Chapter 5
I DIDN’T KNOW I’D WANT FAMILY THIS MUCH
Margot
Long hours and high stress are basically my life as the marketing VP for Aurora Gardens, and I generally thrive in it.
I’m built for it.
I’ve spent much of the past four years questioning everything about the belief system my parents raised me with and whether they would still treat me the same if I were more like Daphne.
What if I hadn’t wanted to go into the family business? What if I’d pushed more boundaries? What if I’d forged a separate life for myself beyond being a Merriweather-Brown working at Aurora Gardens?
And I always circle back to the same answer, that I know to the depths of my soul that I wouldn’t be happy if I didn’t have a job that pushed me hard to excel at the highest levels.
That part is me.
But since Daphne was disinherited, I’ve realized that there’s another part of me that’s been starving.
And that’s the part of me that wants to be loved unconditionally, when I fuck up and when I’m having a bad day, when I’m underperforming expectations and when I just feel off.
The part of me that knows that I need to learn to give that kind of love if I want to receive it too.
I’ve nearly told Lucky who I really am half a dozen times this weekend as he’s been showing me all around Snaggletooth Creek and the surrounding area, telling me stories about his friends and brothers and parents while Decker’s retreated to work on a book that’s on deadline and Jack’s apparently off camping.
I want Lucky to like me for me, not for the persona I’m playing.
But I can’t tell him. Not yet.
Not when Decker still doesn’t trust me—yes, I see the irony—and when I haven’t even met Jack yet.
And all of it has me exhausted by Sunday night.
On top of my fake identity, I generally prefer to live alone with security nearby, not on top of me, so having a cabinmate, even a cabinmate who’s supposedly safe and would be helpful in the event of a situation arising, is complicating the situation, regardless of how he feels about me.
Especially with the living room being his bedroom, and neither of us broaching the subject of one of us moving out if temporary isn’t as short-term as I hope it is for Rhys.
I can’t go stay somewhere else without making Lucky and his brothers wonder where I got the money for a hotel or other rental house—my broke-as-hell housekeeper story really sold him to the point that I couldn’t turn down his offer to stay in the cabin and take a job out here, especially when Lucky insisted on paying for my gas money too.
Clearly, I’ll pay them back and then some, whether or not they ultimately agree to go to the Aurora Gardens board of directors with me to prove once and for all that my father and his cheating are a liability for the company and that the board needs to boot him.
And then I’ll amply pay my half brothers back for every bit of their trouble.
But, on the other side of the spectrum, if I decide I can’t trust them, or if there’s some other reason I can’t tell them, I’ll disappear and send cash anonymously.
Either way though, right now I can’t tell the triplets I don’t want to share their cabin with one of their friends.
So I’m being agreeable Sunday night when I leave my room after sneaking a few hours of answering emails from my executive assistant and find Rhys in the kitchen, stirring something that smells so good I almost drool.
The dye streaks are still on his face, even if they’ve faded to the kind of lavender-blue that makes it look like he has thin skin showing off odd veins.
While he hasn’t said a word about his stomach, I’ve seen him wince a few times, like when he got off the barstool at the coffee shop yesterday, so I think I probably left a mark there too.
“Looked at your van,” he says. “Drive belt’s shot. Jack’s on his way with a new one and the tools to replace it.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
He grunts.
I open my mouth, then close it.
Margot Merriweather-Brown would just buy a new car. Or tell my staff to do it, except my staff is so good that I never know when there are car troubles.
Or possibly even when I get a new car. They’re functional tools to me, not hobbies, so my staff handles making sure there’s one available wherever I am, with a driver in the city or a full tank of gas when I arrive at one of my vacation homes—if it’s a home in a location where I want to drive myself around.
So what, exactly, does a normal person say to I’m fixing your car besides thank you, which I’ve already said?
Am I supposed to offer him a blow job?
My research into how to live frugally and take a job as a housekeeper didn’t extend to this exact situation.
“Smells good in here,” is what I settle on.
“Beef and barley stew,” he says. “Grab a bowl if you want some.”
“I—yes. Thank you.” I pause again. “Can I give you money for the ingredients?”
“No.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
He slides a glance at me like he too has noticed that I’m overusing the words thank you.
“Oh, I should get a bowl right now?” It’s a legitimate question on my part because he’s still stirring, and he hasn’t served himself anything yet.
“Yes.”
He doesn’t move when I slip around him to grab a bowl from the upper cabinet to his right.
I like the cabinets. Someone painted them a dusty blue, and it adds a charming touch.
I like the bowls too.
At home, my bowls are fine china.
These are hefty. Thick, brightly colored porcelain that reminds me of the dishes at Daphne’s apartment in the Hudson Valley.
And I’d enjoy them more if I were enjoying them without this heavy dose of awkward hanging out in the kitchen with us.
“This isn’t poisoned, is it?” I ask him, going for a joke to cut through the tension.
He slides me another unreadable look, then makes a show of lifting the cooking spoon to his mouth, blowing on it, and taking a very large bite.
“Ah. So if it is, we’ll both be dead.”
“If I wanted to kill you, I’d return the cast-iron skillet favor and leave your body somewhere that the bears could get it.”
“Comforting.”
“Someone would probably notice you were missing though.”
I almost do a double take because I almost think he’s talking about Cyril, or my sister, or god forbid, my parents, but I make myself stay breezy and calm, forcing a friendly smile.
He can’t be talking about Cyril.
No one here knows about Cyril or who I really am, and this is all fine.
He takes the powder-red bowl from me and fills it with soup, then hands it back. “Oyster crackers are on the table.”
I hesitate before leaving the kitchen for the shared dining/living room. “Are you eating too?”
“Made it, didn’t I?”
“I meant at the table.”
“Yes.”
“Will I be in your way?”
And there’s another glance from him. An is this chick for real? kind of glance. “Invited you, didn’t I?”
“If you were just being polite—”
“Don’t really suffer from that.”
I almost smile for real, but I squelch it.
I’ve never been into the gruff, cranky type, but I’m oddly appreciative of having Rhys and his absence of manners here with me.
Unlike me, he doesn’t have to pretend to be someone he’s not.
And I like that he’s not afraid to be who he is.
If I let my manners drop around my father, I pay for it in the form of his passive-aggressive warfare.
But not for much longer.
Soon, I’ll be free to be just as real as Rhys.
But not until after I’ve pretended I’m someone completely different from me for another little while.
I take my bowl to the table in the dining room half of the front room.
Rhys joins me as I’m taking my first bite. Rich, salty stew floods my mouth, lighting up my taste buds, and I barely stifle a whimper of appreciation.
I can cook—I used to love watching my parents’ chef in the kitchen when I was young, still watch cooking shows interspersed with home improvement shows today, and I like my own space enough that it’s been necessary to keep up the basics in the kitchen in the name of both nutrition and privacy—but I can’t cook a simple stew like this.
Not enough time to truly hone it to perfection.
If Rhys notices my reaction, he doesn’t respond.
He dumps a bunch of oyster crackers straight out of the bag and into his own bowl, then digs in like it’s a race to finish.
And honestly?
I like that about him too.
For as much as I know I’m a badass in business, I also know I’ve worried so much in my life about how every action, every word, every thing about me will be scrutinized and studied for possibly being used against me that it’s taken a lot of work the past few years to figure out who I want to be and how to just be me without second-guessing.
So despite all the reasons Rhys and I will likely never be friends—didn’t exactly start on the right foot, and we’ve hardly seen each other all weekend—I appreciate him.
I appreciate him being unafraid to be exactly who he is.
It’s inspiring.
And also, this stew is unreal.
How can a guy not be attractive when he can cook like this?
“So you and Decker have been friends for a long time?” I ask between my own bites.
He grunts.
Then he sighs and looks up from his bowl. “Yes. We’ve been friends for a long time.”
“Are you this enthusiastic about all of your friends?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know.” I wince to myself. Is this awkward or is it just me? “Look, I really am sorry about…” I gesture vaguely to his face.
“It’s fine.”
“The mountains are a lot different from where I grew up. I’m…more cautious here…because it’s so different.”
He slides one of those unreadable looks at me while he shovels a spoonful of stew into his mouth. “Yeah. Mountains are a lot different from…other places.”
Other places?
Why is he saying that like he knows what other places are?
“Very,” I agree.
“Worlds apart. Depending on where other is.”
The tiniest amount of sweat starts gathering at my hairline. Is he—is he trying to talk in code, or am I being paranoid tonight?
I swallow another bite of soup. “Have you spent much time out here with Decker?”
“Some.”
Such a solid, definitive answer.
Which I don’t observe out loud, even if I want to.