nibau

The Danforth Estate was something you’d promises yourself would be a temporary occupation.

You’d work your hours as one of the many bev-cart girls on their golf club for enough money to fund your own way through university.

As much as you’d made your peace with the fact that you were practically glorified eye candy for old men—you couldn’t deny that the Danforth’s were more than fair when it came to your earnings.

With the luck you’d currently been having, you’d only have to be working there for a little over a year to cover the cost of your tuition.

You’d also come to realise that the longer that you spent doing your job—the easier it all came to you.

The Danforth estate wasn’t open to the public, most of the men you served were friends or family of the Danforth’s—and thus, quickly became regulars of yours.

Chester Danforth had long reached the point of being unable to keep up with all of the walking required on the course, so more often than not you were blessed with the company of his eldest son.

Titus Danforth.

A man who walked with the arrogance and determination that only old money could buy.

Someone who’d never been used to hearing the word “no”.

You wouldn’t know what you’d say to describe Titus, only that he was completely insane.

He was brash, and stubborn and prideful.

He was also disgustingly good looking.

Though you would never have that known.

“Good Morning Mr. Danforth, would you or any of your friends like something to drink?” You asked sweetly, parking your cart next to them as they set up for their next hole.

You’d grown used to the leering looks of men over the past couple of months and what would have once made you squirm in distaste you now ignored and smiled docile as can be.

Men like them tended to like you better when you spoke less and smiled more.

“The usual for me, the rest will have beers.” Titus says without looking at the men behind him.

His eyes track as you nod quickly and make your way to fix up their drinks.

At first glance, Titus had found you unassuming at most and a distraction at worst.

Pretty young things like yourself never tended to last long under the Danforth’s.

Always too pretty, too willing, too naive.

Though as time passed, you’d adapted and progressed in a way that others before you had failed to do.

With little fanfare you disperse the beers amongst his friends, men he’d known from his time in school and some from his induction into Mr Le Bail’s court.

“Mr Danforth,” you bestow his drink to him with a murmur as you lower your gaze.

You’d learnt early on in your career that Chester Danforth hated the staff to think they were on a level even close enough to meet his gaze.

Titus though—Titus hates that you won’t look at him.

He wants you to meet his gaze, to know whether your gaze might soften in adoration or harden in anger.

He wants your world to revolve around him.

Why? Well why not? He doesn’t care for frivolous meaning of these things.

“You look nice today,” he says, his voice softening from his usual disdainful cadence.

Your eyes widen slightly and your gaze flits up quickly before immediately launching your eyes back to your shoes.

“Um—thank you.” You say quickly, straightening and attempting to walk back to the cart to continue your shift.

Only that you’re stopped by a hand on your wrist.

“Look at me.” Titus commands, his voice gravelly and rough.

You shakily inhale, your gaze hesitantly meeting his own.

It’s no secret that Titus Danforth is one of the most eligible bachelors for his age. If anything, he has become more desirable with age.

His greying curls and crows feet had become tasteful additions to his naturally attractive appearance that had been the topic of conversation of many women at galas hosted by the Danforth’s.

“You’re scared of me.” It’s a statement, Titus says it as if relaying the weather forecast.

You frown, “No, Mr. Danforth I would—“

“You should call me Titus.”

Your jaw slackens in shock, you’ve barely shared a single conversation with this man and he demands you to call him by his first name?

“I—uh yes.” You stammer.

Titus blinks amusedly, his lips twitching into a small smile.

“You’re a shy thing, aren’t you?”

You fight the urge to scowl, you’re not shy—you’ve just known that men like these prefer that you don’t speak—

“And a bit scatterbrained apparently.” His voice tickles your brain.

You shake your head, trying to school your expression into something cool, distant and polite.

Composure, you remind yourself.

“You’re very interesting, Miss?” He probes pointedly.

You supply your name with a small frown. He doesn’t know your name?

“Ah,” he nods absentmindedly, turning his gaze as he watches the buffoons he calls his colleagues friends line up to hit their balls.

He turns his gaze back to you and watches with poorly concealed amusement as you rock on the balls of your feet, stewing in your own anxiety.

“You’ve been working here what? 9 months now?” He asked disinterestedly, swishing his drink around his glass.

“It will be 11 at the end of the month.” You say, side eyeing him in growing distaste.

“I really should be going Mr—Titus.” You amend, trying, pleading with him to let you leave.

“Stay.” He commands mildly. “You can keep me company while my friends entertain themselves.”

You bite back a sigh and nod softly instead, cool, calm and collected.

“You’ve lasted longer than any of the others.” He remarks.

You hum softly, offering no other response.

“Why? Is it the money? Surely you can’t like my family enough to willingly stick around for this long.”

You can’t help the small huff of laughter that escapes you.

“No,” you admit with a soft expression. “I—I’m saving money for my tuition.”

Titus’ gaze brightens in devilish interest, a wicked gleam in his eyes as if you’ve just offered him a new piece of information on a silver platter.

“Tuition? You want to study?”

You hum, nodding shyly as you both watch as one of his friends botches his shot.

You wince and Titus snorts a laugh into his drink.

“Your friends aren’t very good,” you interject mildly.

Titus barks a laugh that startles you slightly.

“No,” he smirks at you. “No they are not.”

Titus grows silent for a moment, and you’re surprised to find that it’s not as uncomfortable as you’d thought it would be.

“What do you want to study?”

You turn to look at him, his gaze already fixed on your own with a determined interest.

“…psychology.” You admit.

Titus bites back a smile. He thinks it would suit you well, a career that you would find…fulfilling.

That’s never been something that Titus has had before.

Whilst he enjoys the hunts, they better serve the purpose of soothing a craving.

“How much more do you need?” He demands.

You frown, reckoning with yourself about if you’d be willing to share something so personal.

However, with the way Titus is staring at you, it’s almost as he’s daring you to deny him.

“…$11,000.” You admit.

Titus barely flinches at the amount. It had been a while since he’d been in university but he’d honestly been expecting more.

Before you can ask more about his sudden interest, his next words shock you.

“I’ll pay for it.” He offers, and despite the growing shock on your face, his expression barely changes.

“You—I can’t—“

“You’re not doing anything. I’m offering.”

You feel the urge to laugh hysterically bubbling up through your chest. You suppress it with vengeance.

“Why would you do that?” You whisper shakily.

The determination in his gaze causes something to stutter within you.

His growing expression mimics something of mania, as though he’s drunk off the idea of providing for you.

“Because I want to.” He says simply, though there’s something in his eyes that has fear corroding your heart.

Your hands grow slick with sweat as you clench them at your sides.

“And…what would I be expected to do?” You exhale.

Titus’ gaze lights up in acknowledgement, “smart girl.” He praises you unexpectedly.

Your face warms yet again, this time not in embarrassment but something more sinister—excitement.

“I’m not—“ you blow out a breath. “I don’t do—that kind of stuff.”

Titus snorts with a rare grin and looks at you, “what kind of stuff?” He mocks sarcastically.

“Don’t laugh!” You protest despite his muffled chuckles over his glass.

“I don’t expect you to do anything you don’t want to.” He assures you, delighting in the way the tension slips out of your shoulders.

“Though there will be stipulations.” He amends.

You school your expression. Nodding as your hand drifts absently to nibble on your skin in contemplation.

“Don’t think too hard,” he teases you, though there’s no hiding the fondness behind his tone.

“Come see me after your shift, we’ll talk.”

With a small look at you, he dismisses you with a wave.