It’s head and shoulders above the view from Wade’s house in a fancy kind of way. Yet the longer I look out the glass, the more my heart wishes I was with Wade.
There’s no warmth here, no touches of anything I can identify with. It’s not lost on me that this is the third time I’ve been to my grandfather’s house, yet I felt more comfortable at Siggy’s for the first time today.
I frown.
I miss Wade.
A burst of laughter from Grandfather and Tyra billows from the living room behind me. Kimberly’s voice rises above them all, engaging them with tales of an African safari it seems they sent her on recently.
I wish Wade was here.
If only I hadn’t walked into Siggy’s kitchen when I did and heard Oliver’s announcement. If my grandfather is going to work with the Masons on an international level, I can’t afford to mix my personal life with Wade’s professional one—especially when I don’t know what kind of personal life I have with either of them.
That would be unfair—to me, to Wade, to Oliver and the rest of the Mason family. I imagine it would be unfair to my grandfather, too, but something tells me he’d find a way to come out smelling like a rose.
I frown again.
“Dara, darling, please join us,” Grandfather says as if just remembering that I arrived nearly an hour ago.
I paste on a smile and walk toward them.
“Dinner smells delightful,” I say, perching on the edge of a chair across from Grandfather and Tyra. Kimberly takes a seat on a sofa to my left.
Kimmy, as they call her, is twenty-five with long blond hair and the brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. They would be the focal point of her face if she weren’t iced out in so many diamonds that my head spins.
“Mildred is such a wonderful chef,” Tyra says. “I don’t know what we’d do if she ever retires.”
“Mildred has been a part of the family since I was born, I think.” Kimberly laughs, keeping a side-eye on me. “I can’t remember a part of my life without her.”
“Because there hasn’t been one.” Grandfather winks at her. “That’s the way it should be. Staff should be family. Remember that, sweetheart.”
“Of course.” Kimberly smiles like a princess back at him.
What an odd interaction.
I clear my throat.
Tyra raises a brow as if I’ve somehow offended her.
“I’m sorry,” I say, holding my neck as if it’s paining me. “It’s allergies.”
“Right.” Tyra looks at her husband.
“Kimmy was just telling us about her time in Kenya,” Grandfather says. “We’d love to hear stories about what you’ve been up to.”
My heart leaps in my chest as my lips part to tell them about my life—about the beautiful Bartholomew Gardens and photographing a music star Kelvin McCoy’s baby today. And the movie that Wade and I watched last night and how I made a Barefoot Contessa chicken recipe and it tasted almost like my mother’s.
But as I take in their faces—cold and aloof, I realize that the offer was rhetorical. They don’t really want to hear what I’ve been up to. They want to move the conversation along.
Besides, how can roasted chicken compete with Kenya?
I lift my chin and steady my breath, hoping I can talk past the lump in my throat.
“Where did you go in Kenya?” I ask Kimberly.
Her grin is smug. “The Massai Mara National Reserve. It was beyond wonderful. It’s not quite as amazing as Mykonos, but definitely in my top five.”
My top five includes New Orleans, Sedona, and Nashville. We are not the same.
“I’ve heard Mykonos is beautiful,” I say politely.
The room falls silent. The stillness scratches at me, clawing at my soul, and I need to fill it with something. Anything. Anything is better than thinking that they are watching and judging me.
Tyra and Kimberly look at Grandfather expectantly. It’s a pointed move that says loud and clear that something is about to happen.
Something I’m afraid I won’t like.
The room grows bigger. The three of them sit on one side like a pride of lions before me. I slide down into my seat and prepare for whatever is about to hit me.
I ignore the burn across the bridge of my nose and stiffen my shoulders.
My instincts say to run, to catch flight, because I know that this situation is about to be for my survival, and fighting for my life isn’t going to work out well.
Thoughts fly through my mind, shuffling across like snowfall in a blackout.
My mom’s face. The smell of her mother’s meatloaf. Rusti’s laugh and Cleo’s annoying little bark that I would give my left arm to be hearing instead of this right now.
And Wade. The smell of his Tom Ford cologne. The feel of his hand caressing me while I sleep. His smile while I dance to Post Malone while we cook dinner, and the safety of his arms when I’m feeling a particular way and he somehow understands it.