Connor
The last few boxes were already wedged into the back of my Range Rover.
I probably should have taken the train. It would have been faster. It would have been easier. But I wanted my car down in York. I wanted something normal in the garage next to Edward's ridiculous collection of sports cars.
I was actually thinking about "our garage" and "our home manager." Crazy. Two years ago I was sleeping on a couch in a flat in London. Now I had a house in York and a home manager.
Edward had sworn up and down when we bought Ashford House that he wanted no live-in staff. No one in the guest houses. He wanted us to deal with things ourselves.
Then the moving chaos started. Deliveries. Cleaners. The gardener calling about the hedges. The wine fridge that wouldn't work.
And by day three Edward was on the phone saying, "We need a home manager."
