by Elodie Colt
‘I’ll foot the bill for those new trees.’ Christina’s words cut through my counting. ‘I’m also willing to help you out with occasional financial injections.’
In exchange for tying the knot with a girl I’ve known for a week, and who chose a major that tells you not to eat carbs in the evening, to keep your hands off diet sodas, and to swallow a can of prunes every day for a good shit in the morning.
Putting the thought aside, I snatch my phone and unlock the screen. The picture stares back at me again. I soak in every detail, branding it into my mind before my finger moves lower to hover over the bin icon.
I had no right to take that shot. I owe it to Sam and my moral principles to dump it, but…
But.
That damn ‘but’ makes me click the icon next to it instead and send the picture to my cloud. I convince my self-critical voice that I’m extra cautious and show responsibility by deleting it from my phone should it ever fall into the wrong hands.
My laptop pings. Upload complete.
Conscience fifty percent cleared.
Christina slams down a tray in front of me, jam-packed with enough sandwiches to get an entire school through lunch break. I fetch the first on top and take a generous bite of tuna and molten cheese.
I’m glad Christina has the courtesy to throw a meshed poncho over her neon pink swimsuit that clashes with her hair. She’s got a decent body for her age, mind you, but my attraction usually makes a U-turn a good hundred miles before the MILF borders, and her sun-blotched tits would only ruin my appetite.
She folds herself into a seat opposite me, forever attaching herself to me like a limpet. I don’t give her the time of day as I enjoy my lunch, pretending to be oblivious to the bomb she’s about to drop at the table any second.
“So… Did you have time to consider my offer?”
I continue to munch on my sandwich, letting her question hover in the air until I’ve swallowed my bite.
“Sure.” My voice is placid.
Her eyes drill into mine as I put the can of Coke to my lips, patiently waiting for me to elaborate and finish my drink.
I match her stare with a vacant one of mine. “You don’t expect me to give you an answer today, do you?”
She tossed that offer at my feet not even twenty-four hours ago and already wants me to have a proposal at the ready? I’m not selling her my truck, for God’s sake, but my future and my vow to love and cherish her daughter for a very, very long time. A daughter who, by all means, has no clue what her bold, compulsively predominant mother is scheming behind her back.
“Of course, not.” She flashes me a honeyed grin. “I just wanted to hear your thoughts on that matter.”
“My thoughts.” Golden hair, perfect lips, toes that tremble when she comes… I rip my gaze away from the blonde strolling down the adjacent garden to vanish into her tree house. “A mutual three-hour drive and a few fleeting hello’s in passing are hardly enough to get to know each other. I need more time, and work has kept me quite busy so far.”
“Busy, sure…” she drawls, her eyes on the spot where mine have been a second before—on the girl next door. Slowly, she leans closer, her Lancôme perfume combined with the stench of tuna making for a horrible mixture. “Let me ask you, what is more important to you? A bright future or… a dirty weekend adventure?”
Keeping my face blank, I shove the last piece of sandwich into my mouth. Thank God, Jillian uses the moment to stride through the entrance door, prompting Christina to back off. She waltzes into the kitchen in a pair of cowboy boots, a red, layered skirt flaring around her knees. When she spots us at the dining table, her gaze ping-pongs between her mother’s innocent million-dollar smile and my look of forced impartiality.
“Jillian, my dear,” Christina says enthusiastically. “How was work?”
“Same as every day,” is her daughter’s flat reply as she tosses her keys onto the counter and pulls a Tupperware container from the fridge. “Aren’t you late for your goat yoga class?”
Christina’s gaze flicks to her gold watch the size of a billiard ball. “My dear, yes. I better hurry.”
And with a suggestive wink in my direction, she floats from the room, allowing me a moment to appreciate Jillian’s attire without her mother analyzing every twitch of my eyelid.
“What the fuck is goat yoga?” I ask her as she hurls her studded bag over the backrest of her seat and sits down with a fork in hand.
She smirks. “A new trend that is supposed to bring your body and mind in harmony. It’s all over YouTube right now.”
Blowing her bangs out of her eyes, she opens her Tupperware container and drills her fork into something that looks like a flat, green meatball. We sit in silence for a moment, me sipping my Coke until Jillian clears her throat.
“Did she go too far again?” she asks in a low voice.
Yes. “No.”
Unconvinced, she shakes her head, pushing the food around her plate. “God, she’s so embarrassing…”
“She just wants what’s best for you.”
“She thinks the best for me is to become like her.”
I keep my face blank, replaying yesterday’s conversation with Christina in my head. If Jillian knew about Christina’s disturbingly uncalled-for offer, her daughter’s best interests in mind aside, she’d claw her mother’s eyes out. “I think she’s trying to make sure you don’t become like her.”
“By hooking me up with pretty, rich men?” She throws me a pointed glance. Pretty, yes. Rich, not at the moment. “When I was eight, I had a huge pimple on my forehead. Instead of covering it up with concealer or, God forbid, leave it be, she took me out of school for three days with the excuse of measles. When I was ten, she taught me everything there was to know about makeup and beauty products. Every day for one hour. I wasn’t allowed to go play with my friends until she finished her lesson. You still think she doesn’t want me to become Christina Robinson 2.0?”
She delivers her speech swiftly, bored almost. The fact that she doesn’t wear a pinch of makeup proves that she did a great job flipping her narcissistic mother the bird. A definitive plus point on my possible-future-wife list.
“Want one?” she asks when she notices me side-eyeing the green stuff she’s shoving into her mouth.
“What’s that?”
“Broccoli Quinoa Cakes with yogurt sauce. Wanna taste?”
I give the fork she’s handing me a wary glance. “You a veggie?”
“Yes.”
And one plus point less. “Because you want to save the animals from us bad humans?”
“Because I don’t like meat since I puked my guts out after I ate stuffed peppers in Hungary.”
She stabs the fork in my direction, and I take it, cautiously putting the green mixture onto my tongue. She regards me while I chew, scouring for a reaction. To my surprise, the stuff doesn’t taste that bad.
“Takes some getting used to but eatable.”
Her gray eyes twinkle with joy, her thick lips breaking into an adorable, dimple-showing smile. Thank fuck she’s not acting all weird. Our failed attempts to bang each other so far might have put a barrier of restraint between us, but I appreciate her effort to not make this any more awkward. The mutual attraction between us is undeniable. I like to look at her, to take in her stormy eyes underneath those cute bangs, to roam my gaze down her sexy body.
A pity that, as opposed to her blonde neighbor, I can take my eyes off her when I’ve had my fill.
My eyes travel past her to where Sam climbs down the ladder of her tree house, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by Jillian.
“Don’t let her puppy eyes fool you.” She jerks her head to the glass doors behind me, launches to her feet, and tosses her bag over her shoulder. “Samantha Kent is only innocent on the outside.”
The whole purpose of this trip to West Palm Beach was to leave my problems behind me. To let them mold along with the tree roots in my graveyard grove. To seize an opportunity for a few
grand per week and some horizontal refreshments in the evening. And what have I achieved so far? Three women on my case, all more or less competing against each other, a chance to get my life back on the right tracks in exchange for selling my soul to the devil, and a nasty sunburn on my neck.
I suck on my pocket flask, greedy as a baby attached to a mother’s nipple, pacing my room. The sapphire ring is warm in my hand, slick from my sweaty fingers and heavy with fading, happy memories. Harry Mallory bought the ring for the woman he loved.
And I’m on my good way to hand it over to a woman I hope to love in the future.
I toss the empty flask into the corner and sag down on my bed, twirling the ring underneath the sunlight. A pretty piece—simple yet unique with three tear-drop-shaped sapphires forming a triangle and silver, elongated bows studded with diamonds in the space between. Google told me the sapphire was a ‘representation of heaven’ and stood for sincerity, loyalty, and reliability.
Jillian Mallory.
I weigh the name in my head, taste the syllables on my tongue. Appetizing, yet lacking that certain something. Like pizza without cheese, or whiskey without ice.
Squinting, I examine the ring from various angles. The design reminds me of a flower with five petals. A periwinkle, maybe, with lush, blue leaves. ‘It’s my favorite color,’ Sam said when I complimented her blue blouse.
Samantha Mallory.
This time, the syllables pound in my eardrums, and the taste exploding in my mouth—bitter-sweet like an unripe orange—almost makes me drop the thing.
I jam it back into the velvet box and seal it away in the drawer. With a grunt, I push myself up from the bed and tap a knuckle against my front teeth.
In truth, Christina’s offer doesn’t sound overly unappealing. The thought of sharing my life with Jillian isn’t the most repulsive one. The girl is hot, ambitious to no end, and possesses a substantial amount of humor to make everyday breakfasts together entertaining.
Even if said breakfasts wouldn’t come with one crumble of bacon. Well, my cholesterol level would definitely appreciate her efforts.
She could get my business running and take over the back office stuff Sofia is losing her nerves over every time she has to open an Excel file. Who knows, her knowledge in nutritional science could come in handy here and there, too. Probably not the career path Jillian has envisioned, but in the long run, a more profitable one. Plus, it’s not as if she finds me that revolting, either, not with her lips starting to quiver every time she takes in my tan forearms.
I stem a hand on the wall, raking the other through my hair. ‘You can’t throw away all that you’ve worked so hard for until you’ve tried everything in your power to save the plantation.’
A vow and a scrawly signature. That’s all I have to give in exchange for the future of my plantation. The plantation of many Mallory generations.
I lift my gaze to glance out the window, up to the neighbor’s room where I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see.
A bright future or a dirty weekend adventure?
The answer is as clear as day. Even with half a bottle of cognac wreaking havoc in my veins, I can tell the difference between a stupid decision and an incredibly idiotic one.
Sam drew a line. I just have to highlight it in neon yellow and circle it with a red sharpie to make it clearly visible and impossible to miss. Keep the pretty blonde neighbor as a fantasy until the brunette next door has fucked her out of my head.
I’ll finish her garden, and then I can leave West Palm Beach for good, with Jillian in tow and some cash in my pockets.
But first, I owe the girl next door a damn apology.
Eleven
Samantha
“Where have I put that damn thing?” I mutter as I dig my way through the piles on my desk, sheets of paper fluttering all around me.
In my hurry, I bash my hip on the drawer. My mug topples over, spilling brown liquid all over the surface.
“Shit!” I snatch my already battered phone before it gets a coffee shower, but a few papers are not so lucky, and I quickly pat them dry with the skirt of my dress. Fuming, I pick up the sheets. One of them is the paper I’ve been looking for—my yearly business plan, now splotched with coffee stains.
“Great…” I use my phone to take a picture of what’s left of my writing before I toss everything into the trash.
I wipe a hand over my sweaty forehead. The AC is running on full blast, blowing a cool breeze over my nape and possibly giving me my next cystitis, but I’m so feverish since the incident, it wouldn’t surprise me if I came down with the flu.
Expelling a breath, I take a seat, close my eyes, and make a motion with my hands that probably looks like a Muslim sending a prayer up to Allah.
“Don’t think about it,” I tell myself, channeling all my concentration away from what happened only hours before. “Focus on work. You can have your breakdown in the evening.”
My mantra works for about two minutes before my phone buzzes next to me. I frown at the broken screen. Unknown number. My heart modifies its tempo from galloping to racing as if it wants to flee this room without me. I freeze, gaping at the device as it continues to chirp.
It’s not Matthew. You have never exchanged numbers. And he wouldn’t have one fucking reason to call you.
My hand reaches out to take my phone as if it were a heap of woodlice crawling over each other and put it to my ear.
“Samantha Kent, hello?”
“Ms. Kent, Arthur Emerson from New York here, Emerson Literary Management.”
The guy on the other end is speaking so fast, I can barely follow him. Or my brain is particularly lagging today. When it finally clicks who I’m talking to, I shoot from my chair.
“Mr. Emerson, hi… Hi!” I cringe. The second ‘hi’ was a tad too zealous.
The following conversation passes in a blur, and it’s all I can do not to scream into my phone in elation as I pace my room with the velocity of an Olympic sprinter.
“You know the drill, Ms. Kent,” he says after giving me a run-down of the details. “I can’t promise you a publishing contract, but I’m positive to find some prospects.”
I nod like a giddy kid, even if he can’t see me. “I totally understand. Thank you, Mr. Emerson. That’s the best news I’ve had in a long time.” No kidding here, dude.
“Glad I could make your day, then.” He chuckles. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Great, thanks again.”
A flicker of light on my dark, cloudy horizon. Damn, it was about time for Fortuna to throw some luck my way. When I sent my query to a bunch of agents six months ago, I didn’t have high hopes. You can count yourself lucky if one out of ten sends you a generic ‘Unfortunately, we have to decline’ email.
I want to storm out of my room, share the news with the others and toast to it, but my business is still a secret I can’t let loose yet. Finding an agent to represent me was only the first step. Finding a publisher who signs me will be the real challenge. Better to wait until—
“Sam?”
I gasp as Matthew’s voice dances up to my room from outside. Within seconds, dread poisons my euphoria, sending painful stings through my organs. Just go and leave my garden and dignity in ruins.
“Sam, you there?”
Tentatively, I pad over to my window, careful not to stir the curtains as I peek out. Matthew is standing one story below me, his gaze on my room, hands on his hips.
He rubs a hand over his forehead. “Come on, Sam. Let’s talk this out, okay?”
Talk this out? The guy’s eager to offer me his cheek for another slap, it seems.
I try to breathe through the tightness in my chest as he clenches his jaw and heads straight for the back door. Yeah, locked, buddy, I think smugly as he yanks at the handle. My fingers form fists, knuckles cracking. Asshole thinks he owns this place and can bulldoze into my fucking house whenever it suits him.
In the end, he throws his hands in the air, marches back to the
broken tree, and picks up his chainsaw. With a hard yank, he starts the engine and gets back to work with a crushed expression.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I push out a slow, deep breath. I want to strangle him. Choke him until his pretty brown eyes pop from their sockets. Slap him so hard, he’s wearing my hand print on his cheek for the next decade. Basically, all the things I failed to do to Harvey when he dipped his dick into a mouth that wasn’t mine.
How dare he slip into my room? How dare he invade my privacy like that, to bust into my space, bruise my vulnerability, and cripple my self-worth? God only knows how long he stood there getting his rocks off before he made his presence known, waiting for the right moment, the worst possible moment, to blindside me with a kiss. A fucking kiss he had no right to deliver, no right to use to steal my breath, my pleasure, my damn release he was never supposed to witness.
Fat tears swell behind my eyelids. A little, furious monster wreaks havoc in my belly. I put a calming hand over it as I sag down in my chair.
It wasn’t his fault—it was mine. I should have locked the door. I always lock the door when I want privacy. Four other girls live under this roof, and I didn’t lock the damn door with only a staircase and a thin wall separating me and Matthew.
The small sound I heard was his shoes. The tense air I inhaled was the scent pouring from his skin.
And that kiss… I swear it sucked a part of my soul and carved a piece out of my heart. I wasn’t prepared for the intensity. Fuck, I wasn’t prepared for anything. I chugged a gallon of water and the same amount of coffee, and I can still taste him on my lips, feel the scrape of his beard on my mouth, inhale the air he breathed into my lungs.
And what did he do? He left. Turned tail before I had a chance to come down from my high and vanished, leaving me behind like a well-fucked whore that served her purpose. No ‘sorry for the inconvenience’ or ‘thanks for the show.’ Not even a damn harrumph.
I throw my head into my hands. Sex, that’s what I need. When was the last time I got laid? Seven months ago? Ten? A sad case of sexual desperation, that’s for sure. Maybe I should take Kendra’s advice to heart and give Tinder a try. Or do it the old-fashioned way and go out for once.
