25. Gracelyn
CHAPTER 25
GRACELYN
O ver the next week, I Facetime Sloane about two hundred times to get her opinion on different outfits. Mack’s told me a few things about his family—I know they’re a lot more formal than mine, his mom is very proper, and they live in a big house in Augusta.
I pack a wide variety of clothing to be on the safe side. I’m cramming the last pair of shoes into my bright pink suitcase when Mack walks into my bedroom.
“Whoa. That’s a big bag.”
I glance over my shoulder. “You think? I went with the medium-sized one, too. I have an even bigger suitcase, but didn’t want to be too over the top.”
He furrows his brow at me, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hmm. I’m not sure the mission was accomplished.”
“You didn’t tell me too much about the vibe of the weekend. Like, is this a cozy holiday where everyone kicks around in jammies all day? Or are y’all sporty? Running a 5K or something before you eat a big dinner. Do you wear matching holiday outfits?” I run through all the possibilities, listing each one off on my fingers.
“Scratch cozy holiday off the list. You will never see my mother in her pajamas, matching or otherwise.”
My gut squeezes and I wonder for the thousandth time what exactly I’m getting myself into.
“Okay, so no matching jammies. What about athleisure wear? Yeah or nay?” I hold a pair of black leggings up in the air, along with a matching top.
Mack shrugs. “It’s fine for the house. But if we go out anywhere, the dress code will be more formal.”
Now it’s my turn to scrunch up my brow.
“More formal? Like jeans? A nice blouse? What are we talking here?”
“Definitely not jeans. I never really pay much attention to what the women wear. But I’ll be in chinos and a dress shirt, most likely with a jacket.”
Dread churns through me as I eye my suitcase packed with all the wrong things. I misread this whole weekend, apparently. I maybe threw in one dress, to be on the safe side. Mack never told me the dress code is business formal.
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” I try to tamp down the hysteria creeping into my voice. We’re supposed to leave in a few minutes, and I don’t have any of the right clothes.
Mack rakes a hand through the waves of his hair. “Sorry. I assumed you’d know.”
“How would I know?” My voice pitches up. So much for not getting hysterical. Heat floods through me and my chest tightens as I frantically unpack my bag. “I don’t have any of the right stuff, Mack. And I’ve been packing for a week!”
“Hey, it’s fine.” He comes behind me, circling my waist with his arms and pulling me up against him.
“No, it’s not.” My voice shakes along with my hands as I toss item after item out of my suitcase. “I probably don’t have anything nice enough to wear, especially for a holiday!”
“Gracelyn…” He grips my hips, spinning me around to face him. “Personally, I don’t give a fuck what you wear. My favorite look of yours is buck ass naked. Wear whatever you feel most comfortable in.”
I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. This weekend’s off to a rocky start already and we haven’t even left Thunder Creek yet.
“It matters to me, Mack. This is the first time I’m meeting your family and I want to— need to —make a good first impression.”
“Hey—” With his index finger, he tips my chin up to meet his gaze. “I love you. My family will love you. I get that you want to look good, and I’m sure you will. Everything looks good on you.”
My heart soars as he drops his lips to mine.
Mack loves me. And I love him.
I relax into his kiss. Warm and comforting, like a worn leather coat on a chilly autumn day.
“I love you, too,” I murmur against his mouth, fizzy happiness flowing through me alongside the panic. “Help me repack? Please? So we’re not late?”
“Sure.”
I pull away from him, mentally running through my clothing options. Mack helps me whittle the options down and half an hour later, I have my suitcase packed and ready to go.
“See? Crisis averted.” He brushes a stray hair from my eyes, cupping my cheek. “All good.”
I relax and let his words wash over me, sweeping away the doubt and anxiety from earlier.
“All good.”
Mack zips up my suitcase and carries the luggage out to his truck while I lock up.
Five minutes later, we’re on the road. He fiddles with the radio, settling on the country station. I sit back and zone out, trying not to worry about meeting Mack’s family. The packing incident didn’t really help calm my anxiety any. And judging by his tense jaw and the tight grip Mack has on the wheel, I don’t think he’s any more relaxed than me.
This could be a very long weekend.
To break the uncomfortable silence, I dig for clues about his family.
“Give me the highlights on your family.”
“What do you mean?”
“The details. What’s your mom like? I know she’s proper, but what does she do? What are her hobbies? Basically, I want the Cliff Notes.”
Mack stares straight ahead at the road, a deep furrow etched in his brow. Thrums his fingers on the steering wheel. After a long pause, he finally answers.
“You pegged my mother. Formal, uptight, prim and proper. She doesn’t really do anything. She entertains. Plays tennis and golf with the ladies. Goes up to the club.”
I bite my lip, nodding. Super . We literally have nothing in common. I live in a tiny-ass house and the only entertaining I do involves opening a bottle of wine. All the better if it’s a screw top. I can’t play tennis, never tried golf. And Mustang’s is the closest thing to a social club we have in town. Kinda figuring Mack’s parents belong to a different sort of thing.
“When you say club, what are we referring to here?”
“The country club. Or the yacht club. We belong to both.”
I suck in a breath.
Shit.
Mack has a yacht? What in the actual hell?
“You have a yacht?”
“Not me. My family. And it’s not a yacht. It’s a boat. Technically, the place should be called the boat club, but that’s not fancy enough, I guess.”
Still.
I have a car and it’s the only motorized vehicle I own. I don’t even have a scooter.
“Okay.” I gnaw at my lip. “What about your dad?”
“He’s retired, but he used to practice law. After I quit football, he tried to talk me into joining his firm, but I politely and respectfully declined.”
“He wanted you to go to law school?”
“Yeah. And I did, for two years. I dropped out during my third year and I don’t think he’s ever quite forgiven me.”
Mack shifts in his seat, a far-away look in his eye. It’s the saddest I’ve ever seen him and my chest aches. I quickly move away from this painful subject.
“What about hobbies?”
“He shoots, goes hunting with the guys every fall. Boats, obviously. Golf, tennis, like my mother. The usual stuff.”
Um, no. None of this stuff is usual to me, but I’m not about to admit that. We’re an hour away from a long holiday weekend with the family. Now’s not the time for true confessions. Besides, I’m pretty certain Mack knows I don’t do any of those things.
“And your sister?”
“Emma Kate. Short for Katherine. She still lives at home. Not in my parents’ house, but in one of the guest houses.”
“ One of the guest houses?” My voice tips up. “There’s more than one?”
I mean, damn. I don’t have a guest room, let alone a house.
“Yes. It’s a large property. Been in my family for generations.”
“Generations?” I squeak.
“Yeah.” Mack scrubs his neck, the skin flushing pink. He obviously doesn’t like talking about his family, since this is the first I’ve heard any of this. I mean, he told me his family is well-off, but this. This is way beyond that.
Like next-level rich.
“Anyway, Emma Kate mostly hangs out. She isn’t working—I think she’s a social media influencer or something. I don’t know.” He shrugs. “She spends time with her friends, hangs out at the club. Her main goal is finding a husband.”
“Oh.” My stomach sinks as I mentally run through everything he’s shared. The house, the boat, the family money, all the chi-chi hobbies. I doubt I’m going to have anything to talk about with Mack’s relatives.
“Do they watch TV? Read? Anything nor—anything like that?” I bite back the word normal , not wanting to offend Mack. Because maybe I’m the one who’s not normal here, I don’t know.
“My mother only watches ‘serious’ television.” He takes his hand off the wheel for a quick second, air quoting the word ‘serious.’ “And by that, she means the news. My father watches the news, sports, and history documentaries. Emma Kate watches her cell phone.” He shakes his head again. “As far as reading, probably? I really couldn’t tell you.”
“Okay then…”
I grow more and more tense the closer we get to Augusta, the highway blurring as we speed toward Mack’s family home. He takes the exit and nausea rolls through me, palms sweaty. I should have packed more deodorant.
He drives through town, making a right turn down a long, gravel road lined with trees. In the summer, there’s probably a pretty shade canopy, but not now. We drive and drive, moving further away from town. Finally, he makes another right and pulls up to a wrought-iron gate. There’s a box with a keypad and Mack punches in a code. After a few seconds, the gate slowly swings open.
We pull through and I swallow down my gasp. In sharp contrast to the dull brown trees in town, the grass here is a verdant green and stretches for miles and miles in all directions. The gravel turns to pavers and we glide over the honed brick driveway.
Finally, Mack slides up to a massive two-story, all-white house with black shutters and a huge, fancy double door.
“Oh my god. Mack. You didn’t tell me your family lived in a mansion.” I rub the stack of bangles on my wrist, the light jangle echoing through the cab.
“It’s just a house, Gracelyn.”
“It’s not,” I breathe, gnawing my bottom lip as I stare at the stunning architecture, the carefully manicured lawn. “It’s way more than a house, babe.”
He reaches over, taking my hand. “It’s not who I am, Gracelyn. It’s where I lived, but it’s not me.”
I don’t know what he’s yammering on about. If I grew up somewhere as fabulous as this, I’d be shouting about it from the rooftops.
“Okay.” I nod, pressing my lips together.
The front door of the house swings open and a man in a dark suit steps out, but he doesn’t wave. Instead, he walks across the drive and opens my door, the creak loud in the relative quiet of the afternoon.
“Thank you, hi. I’m Gracelyn.” I smile broadly at the man and he nods, his expression blank.
“Good afternoon, miss.” He reaches into the truck, grabbing the luggage and maneuvering it out of the backseat. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Afternoon, Bobby. Is anyone home or are they still out?”
“Home, sir. I’ll take your luggage. The two of you may head into the solarium. Your mother has a tea service prepared for you after the long drive.”
Tea service? For real right now? And long drive? It was like two hours.
“Thank you, Bobby.”
Mack takes my hand and leads me inside. Stomach fluttery, my nerves hum triple-time as I step into the spacious marble foyer of the house. A massive floral arrangement sits on a round table in the center, directly below the most stunning crystal chandelier I’ve ever seen. Beyond that is a windy double staircase, spiraling up to a second floor.
“Wow.” I take in the grandeur, already overwhelmed. I’m scared to breathe too loudly in here, and I’m definitely sticking to clear liquids. I don’t trust myself with anything that could stain.
We move past the staircase, our footsteps clicking against the marble and reverberating in the quiet hallway. My heart’s pounding like I ran a marathon—which, let’s be real, I definitely did not—and I wonder if Mack feels my racing pulse. His shoulders square, jaw tense, I have no clue what he’s thinking right now. Suddenly, he feels distant, a million miles away. And I’m knocked even more off-balance.
I don’t know this Mack at all.
We pass by several lavishly decorated rooms, all tastefully done in muted tones with golden accents and more light-colored furniture. I can’t imagine sitting down in one of those rooms to do something as mundane as watch TV. No, these rooms are built for headier past times—studying maps or playing the harpsichord or something.
Nothing like what I do back home in Thunder Creek. The television would probably short circuit if an episode of Real Housewives came on.
I snicker at the thought and Mack cuts his eyes to mine, a worried look flashing across his face.
“Sorry,” I murmur, pulling myself together.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. It’s fine.”
We come to the end of the hallway after walking for what seems like miles, dead-ending into a huge glass room with a rotunda and yet more white furniture. Plants artfully fill the space in carefully curated areas—vases of white calla lilies, potted orchids growing up to the sky, ferns, and potted palms. A multi-tiered silver platter filled with tiny sandwiches, macarons, cookies, and cakes is at the center of a round table, flanked by a stack of plates and flatware. A silver teapot sits next to the display, along with an assortment of beautiful teacups and saucers.
Mack’s mother’s sitting at the table and she stands as soon as she catches sight of us.
“Hello, darling. So glad you finally made it home. And this must be Grace.”
His mother steps forward, reaching out and squeezing my upper arms. Holding me at arm’s length, she inspects me, clear blue eyes raking over every last square inch of my face. I hold my breath, also studying her.
Mack’s mother is stunning, not a wrinkle on her face. She could pass for twenty-five if I didn’t know any better. Her blonde hair’s sleek, a very becoming shoulder-length, brows artfully sculpted. Make-up is subtle and on point—slightly rosy cheeks, dark lashes, a nice pink color on her full lips. She smells like some exotic flower, the very scent expensive.
“Nice to meet you.” I don’t correct her on my name, instead forcing enthusiasm into my voice, an emotion I’m most definitely not feeling at the moment.
“Lovely to meet you as well. We’ve heard so much about you.”
Really? Because until this trip, I knew next to nothing about Mack’s family.
“Same.” I bob my head, her long, thin fingers still clutching my arms.
“Come, sit. You all must be exhausted after the drive.” She finally loosens her grip, and I inch closer to Mack.
His mother takes her seat and I follow Mack’s lead, his hand hovering at my low back as he pulls the chair out for me. The one closest to his mother. I sink down into the seat as gracefully as possible, nerves thrumming wildly.
Mack’s mother starts pouring the tea into beautiful little teacups, all painted with a delicate rose pattern and ringed with gold. I stare longingly at the finger sandwiches and sweets. The stress of the situation’s making me hungry.
“Ulysses, my boy.”
A loud, booming voice sounds from behind me and I almost drop my teacup.
Ulysses? Who the fuck’s Ulysses?
My mouth opens, but I clamp it shut before I say something stupid. Only one person in this room could be named Ulysses and it’s sure the hell not me.
In the last thirty minutes I’ve learned more about Mack than I have in the last few months.
What other secrets is he hiding?