look.
“I will,” Felisa says, unable to hide her sigh.
I keep my eyes on Signor Larosa and offer my hand. “This will make it official.”
He eyes my hand, then eyes me. I swear he squints a little. Then he shakes my hand. His grip is strong, hot, and I swear to God I feel a tiny zing of electricity from his palm to mine. I know it’s dry and staticky in here, but still. His handshake is as impressive as he is.
He lets go of my hand first and I quickly withdraw mine. His face gives me nothing but handsome lines.
“Come,” Felisa says, grabbing my elbow. “I will show you.”
I’m escorted out of his office and back into the hall. She shuts the heavy door behind us and then gives me a stern look. “Now that you are hired, you will learn the rules.”
“Rules?”
“There are many rules of the house,” she says and jerks her pointy chin at the door. “You are never to disturb Signor Larosa when he is in his office.”
“What if I need him for something? Like, important?”
“Then you find me.”
“What if I can’t find you?”
She eyes me with impatience. “You will find me. But if you don’t, knock once. If he doesn’t answer, don’t knock again.”
“What does he do in there?”
“That is his business,” she says and motions for me to come along. But now I’m staring at the wooden door to his office with even more curiosity. “And,” she adds, “the room is off-limits if Signor Larosa is not home. You are never to go in there.”
My eyes widen. This is starting to sound like Beauty and the Beast. Oh my God, am I Belle? Is he an Italian Beast? Did I just stumble into the best scenario ever? My inner nerd is having heart palpitations.
“Never,” she repeats, probably recognizing the dreamy look in my eyes. “He is a very private man. And in that way, don’t be hurt if he doesn’t want to talk with you. He keeps to himself. He’s good and just but he . . . It is best if you concentrate on the children and stay out of his way.”
“You must know him very well,” I say. I want more info on my new boss and I want it bad.
She looks me square in the eye. “I was practically his second mother. But even mothers don’t know their boys all that well. Now, come on. There are more rules.”
More rules?
While she shows me the downstairs guest bathroom (complete with Jacuzzi tub, because you know, your guest may want to take a dip after dinner), her room and en suite, the laundry room, the breakfast nook, the living and dining rooms, the exercise room, family room, and kitchen—the tile and gold practically give me a headache—she rattles off more rules.
She is not to be disturbed between the hours of eleven p.m. and six a.m.
I am not to disturb Signor Larosa when he is in his bedroom, at any time.
I am not to disturb the children between nine p.m. and seven a.m.
If the phone rings and someone asks for Signor Larosa, the call is to be passed to her. If she is not home, I am to take a message. I don’t bother pointing out that it would be impossible for me to write in Italian but I think that’s the point.
If someone comes to the door, they are not allowed in the house unless she is there to authorize it. So really, don’t answer the door, ever.
I am not to have guests over without asking permission first. The way she says that one makes me think she wants to add, No boys in your room either.
The children are not allowed to leave the property unsupervised.
I have a curfew of one a.m.
And if I hear funny noises or screaming in the house, I am to ignore it.
“Wait, what?” I ask as we climb up the stairs to the second floor. “Screaming?”
She swallows hard, looking uneasy. “It is nothing to worry about. Sometimes . . . sometimes Signor Larosa has nightmares.”
My hand flies to my chest. “About what? Has he seen a doctor about them?” Because, uh, that’s not normal.
She nods but doesn’t say anything until she takes me down the upper hallway and gestures toward the door in front of us. It’s situated right above Signor Larosa’s office and I’m guessing it’s just as big. “This is the master suite. It was his parents’ room, before they passed. It is his now. You will have his old room. It’s at the other end, so it shouldn’t be a problem for you. Here.”