Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 43239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
We’re passing each other like strangers in a hotel hallway—nodding in quiet acknowledgment, looking away before our eyes can fully meet.
And even though every stolen glance at her mouth makes me ache to finish what she started, we need to get back on track and focus on why she’s here.
I knock on her bedroom door, but there’s no answer. I head to the living room, and the scent of vanilla and lavender smacks me in the face long before I turn the corner.
What in the…
Yarn, glitter, and markers are strewn all over the floor. Canvas boards lean against my windows, and a rainbow array of sticky notes covers the walls.
Eliza wobbles across the floor in today’s heels, carefully placing a layer of cardboard on my coffee table.
I wait for her to notice me, but she’s focused on littering my space even more.
Clearing my throat, I fold my arms. “Eliza.”
“Huh?” She glances up. “Oh—sorry. I didn’t see you.”
“What is all this?”
“Vision boarding.”
“Vision what?”
“It’s like scrapbooking for your dreams. You know, the real-world version pre-Pinterest.”
“Can you say that in English?”
She picks up a board full of garden pictures. “It’s like manifesting the things you want in life, or looking at them every day so you remember what you’re working for. I want to install a beautiful garden for our guests next year. It’ll cost about five million, so even though I’m sure we can more than afford that with all the money the farm brings in, I’m sketching out all the design ideas here before presenting it to my brother.”
I hold back a sigh.
She reaches for another board—this one covered in blush tones, fabric swatches, and wedding flower arrangements.
“You’re manifesting a husband now?”
She rolls her eyes. “A wedding venue. I’ve been dreaming about adding one to the resort forever, and I think I finally have a decent enough business plan to present it to Jackson, so...”
Her voice trails off, and she bites her lip like she’s said too much.
“Forgot who you were talking to?”
“Yes,” she mutters. “But I’ll make sure this is all cleaned up when I’m done.”
“Thank you.” I turn toward the hallway, but a knock sounds at the front door before I make it ten steps.
Assuming her Chanel bags have arrived early, I pull it open.
There are no white tissue-stuffed bags or monogrammed boxes in this woman’s hands.
The only thing she holds is the title of “Last Person I Want to See.”
“Nice to know you’re alive, Harrison.” My mother purses her lips. “Aren’t you happy to see that I’m alive?”
I don’t answer that.
“You know what I realized this morning?” She places her hands on her hips. “All my children—except you—got me birthday presents last month.”
“Good for them.”
“Well?” She arches a perfectly manicured brow. “Do you have anything to say for yourself? An I’m sorry or an I’ve missed you would be nice.”
They’d also be false. “I like your new sweater.”
Her scowl disappears, like it always does with the smallest amount of flattery.
“Why, thank you!” She beams. “I had it custom-made by one of Thierry Mugler’s newest apprentices. She’s going to be a big deal in fashion in about five years, I swear.”
“Right,” I say. “Well, I’m very much alive, but I’m also busy, so—”
“You’re not going to invite me in?” she says. “Carlos dropped me off for the entire afternoon. I assumed you’d want to have tea with me.”
She’s lying. She wouldn’t let her driver leave her stranded if she were stranded in a Bentley showroom.
Still, I step aside.
“What in the tornado is going on here?” She peels off her scarf. “Did you fire the housekeepers?”
“No.” I gesture toward the living room. “Mother, this is Eliza. Eliza, my mother—Mrs. Jones.”
Eliza stands with impressive practiced poise and extends her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Jones.”
“So you’ve hired someone new.” My mother shrugs out of her sweater and dumps it into Eliza’s arms. “Could you hang that in the closet for me?”
Eliza shoots me a questioning look.
“I’ll have a freshly steeped hibiscus tea and a lightly dusted cinnamon scone,” my mother continues. “I’d like the scone on a wooden plate, and the tea in a glass mug. I’m listening to a podcast on microplastics and trying to avoid them.”
Silence.
“Does your new help girl not speak English?” she asks me. “Should I try some Es-spain-gnome?”
Eliza narrows her eyes, and I’m not the slightest bit tempted to stop whatever words fall from her lips.
“Here you are, Mrs. Jones.” My real housekeeper—Reba—hands my mother a delicate tea glass and gently removes the sweater from Eliza’s arms. “Your favorite scone is warming now. Would you like unsalted or salted butter?”
“A dollop of each, please.”
“Very well.” She gestures politely. “Right this way.”
They disappear toward the kitchen, and I exhale.
“You’ll have to excuse my mother,” I say. “She has all the manners in the world, but no class.”