Chapter 11
Hayes
Amelia has barely driven the cart out of hearing range, the security cart accompanying her but lighter two men who are keeping a respectful distance, when I hear my name, and it’s not coming from Begonia.
“Hayes! Hayes, hi. Everything okay out at the estate?”
I eyeball the woman responsible for me being here, on a dirt road, instead of safely on a golf cart headed back quickly to the pile of figures and new responsibilities I need to sort through today, away from the prying eyeballs of the single women of Sprightly.
Begonia smiles brightly, then grabs my hand and squeezes. “She can’t hurt you. She’d get fired as mayor, and trust me, after what I heard at the market this morning, that’s the last thing she’d jeopardize.”
“For the record, this is the last place I want to be.” And I mean both standing here, in the open, and also walking beside Begonia, who is so very damn bright and sunny and seemingly trustworthy, which I find completely untrustworthy.
“But it’s such a beautiful morning. That has to make it a little better,” Begonia replies with a Begonia smile.
The world will either eat her up , as they say, or chew her out for that smile. And the fact that I’ve never been able to judge which is exactly why I’m now the CFO of Razzle Dazzle while my brother and father are the creative geniuses picking our film and television line-ups every year.
“I’m so glad I ran into you this morning,” Kristine continues.
She’s in her late thirties, white with mousy brown hair and a nose slightly too large for her face.
Once upon a time, she was the perfect bland choice for a date when I wanted to feel like a normal person whose every move isn’t scrutinized by the press or well-meaning family members.
“Seems like you might be having connection problems with your gate intercom system. Hamish is still around if you need an electrician.”
I stifle a wince as I turn and nod to Kristine as she descends the dune from the main road just outside of town. “Ms. Turner. Lovely weather.”
“Good job,” Begonia whispers with a hand squeeze.
Kristine is smiling brightly at me, but it’s not a Begonia smile.
It’s far more awkward and inquisitive. “I called the sheriff’s office up at the point and let them know you were back, so they’re watching out for any unusual activity, though I see you’re not as alone as we thought you were.
And we activated the Oysterberry Bay gossip chain.
Nobody’s gonna bug you, and if you need anything at all, just give me a holler.
” She looks down at where Begonia’s fingers are linked in mine, and a rare flash of guilt pokes me in the gut.
Dating Kristine was another act of rebellion the last time multiple family members decided they had the perfect woman for me.
Thank heavens, Thomas ended up divorced not long after that, and Mathias Randolf landed on the list of the world’s dwindling single billionaires when stock in his healthcare software skyrocketed, so I was given a brief reprieve from scheming family members and their devious friends.
A reprieve that is now over and carries with it more grief than I can admit to in public.
“Glad to see you back,” she continues. “I tried to get in touch when Blaine left and his girlfriend stayed, because it felt unusual, but nobody at your office returned my calls. The sheriff checked in every now and again, and it didn’t seem like she was robbing you, so we had no choice but to let it go. ”
That’s in line with what my head of security told me late yesterday afternoon.
I haven’t been back to this house since my ill-advised romp with Kristine two years ago.
In that time, my long-standing property manager out here took a few liberties, including moving himself into the main house, and then got kicked out by his girlfriend, who decided to shove it to all of us by listing the house on a vacation rental site.
Hence Begonia’s presence.
With clear expectations of the house being empty for the foreseeable future, when in actuality, she would’ve been getting another visitor today, and three more tomorrow, because Blaine’s girlfriend double-, triple-, and quadruple-booked the house for the next three years.
The only reason Begonia was alone yesterday was that her intended co-occupants came down with food poisoning and couldn’t travel.
My security team is handling the details of taking care of every part of the issue.
“I love your island here, Kristine,” Begonia says into the settling silence. “Everyone’s so friendly, and the shops are adorable. You must love living here.”
Kristine eyeballs our hands once again, then gives Begonia a flat smile. “Couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Great place for keeping in touch with what’s important.”
“You can really feel the love all over. This is the best hidden gem I’ve ever visited. But don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone. Too many tourists would ruin it.”
“We aim for just right.”
“You’re doing a spectacular job.”
Begonia beams.
Kristine smiles back hesitantly, like she doesn’t want to but can’t help herself.
I saw my mother do the same yesterday when Begonia spilled the take-out lobster rolls she’d insisted on ordering for dinner for all of us.
And there’s one for the floor, and one for Marshmallow, and one for a reminder to me to be less clumsy next time .
We all have our moments, don’t we? Here.
Take mine. I ate too much cheesecake yesterday anyway and I’m still not hungry.
“We should get going,” Begonia says brightly. “Lots to do today. Thank you so much for all of your kindness. Marshmallow! Drop the crab and c’mon, boy. You don’t want that thing biting your nose or tongue or your ears. Who’s a good dog? Marshmallow’s such a good dog.”
She waves at Kristine with a non-threatening smile. “He’s smart, but not always bright, you know? And we love him exactly as he is.”
With Kristine fully smiling back now, Begonia tugs my hand, and then we’re back on the path, me holding the bicycle with my other hand, her dog racing ahead of us with a live crab in its mouth.
We look like we’re in a damn Razzle Dazzle film.
But while Jonas always plays a character who’s charmingly baffled by his feelings for his on-screen love interest, I merely feel awkward and uncomfortable at suddenly being alone and the very picture of romantic perfection with the woman who put me to sleep last night.
How did she manage that?
She’s a virtual stranger, and when my brain starts spinning, there’s nothing that will calm it.
Except, apparently, lying in Begonia’s lap, with the scent of lavender mingling with the fresh sea air, getting a head massage that I never should’ve agreed to in the first place.
Maybe it was the incense. Is it possible to be overly sensitive to incense? I’ve never used the damn stuff before.
“Why did you get divorced?” I ask Begonia in the silence. It’s better than getting lost in my own head.
Also, I should know these things for the inquisition that’ll be coming from my mother. She clearly suspects this is fake, which means I need to improve my game if I don’t want to have to threaten to make a scene with the media.
And the truth is, I don’t want to have to threaten to make a scene.
I’ve made my peace with the media, but that doesn’t mean I go looking for opportunities for my social life to be featured.
Walking back with Begonia was, in fact, the better option for keeping up appearances.
“He didn’t like my dog.”
“You didn’t adopt the dog until after you filed paperwork.”
“Just how thorough was that background check, and did you memorize it?”
“Why did you get divorced? As your boyfriend, I should know.”
She lifts a thoughtful gaze to me. “You should, shouldn’t you? Okay. I’ll tell you. But first, you have to tell me if you’ve ever had a pet.”
Any other woman I’ve ever dated would’ve asked about my history with Kristine, and while Begonia might come off as flaky, I suspect she’s wiser about the world than the casual observer might notice when she hides it behind the compliments and bubbles of her personality, though time will tell if those bubbles are real or put-on. Either way, they’re suspicious.
“You don’t want to ask how many other women will be arriving on my doorstep vying for my attention?”
“Oh, you think there’ll be more? Will there be any actresses?
Oh! What about famous artists? Wait. They probably don’t want you for your money, and your personality isn’t exactly the type that usually jives with artists.
We like to be the temperamental ones in a relationship, and we love being broke, because it gives us something to complain about.
Oh, barf. Tell me you’re not expecting a bunch of lady CEOs.
Don’t get me wrong, I admire the crap out of them for the things they accomplish, and Amelia is lovely in her own way—I mean, she can’t be barf when she was on Dancing with the Stars —but give me someone who wants to talk about how difficult clay can be in humidity, and I’ll have a new BFF. ”
Her eyes are sparkling like she doesn’t expect me to know what a BFF is.
Who am I to disappoint? “Clay is related to bank failure Fridays?”
She squeals with laughter and pokes me in the bicep. “You did it again. You made a joke. Sleeping was really good for you, wasn’t it?”
“Please tell me you don’t drink coffee. Or that you’ve already had six cups today. One or the other. Nothing in between.”
“Nope. I’m riding the high from horrifying your mother when she came into our bedroom last night.”
I jerk to a stop. “My mother came into the bedroom last night?” That wasn’t a dream. “What did you say to her?”
“I shushed her and told her you’d had a few long days and that you needed your sleep.” She tilts her head. “She was really horrified. Is it a Rutherford family thing that you’re not supposed to be shirtless with a woman in bed in real life in your own home?”
“Yes.”