“We can do something for her at the house, with everyone.”
“It’s in five days, Brett. There’s no furniture at the house.”
“There will be by then. Simone ordered a bunch of stuff for me. It’s being delivered tomorrow.”
“She must have loved doing that.”
He chuckles. “She called me an asshole at least a dozen times.” Brett’s phone vibrates noisily against the nightstand. He groans. “That’s her now. They’re hounding her for a confirmation.” He retrieves his phone and studies the picture again. “Do you think she can pass this off as a friendly greeting?”
I study the way our bodies are pressed flush against each other. “Only if you start groping everyone.”
“So . . . what do you want her to say?” He looks to me expectantly. “She can decline to comment, but that usually makes them more annoying.”
“Because they’ll be looking for the story we’re trying to hide.”
“Exactly.”
“I guess there’s really no point hiding this anymore, now that Gibby sold that picture. It’s only a matter of time.” And I don’t feel the same need I did before, to hide my feelings for Brett. A part of me wants to scream about us from the rooftops. Brett is mine. Brett wants me. “So she should just confirm it,” I say, before I can chicken out.
“Works for me.” I watch his fingers fly over the keys.
“Oh, my God!” I lunge for his phone, but his reach is too wide and I end up draped over his chest, the screen visible but out of reach. “She knows not to say that, right?”
“She’s a terrible publicist if she doesn’t,” he says, chuckling.
I watch as the three dots dance on the screen.
Send me an appropriate response by 9 am tomorrow.
P.S. Really? I wouldn’t have guessed that about her.
“Where is the birthday girl!” Keith’s voice booms dramatically from somewhere unseen, carrying through the giant vacant house, out onto the covered porch.
Brenna squeals as he appears in the doorway, squinting against the setting sun.
“Perfect timing.” She’s already torn through the presents from my parents, and Lou and Leroy. All that’s left is the bike that Jack, Emma, and I went in on, currently hiding in the garage.
“You do that yourself, Singer?” Jack mocks him, nodding at the rectangular box, wrapped in fuchsia paper and adorned with bows.
“My mom did, actually,” Keith admits as he sets the box in front of a wired Brenna, earning Jack’s burst of laughter.
“Why so late?” I ask.
“I got held up with work.” He exchanges a round of greetings, ending with a frown. “Where’s Misty?”
“Late as usual,” Lou mutters, still picking at her burger. Leroy couldn’t get a line cook in to cover off breakfast this morning so we shifted Brenna’s little party to dinner and Leroy brought his renowned patties with him.
“Actually, I’m not sure if she’s gonna make it.”
“She’s never missed Brenna’s birthday,” Keith reminds us.
“Yeah, she had plans in Philly.” To visit DJ. And when she suggested bringing him here, and I said no, she didn’t take it too well. “She may show up later. I gave her the code to the gate.”
Brett had an iron gate installed two days ago, along with a small camera, cleverly concealed at the bottom of a coach lantern light, angling down at the end of the driveway. And cameras around the property. And a full security system for the house. I tried to argue that it was overkill, but he politely pointed out that his mother couldn’t safely stay here without it. I shut up after that.
“You gave Misty the code?” Keith’s brows spike as he turns to Brett. “You might want to think about changing that tonight.”
Brett chuckles softly. “Noted.”
“Oh, man!” Jack’s bark of laughter carries across the long stretch of grass behind us. “You’re gonna find her going through your hamper tonight.”
“Jack!” my mother scolds.
“Or soaping your back up for you in the shower.”
Even my dad and Leroy can’t help but laugh.
“All right . . . Leave our slightly crazed friend alone. Hey, Jack?” I nod toward the garage.
“Let me go with you. There’s a code to get in.” Brett shifts from his spot leaning against the wall, his hand grazing my shoulder gently on the way past.
“I’m coming. I wanna see your Benz.” Keith trails the two of them out.
“He’s certainly put a lot of money into security for this house,” my mother says, obsessively collecting the latest wrapping and paper plates. Leroy had barely put his plate down before it was in the ready trash bag. Lou even made an idle comment about how she wished her staff was half as on top of clearing tables as my mom. While she didn’t mean it as a slight, I guess Hildy Wright didn’t like being compared to Lou’s truck stop diner staff and, well . . . at least it stopped at a tense moment and a dirty look.
I hear the countless unspoken questions and thoughts behind my mother’s simple remark.
Mr. and Mrs. Chase may have had no clue who they were selling their old Victorian mansion on Jasper Lane to, but most of the town has figured it out by now, after seeing the gates being installed and me driving in and out of here a few times. The media certainly has, but aside from the occasional car pulling up and a long-lens camera pointed at the house, they haven’t been too bad.
I hadn’t quite figured out exactly what I was going to tell my family about all this tonight, but then Brenna walked out to the patio with my sketchbook and announced that Brett bought her the Gingerbread House and it was going to be an inn.
“It’s his money, and his house,” I say, very simply.
The returning look from my mother, as well as Lou and Emma, tells me they’re not buying that for a second. Dad and Leroy have the good sense to keep their heads down.
Brenna’s pursing her lips as she quietly counts her presents, and I know she’s mentally noting that there’s nothing from me or her uncle and aunt yet. Wondering if we somehow forgot.
“What’s taking them so long?” I wonder.
A nearby neighbor’s dog starts barking wildly, followed by a second. And a third, along with some shouts. I’m on my feet, ready to go around front and check.
And then suddenly a ball of white-and-gray fluff comes tearing around to the back, followed quickly by a sprinting Jack and Keith.
The fluff is wearing a pink ribbon.
“Oh, my—”
“Stella!” Brenna takes off running across the lawn, her earlier presents forgotten. The husky puppy veers and darts toward her, its tongue lolling. They tumble in a heap of giggles and fur.
“Sorry, Cath. Keith wanted her out of his truck so he was gonna wait out front with her on a leash.” Jack heaves his breaths, like he was just in a race. “But that little shit is fast. We couldn’t catch her.” He starts to laugh. “I’ll bet that photographer got a priceless shot of us trying, though.”