Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Jay
Phoebe Hopper is funny. Very funny. The only thing she seems to take seriously at all is her job. That’s a good thing to take seriously, obviously. But by the time we’ve walked the key parts of the grounds and we’re nearing the back boundary of the property, I understand completely why Grandad handpicked her for the job. For one, she’d have charmed him without even trying. But more importantly, she is whip-smart and knows her work.
What I can’t understand is why Grandad never mentioned Phoebe Hopper to me. They’d been having monthly lunches for three years by the time he died. That is two years and eleven months past the time when he should have introduced his Boston-based grandson to this captivating woman.
He and I will have words on my next cemetery visit.
“That’s the caretaker’s cottage, isn’t it?” Phoebe asks as we get closer.
Unfortunately. I’m so sleep-deprived that I can’t come up with a good reason to prolong our tour.
“It is,” I say, trying to fight a yawn. I lose and cover my mouth. “Sorry. I haven’t slept yet. ”
“Oh.” She flicks a look at my hair, and her eyes lose their warmth. Her tone is polite as she says, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know, or I wouldn’t have made you take me all over the estate.”
I wonder what assumptions she’s making about why I’ve been up all night. This sudden chill from her has blown through a couple of times, and I’m trying to figure out what causes it. “Don’t apologize. I volunteered because I wanted to.”
“I’ll leave you here,” she says in a clipped tone. “You can catch up on that sleep so you can recharge for whatever it is you’re doing later.”
The “whatever” she’s imagining definitely doesn’t meet with her approval.
“Thanks. Sammy will appreciate it.” Sammy being Samuel Davis Brown, the current historical scoundrel I’m writing about.
“I’ll be turning the third floor into the administrative center eventually, but for now, I’ll be working out of the library if you need anything.”
I jerk my thumb at the cottage behind me. “Same but here.”
“Thank you for the tour.”
“Anytime.” I wish I had something flirty to say, but all my energy is going into fighting another yawn. I lose again.
I swear she stops herself halfway through an eyeroll before she gives me a polite smile and turns back toward the house.
I let myself into the cottage and turn to catch the eye of a slightly smirky Samuel Davis Brown in the portrait I set above the fireplace. “I know I could have told her I was up all night working,” I tell him. “But she didn’t ask. She assumed. And it’ll be that much funnier when she figures it out.”
Samuel still smirks. He always smirks. That smirk is my fuel to find and expose every last detail of his villainous life. With any luck, it will be another hit to follow up my first two books in my Rogues of the Revolution series. Sometimes my research makes it hard to believe America ever gained independence with opportunists like this working against our interests behind the scenes.
I groan as my eyes land on the ring light and backdrop I keep set up in the living room. I need to batch create some content, but I do not have it in me to make myself presentable for social media. I have to do it tomorrow or I’ll burn through the last of my saved drafts. I will do it tomorrow. “I swear,” I mumble, maybe to convince myself.
I shut my laptop as I pass it on the way to tumble into bed. Old Sam Brown has kept his misdeeds largely secret for two hundred fifty years. They can wait another day. And if missing one day of posting removes me from the favor of the algorithm gods, then …
I sigh. No, I can’t avoid that tomorrow.
But right now at Price Is Right o’clock in the morning, I’m finally getting some sleep. I’ll crash as soon as my head hits the pillow.
Except I don’t. I close my eyes, but behind them, I only see Phoebe’s amber ones. After a few minutes of attempting and failing to find the position that will let me conk out, I give up and reach for my phone and google some famous Jennifers.
That’s when I discover Phoebe is a liar. It’s not just the Jens. Justin Bieber and Lionel Ritchie’s daughter have amber eyes too.