by Watson, Lucy
“It should have been you,” I whisper to his chest, unable to hold onto his gaze through the truth of my words.
In the next breath, I’m pulled into Ben’s arms. They close around me, and I’m engulfed by his warmth, surrounded by his spicy scent.
I burrow my face into his hard chest as I take in a few shaky breaths.
He doesn’t say a word. And neither do I.
There are no words for this. For what we’re feeling.
After a long moment, his hold loosens, and I step back, not wanting to overstay my welcome. His hand goes to my arm, stopping my retreat, his gaze searching mine.
“You good?” His heavy brows lift.
Not even close.
“Yeah,” I whisper, feeling a chill as the residual heat from his body starts to seep from my bones, replaced with a cold loneliness. I try and force a small smile.
His steady gaze slides to my mouth, then back.
“Are you going back in?” I ask softly, my voice feeling thick in my throat.
“No. You?” His voice sounds deeper.
The air around us becomes charged with some unnamed energy. Something familiar yet foreign. I feel warm. Flushed even. My heart flutters in my chest.
“I don’t want to,” I say, feeling a little light-headed.
Something is happening between us. But I don’t know what. Whatever it is, I want to push it away and get lost in it forever.
“You wanna get out of here?” His gaze holds mine.
“Okay,” I hear myself saying while a small voice in the back of my mind tells me that Derek’s waiting for me inside.
Ben searches my eyes for a moment longer, and I wonder what his voices are saying.
“Let’s go.” He slides his palm down my arm and takes my hand. It feels right. His hand holding mine.
“Excuse me, Mr. Crawford… Ms. Anderson…”
I gasp and turn toward the unexpected voice. Ben drops my hand and takes a step, partially blocking me as he turns.
Through my haze, I see the squished Mr. Rodgers from earlier, walking toward us, carrying an old-school briefcase, blocking our exit.
“Yeah?” Ben says, his deep voice carrying an edge of annoyance.
“I’m sorry to interrupt.” He clears his throat. “I’m Mr. Wellington.” He walks to Ben, extending his hand. “The attorney handling your grandmother’s estate.”
Ben shakes his hand, warily.
“I was hoping to have a moment of your time.” Mr. Wellington turns to me with a small smile. “Actually, I’d like to speak with both of you, if I may.”
His name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it, and I’m still too dazed to speak.
Ben looks at me. His eyes narrow slightly. Then he turns back to Mr. Wellington. “What’s this about?”
“These are matters best discussed in private, Mr. Crawford,” he answers, not leaving any room for further questions. “If you will, please, follow me.” He turns and heads down the mahogany-paneled corridor.
Ben motions for me to go first, his eyes holding none of the warmth from a moment ago.
I pull Derek’s jacket tight around me. I exhale a shaky breath, not allowing my mind to process what just happened or what might have happened if we left together. Or what a jerk move it would’ve been to leave Derek.
Mr. Wellington talks over his shoulder as he leads the way. “I apologize for the ill-timing. Trust me, I wouldn’t have imposed unless completely necessary.”
A jolt hits me when I remember who he is. Law Offices of Wellington and Gold. The guys who direct deposits my paycheck. I can only think of one reason he’d want to speak with me, and that’s to give me notice to vacate the house. Well, too late, buddy, someone already beat you to it.
He stops at the doorway leading to a dingy room with faded maroon carpet and motions for me to go in.
I step inside to see a small folding table, three white plastic chairs, and partially crushed boxes stacked ceiling-high along the far wall.
I’m pretty sure there’s a Korean horror movie that starts just like this.
“Again, I apologize for…” He motions around the room in explanation as he walks past me and sets his briefcase on the table. “I would have preferred to meet in my office.” He turns to Ben. “Would you mind closing the door behind you?”
Ben does as he’s asked, his dark features unreadable.
“Please, have a seat,” Wellington says, with a quick nod to the chairs.
I choose one, catching eyes with Ben as he does the same. I search his face for something to remind me of the guy from a moment ago, but it’s like he never existed.
His face is a cold mask of indifference, which is somehow scarier than his death glare.
Wellington clicks open his briefcase and pulls out a handful of files. I take in a deep breath, sure one of them contains a notice for me to vacate Rose’s house.
The thought of him handing me a formal eviction notice in front of Ben, rips at my gut, and has me finding my voice. “I’m going to leave tonight.”
Wellington looks at me from over his briefcase. “Pardon?”
“I… I just wanted to let you know…” I clear my throat with a glance at Ben. “That I’ll be leaving the house tonight, so you don’t have to evict me or anything.”
Wellington’s eyes soften. “No need to leave, Ms. Anderson.” His voice is calm and soothing, and I had no idea how much I needed that right now.
“Not your call,” Ben states evenly.
“You’re right,” Wellington agrees, seeming unfazed by Ben’s attitude as he shuts his suitcase. “Your grandmother left very specific wishes regarding her estate. My job, as executor, is to uphold them.” He sets two thick white legal envelopes on the table and slides them to us. “A responsibility I don’t take lightly.”
Ben picks up his envelope, sparing me a glance that causes me to shrink in my chair. I reluctantly take mine, trying to make sense of what any of this has to do with me.
He looks to Ben. “Each of your relatives will receive copies this afternoon.” His gaze flicks between us. “Which is why I needed to speak with you both now to prepare you for what’s ahead.”
I sit back with the envelope in my hand, not sure what to say or do. I look to Ben who’s already reading the contents of his, his jaw ticking.
I turn to Mr. Wellington. “I’m sorry, what does this have to do with me?” I’m feeling more confused and uncomfortable by the second.
Mr. Wellington pushes the briefcase aside and leans forward on his elbows. “Rose has named you and Mr. Crawford as the primary beneficiaries of her estate… including the real property you currently reside in.”
My stomach jumps to my throat, like his words cut the cables to my elevator and I’m free-falling. I grip onto the chair, feeling the oxygen getting sucked out of the room.
He reaches for a yellow folder and continues, “I’ve seen families drag each other through probate court over thousands, so I anticipate an estate this size will be especially challenging.”
I glance over to Ben who’s staring at me with his jaw clenched. His arctic gaze sends a shiver up my spine and goosebumps my skin.
“There must, uh, there must be some kind of mistake,” I say, looking between the both of them, feeling the room tilt.
Ben barks out a harsh laugh as he runs me through with his stare. “You’re good. Even had me believing your shit.” He shoots me a cold grin before turning to Wellington. “When exactly did my grandmother name, Ms. Anderson, in her Will?”
“Right now, I’d like to focus on—”
“When,” Ben demands coolly.
Mr. Wellington opens the folder and starts to fumble through the papers, finally sensing the danger in the room.
Ben exhales. “It doesn’t matter.” He turns to me, his voice lethally calm. “My grandmother didn’t want you to tell anyone she was dying, or you didn’t want to tell anyone?”
I’m stunned silent. I open my mouth, but words fail.
“No, I get it,” Ben continues, his venomous stare slowly poisoning me. “It’s hard to scam a lonely old lady with her family lingering around. Like I said, you’re good.”
The room spins with his accusation.
I’ve been accused by people of not doing enough to save their loved one, blaming the doctors and me for their loss. It hurt, knowing they felt that way. And the thought that maybe they were right has kept me up more nights than I can count.
I’ve also been yelled at, spit on, pushed back, and even slapped once by a grieving mother, but nothing has ever cut as deep as Ben’s words. Nothing.
“I would never do that.” I choke back angry tears. “I-I loved Rose.”
“Save your tears. Your bullshit don’t work on me,” he sneers.
“Mr. Crawford! Step out if you need a moment.”
“I don’t need a moment,” he stands, glaring down at me, his neck flushed with anger, then turns to Mr. Wellington. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to let her lay one fucking finger on my grandparents’ money.” He glares back at me and grits out, “Not. One. Fucking. Cent.” It’s a proclamation.
“That’s not for you to decide.” Mr. Wellington’s voice is surprisingly strong. “And might I suggest you give Rose a bit more credit. She was of sound mind, and I have sworn statements from both doctors and witnesses that attest to as much.” He looks to me as he finishes.
His words are meant to reassure me, but they don’t.
“I give a fuck about your bullshit statements. I’m telling you, there’s no way in hell my grandmother left half of her estate to some housekeeper she met a few months ago. No fucking way,” Ben seethes.
He’s trying to taint one of the purest friendships I’ve ever known. He’s trying to take what Rose and I shared and twist it into something vile. Anger seeps around the shards of my shattered heart.
Mr. Wellington shifts in his chair, the only tell-tale sign of his anger as he calmly holds Ben’s stare. “Your grandmother most certainly did, but not without conditions, which I’d like to go over with you, if you’d please retake your seat.”
Ben stays standing.
Wellington shakes his head and continues, “There are stipulations that must be met in order to receive your inheritance, Mr. Crawford. If these conditions, however unconventional they may be, aren’t fulfilled by the specified dates outlined”—he motions to the papers gripped in Ben’s hand—“you both forfeit any and all rights to the estate. In which case, the estate in its entirety will transfer to Mark Crawford.”
Nothing for Dirty Dale?
Ben runs a rough hand through his hair. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“I’m not. I suggest you put aside your feelings for Ms. Anderson, because, unless you do, your father will inherit it all.” He motions to the chair. “Please, retake your seat so we can continue.”
My head is spinning, and I can’t seem to take in a full breath. This dress feels like a corset with someone behind me pulling the laces impossibly tight. I want to strip from this heavy jacket and move my hair from my sweaty neck, but I don’t do either one. Passing out wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen right now.
“Give it all to Ben. I don’t want it.” My voice is breathless and shaking with emotion.
“I’m touched,” Ben says icily.
“I’m afraid that’s not an option.” Wellington’s gaze flicks from Ben to me, and he reaches for his briefcase. “Rose anticipated you might say that, Ms. Anderson, so she asked that I tell you…” He pulls out an index card and clears his throat. “‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. With much love, Rose.’”
Her words, which are so her, should comfort me but they only make me feel worse, like I somehow took advantage of her love, advantage of her heart. I play back our conversations looking for something I said or did, anything that would have led her to do this, but there’s nothing.
Mr. Wellington takes off his glasses and continues, “You both will need to work together for the duration of the outlined timeframe or the estate transfers to Mark. After you’ve completed your tasks, you may do whatever you wish with the estate. Transfer the liquid assets. Sell the property. Keep it jointly. It’s up to you.”
“Does that shit sound like someone who’s sane?” Ben barks at Mr. Wellington. “She was obviously drugged out of her goddamn mind.” He turns those fierce, accusatory black eyes to me. They scorch and blister my soul like a blow torch.
“She wasn’t drugged,” I stammer, meeting the full force of his wrath.
Mr. Crawford clears his throat again, looking at Ben. He’s done that a few times now, and I have a feeling it’s an angry tick.
“I’ve met a lot of people in my life. Rose was unlike any of them, but she was not crazy. Nor was she under the influence of drugs. She was as sharp as a tack.” Mr. Wellington slips his glasses back on, reaches in his briefcase pulling out another index card note, and looks to Ben. “Perhaps, you would care to hear what she wrote for you—”
“Nope,” Ben cuts him off, his voice sharp.
Wellington holds the index card out to Ben. “If you change your mind.”
Ben takes it and sets in on the table, without a glance.
Wellington exhales, and looks to the both of us, raising his brows.
“Shall we continue?”
* * *
“So, let me get this straight,” Derek says, for the hundredth time, glancing at me from the driver’s seat as we exit the freeway. “You have to live in the house with dickface while you guys fix it up?”
“Yes.”
“For thirty days.”
“Yes.”
“Using money Rose left in a trust.”
“Yep.” I exhale, resting my head on the passenger window, closing my eyes.
I want to push fast-forward on this day. I want to be curled up with my laptop, binge-watching Stranger Things.
What I wouldn’t give for my own Sheriff Hopper right about now.
“Money that can’t be used to hire contractors.”
“Yes,” I say on an exhale, my hot breath fogging the chilled window. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the quickly shifting coastal weather. Hot one minute and cold the next. Like Ben.
“With this Welling guy checking in on you.”
“His name’s Wellington. And yes.”
“Or you lose everything.”
“Yes, Derek.” I say his name in a way that lets him know I’m done talking. There’s a long pause, giving me a chance to exhale away the tension in my neck. Almost home…
“I don’t understand why you have to sleep there.”
Wincing against a sharp pain forming behind my left eye, I turn to him. “Are you serious right now?”
“What?”
“I tell you Rose left me millions and the only thing you don’t understand is why I have to sleep at her home?”
We stop at a red light, and he turns to me. His face is set in sharp lines, erasing his boyish charm. “I’m not surprised Rose left you money, Em. Not one bit.”
The light turns green. Derek holds my eyes for a moment longer, then drives.
“That makes one of us,” I whisper, pressing my thumb to my throbbing temple. I can feel him look over at me, but I keep my eyes forward.
He flips on his blinker and gets in the turning lane.
“Where are you going?”
Dear Baby Jesus, please just get me home so I can burn this hooker dress and forget this day ever happened. Amen.
The throbbing pain sharpens and shoots across my forehead to my other eye. Lovely.
“I’m feeding you,” he states.
“I’m not hungry.” I lost my appetite when Ben accused me of being a con artist and drugging Rose. Asshole.
“I didn’t ask,” he states simply, his eyes on the road. He finds a break in the traffic, hits the gas, and turns into the packed shopping center.
He ignores me and continues into the busy parking lot, the meaty rumble of his engine causing heads to turn.
“You need to eat,” he says, parking in front of Chipotle. He cuts the engine and faces me. “I’m going to grab a burrito, take you home, and you’re going to eat it while we figure out the next step.” He opens the door and looks back before jumping out. “Chicken or steak?”
“Steak,” I say, thinking about Mrs. Baker’s ridiculousness.
My face must soften a smidge at the thought, because Derek gives me a pleased smile before he gets out, and shuts the door.
A group of giddy twenty-somethings eating outside blatantly check him out as he walks past.
They quickly look to his truck to see if he’s with someone.
Sorry to disappoint ladies.
The crestfallen look on their faces should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
I’m not sure much can.
When we get back to the ranch, I tell myself I’m going to eat my baby-making steak burrito, chill for a while, and head home, but I know I’m lying.
I’m not ready to face Ben, not yet.
Not ever.
5
Mission Impossible
The next morning, my eyelids feel like sandpaper as I crack them open to see Derek shuffle into the living room, his feet dragging with the need for coffee. He runs on ranch-time, so god only knows what time it is.
“You got me drunk,” I groan as I sit up and push my wild hair out of my face, turning to the window behind his desk to see it lit softly by the breaking dawn.
“Did I?” He shoots me a Cheshire grin as he grabs the blue-speckled percolator from atop the wood stove and walks to the kitchen while calling out, “Vanilla or hazelnut.”
“Vanilla, but you’re still a jerk,” I call back, wrapping myself further into the blanket as the motor of the coffee grinder fills the room.
I close my eyes against the grating sound. Cursing him as he revs it in annoying intervals, totally messing with my hangover-head.
I glare at him as he sets the percolator back and opens the iron door, lighting the wood. “You know, I heard they’ve got this thing that, get this… you plug into a wall, put water in the top, and coffee comes out. Like magic.”
