The house sat behind tall iron gates on five acres of perfectly maintained grounds. He’d seen places like this before, but never from the inside.
He pressed the buzzer at the gate.
“Yes.”
The voice was crisp, business-like.
“Caleb Brooks. I’m here about the driver position.”
The gate buzzed open without another word.
The house was even more impressive up close—white columns, wide steps, windows that sparkled in the afternoon sun.
Caleb parked his car and walked to the front door. Before he could knock, it swung open.
Eleanor Whitmore stood there in a black business suit, her blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun. She was beautiful in the way expensive things were beautiful—polished, untouchable, perfect.
Her eyes swept over him from head to toe, taking in his pressed khakis and button-down shirt.
