The Heiress(19)

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, her Southern accent turning the words sweet even as her eyes glare holes into him. “I assumed you were going to be a grouchy asshole about being here, so we could maybe skip the part where we all pretend this is fun for any of us. But hey!”

She shrugs, her tanned shoulders moving up and down in an exaggerated motion. “So glad you got here safely, darling cousin Cam, and I look forward to catching up and talking about old times with you.”

Coming around the car, she leans against the back door, crossing one ankle in front of the other, her face screwed up like she’s thinking hard about something. “Actually, that reminds me, I had a question about one of those old times. Let’s see, when was it?”

She taps her finger against her chin, head tilted to one side, and next to me, Cam holds himself very still, his expression blank.

“I guess it would’ve been, hmm … about ten minutes ago? Maybe five? If you can remember back that far, maybe you can tell me: Did you close the fucking gate?”

Cam’s mouth curls into a sardonic smile, lips pressed together so hard that a dimple I’ve never noticed dents one cheek. “I did, Libby, yeah,” he replies.

“Why?”

“Well, you see, the purpose of gates––”

“Forget it,” she says, cutting him off and pushing herself away from the car. “I texted Ben to send me the code, but in the future, just leave it open. No one comes up here but us anyway.”

“Or you could take the five seconds to punch in a five-digit code and not run the risk of randoms showing up in the front yard.”

She marches up the steps, her boots loud on the stone, and stops just below where we stand, chin lifted. This close, I can see she’s not quite as put together and polished as her Instagram makes her look. The concealer under her eyes is maybe a shade too light, her mascara flaking. Bright pink lipstick covers her mouth, but some of it has bled into fine lines around her lips, and there’s the faintest brown splash on those white jeans, right on her thigh. Coffee, probably, and yes, now I can see the pink plastic lid of a reusable cup sticking out of her bag.

“The only random who ever showed up here was you,” she tells him, and then her eyes flick to me.

“I guess you’re the wife?”

“I go by ‘Jules,’ but that is my government title, yes.”

A corner of her mouth kicks up, and it startles me how much that expression, just for a second, makes me think of Cam. He does that same thing, and it’s weird, seeing his expression on another face. They’re not blood related, so I can’t chalk it up to a fluke of DNA.

“Cute,” Libby replies, but I don’t know if she’s referring to my joke or to me in general. “Well. Good luck.”

With that, she pushes past us and into the house, closing the door behind her.

In the silence, I can hear the wind through the trees, the faint twitter of birdcalls, and, somewhere far in the distance, the low hoot of a train whistle.

“Good to be home,” Cam mutters to himself, leaning down to pick up his bag. “Can’t imagine why I left.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, laying a hand on his arm. “Have you two always been … like that?”

“Not always,” he says as he hefts the bag onto his shoulder. “When we were little, it wasn’t so bad. But then…” He trails off, a grimace on his face. “Anyway, Libby is more bark than bite, though the bark is more annoying than I’d remembered.”

I’m intrigued by that “but then,” sensing there’s a story there, but knowing now isn’t the time to push it. Not when Cam is pushing open the front door, and Ashby House is finally opening up to me.

“Last chance,” Cam says, pausing in the doorway. “Only Libby has seen us. We could get back in the car and be in Colorado by, oh … Thursday? Wednesday if we gunned it.”

He’s smiling, his elbow brushing mine, but I can see in his eyes that if I said, “Sure, let’s go,” there would be a streak of gray smoke on this porch in the shape of Cam and our Denali would be halfway down the mountain in two seconds.

I shake my head, once again linking my arm with his.

“I grew up in Florida,” I remind him. “I eat overly tanned bitches who drive Audis for breakfast.”

His gaze warms, and he leans in, kissing my forehead. “I love you,” he murmurs against my skin, and I close my eyes briefly, curling my fingers into the fabric of his T-shirt, making myself stay here in this moment, with him, because I know that once we’re inside that house, things will change. We’ve been happy, so happy, for the last ten years, but we were also playing parts.

Cam, the regular guy who taught high school English, and rented a nice but small house, and didn’t have a bank account with nearly a hundred million dollars in his name and a mansion on the other side of the country.

Jules, the sweet wife who churned butter for tourists and did community theater and didn’t care about said money or said mansion.

I let myself mourn that version of us for just a second, and then I turn to the open door and step inside.





CHAPTER SIX

Camden

I forgot about the portrait.

The moment I step into Ashby House, I feel almost disoriented, thrown back in time so violently that I half expect to look down and see soccer cleats on my feet, dirt and grass on my knees.