She shakes her head and picks up her bag.
“Don’t you have another kid to check on?” I tease. “I bet Boone is dying for you to visit.”
She lifts her chin in faux defiance. “Actually, I’m on my way to see Oliver and Shaye.”
“I bet they’re thrilled.”
Mom punches me in the arm as she walks toward the door. Her ring bites into my skin, but I don’t tell her that.
“Drive carefully,” I say as we approach the entryway.
“Thank you for the snack.” She raises the container I gave her. “And the wine. That was a damn good bottle. What was it?”
“A Spanish red of some sort.” I kiss her cheek. “I’ll give you a bottle the next time you come by.”
She grins. “Are you trying to get me to come visit you more often?”
“I can ship directly to your house.”
Her laughter makes me chuckle.
“I love you, Wade. I appreciate your advice.” She lays a hand on my chest. “There’s a big heart in that chest of yours. I can’t wait until you find it.”
Reaching around her, I open the door. “Time for you to go.”
She laughs before kissing my cheek again. “Be good.”
“Always.”
“Good night, my darling.”
“Night, Mother.”
I step onto the porch and wait until she’s in her car and barreling down the driveway. Then I go back inside.
The house smells warm and spicy. Grabbing the remote, I flip on the fireplace before collecting my glass of wine. I carry it into the living room and sit down, forgetting about my dinner.
The peace that I had before my mother arrived must have left with her. The quietness of the house that I usually enjoy, that I use to recharge my energy, makes me twitchy instead of calm. Not wanting to be stuck inside my head, thinking about things that I can’t control, I pull my computer onto my lap and open my email.
It’s a move I instantly regret.
To: Wade Mason
From: Curt Bowery
Re: Project
Mr. Mason,
I wanted to reach out to you personally and thank you for taking on a project so dear to my heart. It’s incredibly difficult to trust anyone to work closely with my family, as I’m sure you can attest. It’s an honor and, quite frankly, a relief to know that Dara is in such good hands.
Should you have any questions or concerns, please call me on my personal cell phone. I will anticipate a contract in my office early next week.
Enjoy your weekend.
Best,
Curt Bowery, President and CEO
Fuck.
I pick up my glass and down the rest of the liquid.
“Dara and I didn’t make any agreements,” I say aloud. “What the hell is this?”
I run the possibilities in my head. Either Dara lied to him and told him that we were working together or he assumed it to be a shoo-in.
He’s wrong, regardless.
My fingers strum across the armrest of the chair as I contemplate what to do. Immediately, her laughter echoes through my brain.
“I’m not sure you’re the man who should be handling … my project.”
Her words fire through me. I tense immediately.
“I can handle your project, Little Miss Sunshine,” I say, almost glowering at the email from her grandfather. “But I’m going to make you work for it for a change.”
I poise my fingers on the keyboard and let them fly.
To: Curt Bowery
From: Wade Mason
Re: Project
Mr. Bowery,
Thank you for considering Mason Architecture. After yesterday’s intake appointment with your granddaughter, it has yet to be determined if we will, in fact, be working together. Regardless, I do appreciate your faith in my work, and I look forward to potential collaborations in the future.
Regards,
Wade Mason
I hit send.
“You’re welcome for that gift, Oliver,” I say, pleased with myself for thinking it through and adding that little bit. That should help ease things if he completely loses his cool if I don’t take this job.
Which he will.
If I do.
But will I?
I close the computer and head to the kitchen for another glass of wine.
FOUR
DARA
“That was the best roast beef sandwich I’ve ever had,” I say, letting my eyes close briefly.
Rusti hums in agreement.
The afternoon is the epitome of fall perfection in Georgia. It’s still fairly warm with a big, bright sun, crystal-clear sky, and a breeze that promises cooler temperatures just in time to usher in the holidays.
“How did your photo shoot go this morning?” Rusti tugs Cleo’s leash to keep her from trying to run after a bird. “Was this a family or a baby?”
“Family with a baby. Fun times. My camera still smells like—”
“Don’t do it! Don’t you do it.”
I giggle as I toss my sandwich wrapper in a garbage can. “The wife wanted two time slots because she had five outfit changes for her and three for her husband and kids. It was a lot.”
Cleo barks at a squirrel.
“I wish I could make the same money shooting old farms and the beach,” I say.
“Take pictures of dogs. They’re cuter and cleaner than babies. I mean, just look at my little Cleopatra.” She beams at her tiny white dog with bubble-gum pink bows beside her ears. “She could be your first new client.”
Cringing, I take a step away from my friend.
“What?” Rusti laughs. “It’s brilliant. You could call it … Pawtography.”
“Somehow, that actually seems to be less desirable than babies.”
She gasps.
“I know. I’m shocked that something can be more off-putting than a tiny human who spits up sour milk, but facts are facts.”
We sidestep a butterfly on the path and come together on the other side.
“I did get an email this morning from a stock photography site that I reached out to last week,” I tell her. “They’re launching next month, and the submission portal will open in a few days.”
“That’s … good. I think?”
I grin at her. “Well, I don’t know if I’d call it good quite yet, but I’m going to give it a try. I have so many pictures of random things that I might as well see if I can make some money off them.”
We stop at a bench when Cleo pops a squat to pee.
“She’s so immodest,” I say, nodding toward the terrier.
Rusti’s jaw drops as though she’s offended.
“She is,” I say, standing firm in my observation. “She has no couth.”
“My little baby has couth! Where else is she supposed to pee?”
I shrug. “Behind a tree?”
Rusti grins. “She wasn’t the one fawning all over a hot architect a couple of days ago.”
“Of course she wasn’t. We know what she would’ve done.”
We look at each other and try not to laugh.
“I mean, I’ve never heard of a dog trying to hump a man’s leg—who was it? Zack?” I point my finger at Rusti. “Yes. Zack. Cleo humped Zack’s leg while he humped you.”
Rusti’s face turns red.
“I can only imagine what she would’ve done in Catnip’s office,” I joke.
She tugs on Cleo’s leash. “You’re such a little hussy.” Then she looks back up at me. “But a hussy with good taste because that man was honestly … I would’ve married Zack had he asked.”
“He must not have been into threesomes.” I wink at my friend as we start walking again. “In reality, he was overrated.”