Chapter 14. #2
“Too late. Apparently my ass is already in all sorts of trouble with you, Mr. Mob Boss’s Son.”
“I’m not in a—” He takes a breath. “Okay. You want the truth? My family’s business is … very well-off. Let’s put it that way. And I’m the heir. Like, to a large local business.”
He doesn’t say it proudly or egotistically.
It sounds more like a burden to him. I’m surprised by his confession.
I just thought him a small-town guy with small-town dreams, a lot like I was growing up in the suburbs outside of Dallas.
Does he even know that about me? I was likely afraid to share too many details, fearing the dots could be connected someday, considering how dang smart he is.
We’ve both been holding back.
“Whatever you want to share about yourself and your family,” I tell him, “I’m all—” There’s a werewolf howl in the hall followed by a laugh and something—or someone—slamming heavily on the floor. “—ears,” I finish with a wince.
“Sounds like a party over there.”
“It is. In the hotel. We’ll probably get kicked out. I don’t envy the floor below us. Think your favorite band Soul Biter is involved. Is it a full moon tonight, by chance?”
“They’re not my—” TJ scoffs into the phone. I chuckle. “It was Miranda’s fault I was wearing a Soul Biter shirt. She’s convinced Skeleton or whoever is into her.”
“Oh, the guitarist? I know him. Odd guy, keeps to himself.”
“I’m not getting involved.”
“Why not? Can’t we play matchmaker? Hey, you mentioned a thing between the merch vendors, too.
” I slide my legs off the bed and toss myself on it instead, right next to Glorious and an empty plate that once had a full-ass serving of loaded nachos I devoured an hour ago.
I stare up at the ceiling. “Is this your secret thing, TJ? Shootin’ Cupid’s arrows at everyone around you? ”
“Apparently.” He pauses. “Hopefully the first one I fired is still working a miracle.”
“You mean with your college buddy and his city in France?”
He chuckles. “That’s one thing I really appreciate about you. I only ever have to say something once, and you remember.”
“Only if it’s somethin’ to do with you. Or lyrics.”
I hear him shift around, perhaps lying on a bed, too, before he takes a breath and says, “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”
I tuck the phone between my neck and shoulder and rest my hands on my chest. “I’m curious to see the real TJ. The full picture. Are you … ready for me to see it?”
He takes a shaky breath. Huh, this is a bigger deal to him than I realized. “Yes,” he finally answers. “I am. The real, full thing.”
“I think your first arrow went into me, by the way.”
He goes silent. Then: “Hope that one works a miracle, too.”
I grin—then lift up my head at the sound of someone shouting and running past my door.
You’d think we hired kids losing their minds over getting to stay up past their bedtimes.
“Can’t wait for tomorrow either,” I say back, gazing at the hallway, just before something crashes loudly followed by exploding laughter.
I don’t bother investigating what it is.
It’s in the morning that I get a text from TJ with directions.
I leave a note for Ian he’s not likely to get for another hour—hey, he did tell me to let him know next time I take a fieldtrip—then sneak past the crew eating breakfast in the lobby, snatch a car from the rental place next door, and make my way off to Spruce under the golden midmorning sun.
It’s the longest slightly-less-than-an-hour drive I’ve ever had.
TJ implied he more or less comes from money. Big local family business and all that.
But I don’t think I quite imagined just how “big” that meant.
I end up parking halfway down the long-ass driveway like I’m scared to get too close. The enormous house rises up in front of me like a damned mountain. It isn’t just big; it’s estate-big, the kind of residence that makes you feel embarrassingly underdressed the second it hits your eyes.
From here, I see so much, and I already know it’s just the tip of the iceberg: a huge, distant pavilion tucked behind tall white ironwork, breathtaking hedges trimmed perfectly into lines and arches, flowerbeds exploding with color, trees framing the whole place like it’s posing for the cover of some ritzy home-and-garden magazine.
There’s even a shimmering, peanut-shaped pond out front, complete with a fountainhead scattering diamonds of water into the air, because of course there is.
I’m damned near ready to call this place a palace. I’ve got to catch my breath as I stand here next to my cheap-ass rental.
Who in the hell is this TJ? The prince of Spruce?
I guess he saw me pull in (or partway in, rather) because I find him standing out front.
He is such a vision of gentlemanliness, the way he awaits me, hands hooked behind his back, dressed in a loose short-sleeved button-up shirt and shorts, looking like a doll.
Despite the intimidating exterior of his house, I’m still resisting the urge to race up to him, pick him up, tackle him down onto the first soft surface I find, and dive into his face.
“Um, hey,” TJ says for a greeting. “Welcome to my house.”
I spread my hands. “What? No drawbridge?”
He snorts and rolls his eyes. “I’d hardly call that pond a moat.”
“Well, I don’t see what’s all that impressive about it, then.” I cross my arms and shrug, eyes darting around. “I mean, sure, your house is kind of massive, but …” I squint at the top of the door. “Is that a gargoyle?”
He doesn’t even look. “Yeah. My mom sorta has a thing for … for gargoyles. They’re ugly and made of stone, but will protect you with their lives.”
I nod slowly, appreciating it. “So your mom’s responsible for this gorgeous-ass atrocity. Hmm.” I glance at TJ. “I see where you get your sensitivity and imagination from.”
“Not so fast,” he teases. “I also inherited her neuroticism and historic bad taste in men.”
“Bad taste in men?” I lean against the doorframe. “Does that include me?”
“Too early to tell,” he teases back. “But … my mom got it right at least once. I mean, I do have a dad.” He grins.
I already sense TJ growing comfortable around me.
Maybe the joke about the moat and drawbridge thing was the right move.
He probably had a morning—and likely many awful days—of building up this reveal in his head, worried it’d turn me off or something.
He’s battling anxiety while trying to play it cool for my sake.
And I sure as hell don’t want him thinking I’m not taking this seriously.
So I tell him, “I appreciate you showin’ me the real you.”
He meets my eyes. His humorous grin fades, traded for a more sincere smile. “This is … a part of me, sure. But what parts of this comprises the ‘real me’ or not, I’ll leave that up to you to decide.” Then he holds open the door. “Ready to get outta the heat?”
I smile, then come to the door.
Then find myself unforgivably fucking close to him.
There are two doors—a double-door situation. He only opens one, and he stands partly in the way, which brings us very close as I pass through—and his relentless gaze falls upon me, full-force.
I stop right there. “What lies beyond these doors,” I promise him, “doesn’t mean one damned thing to me, when you insist on lookin’ at me with those cute-ass eyes of yours.”
He smirks, then jabs me in the rib, causing me to hop forward. “You say that now,” he teases, “but you haven’t seen the kitchen, curved double staircase, or the guest wing that could house your whole band and crew.”
“No offense to them, but they’re not allowed here with a ten-foot pole.” I reconsider. “Might need a hundred-foot pole. You can play a football game on that front yard.”
“Just get inside already,” he growls.
I cross the threshold. The first thing I notice is the echo of my footsteps on the smooth, shiny tile.
My eyes go all the way up, then down, left and right and straight ahead.
How much shock should I display on my face without overdoing it?
“Damn,” I let out—and hear my “damn” returned to me by seven corners of the house.
“This place has better acoustics than half our venues.”
“You kinda get used to the size,” he says from behind me.
I chuckle. “Don’t go actin’ like you don’t have three bedrooms to yourself.”
“Four.” When I look back at him, he rolls his eyes. “Kidding.”
He can’t even help looking irresistible when he rolls his eyes and throws me attitude, even if it’s playful. “Alright. Big-ass foyer. Is that it? I’m not too impressed yet, to be honest.”
He’s still fighting back smiles. Good sign.
“You’ve been on the road for a while. Do you …
want something to drink, maybe? Made sure no one’s home today.
Not even Bella, who tends our gardens with a big hired team of her own.
She used to babysit me as a kid, so she doubles as a friend of the family, really.
Anyway, none of them are here. Both my parents think I’m out today, so they drove out together to one of our clients’ farms to check on—You know what?
I’m boring you. And me. Let’s get something to drink.
” And off his neurotic butt goes, leading the way to the kitchen.
With a bottled water in hand—I would’ve taken tap—he leads me around the house from room to room, meandering around as we please.
“That’s my dad,” he explains, approaching a portrait of a no-nonsense man in a suit with an unexpected twinkle in his eye that instantly reminds me of TJ.
I lean in and mutter, “The man looks like he drives hard bargains for fun.” TJ sighs and says, “Not far off from the truth.” I peer at the side of TJ’s face, seeing it on his face, his businessman dad, the distance in his eyes, longing for something more he can’t quite name.
“Shall we move on?” I then suggest, and TJ takes that up instantly, leading the way.