Excerpt from Watch Over Me by Nina LaCour, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"I've always liked these little cabins," he said. "But I never got to live in one. They're only for the interns."

"You lived in the house?"

He nodded. "In a room with two other boys. We whined about it all the time—­we were total shitheads—­but it was great. Now we meet up for vacations every summer and we always share a hotel room. I never sleep as well as I do when I'm in a room with my brothers."

I smiled. "That's sweet," I said.

"I'm going to head over to the house, but take your time. Terry or Julia will show you how everything works a little later."

"Okay. I'll see you soon."

I waited for a moment longer, there in the doorway.

Then I took off my shoes, lined them neatly by the threshold, stepped into the cabin, and closed myself in. The rug was soft underfoot and full of color—­greens and pinks and blues. And even without a fire in the stove, I was warm.

*

I could have stayed there for the rest of the night, but they were waiting for me. After I'd sat on the bed to test its softness and hung my clothes on the tiny rack between the woodstove and the table, I slipped my shoes back on and headed across the field.

I approached the main entrance, but the windows on each side of the heavy oak door were dark. So I walked the perimeter of the house, running my hand along the white wood planks until I heard voices and saw light, and found a small patio with a door to a mudroom that opened onto a kitchen. It swung open before I finished knocking.

There was Julia, for the first time.

She had a soft body and laugh lines, white-­blond hair and pink lips. "This is home," she said. "No knocking on doors here. Just come right in."

She wound her arm through mine and led me in. I had expected more people but apart from us it was only Nick and Terry, leaning toward each other from opposite sides of a butcher-­block island, immersed in conversation.

"Ah," Terry said when he saw me. He had silver close-­cropped hair and brown skin, a wide white smile, and eyes that surprised me with their blueness. "Mila, welcome. I'm sure you're hungry. We saved some dinner for you and Nick."

He put a mitt on his hand, opened an old-­fashioned oven, and pulled out two plates heaped with mashed potatoes and sausages and beans. He lit the burner to warm some gravy in a small cast-­iron pot.

"Special occasion food, I see," Nick said. Then, to me, "Prepare yourself for alot of soup."

Terry laughed, reached an arm toward Nick, and ruffled his hair.

"I'm not twelve," Nick said, laughing, too.

Terry turned to me and smiled, warm but careful. "Here, sit."

I sat at the never-­ending kitchen table, all oil-­spotted and cup-­stained, and let the dinner fill me up while Terry and Julia chatted with Nick about his new job in a San Francisco skyscraper. I half listened, taking in the details of the kitchen. The blue-­and-­white-­flowered curtains, the butcher-­block counters, the giant mason jars lined up on shelves, full of flour and cornmeal and sugar and rice. I had never been anywhere like it.

"Well . . . ," Nick said when he had finished eating.

"You're sure we can't persuade you to stay?" Terry asked.

"Gotta work in the morning. But I'll come up again soon. Good luck," he said, giving me a quick hug goodbye. "Don't let these two work you too hard."

They walked him out, and by the time they returned I was also finished eating.

"Mila," Terry said, picking up my empty plate and water glass. "Why don't you stay and visit with us for a little bit before I show you around."

"I'd love to," I said. "Can I help clean up?"

"Oh, don't worry about these. You'll be cleaning up plenty soon enough." He set my dishes in the sink and smiled as he nodded toward the living room, where I could see that Julia was already arranging pillows on one of the sofas. I followed him up the two steps that separated the rooms. A fire burned under a grand hearth, glowing across overstuffed chairs and floor pillows, two sofas and a grand piano. The whole room was covered in floor-­to-­ceiling shelves laden with books and framed photographs. Rugs piled upon rugs. Everything was beautiful and nothing was perfect, and I didn't know how I could have been chosen to be there.

Excerpted from Watch Over Me by Nina LaCour. Copyright © 2020 by Nina LaCour. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher