I should be packing.
No matter what that crazy lady says, I’m not going to show up at her house with a laptop bag and nothing else tomorrow. I should be making lists of things I might need so I’m not stuck driving back to the apartment every day after my temporary relocation.
Instead, I find myself getting in the car and driving home with Bea in tow.
I still get a tiny twinge when I think of the word home. I spent a very long time not having a home, so knowing that I have one now is always a bit awe-inspiring. And what a home it is. In the center of bustling Scarsdale, the Colburn Mansion—now Serendipity Inn—is a secluded haven from the rest of the world.
When it’s not absolutely teeming with guests, that is. When I pull through the side gate, I can’t help glancing at the main house, bracing myself for a lot of foot traffic. But it’s a Tuesday night. I should’ve known it wouldn’t be too bad.
Mom’s car, and Dad’s, are parked to the side of the carriage house—our house. When they turned the old mansion into an inn, they remodeled the carriage house. They’ve added on to it twice in the intervening years, as they brought in more wounded birds like me, growing the nest as necessary.
Thanks to Mom, it’s still tasteful.
Thanks to Dad, it was done as inexpensively as possible. And of course, he made all of us help with everything we could. The feeling of safety and peace still washes over me the second I walk through the front door. I love having my own place with Bea, but it’s not quite the same.
And as if she knew I was coming, Mom’s been baking.
For most kids, their mother’s cookies bring back fond memories, but for me? They’re epic.
Mom’s a professional pastry chef, but from the day she took me in, she never worked outside of the inn. The guests all enjoyed her muffins, cookies, pies, and cakes, but no one appreciated it more than we did.
“What are you making?” Bea asks.
I wanted to come over alone, but Bea’s worse than a toddler who’s been promised ice cream. When I said I was going home—she sold her car last month—she saw the opportunity for a ride and took it.
“Apple turnovers,” Mom says. “I didn’t know you two were coming over. I’d have made more.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “We can eat Killian’s.”
“Hey!” A shout from the back room, followed by three loud crashes, tells me that our younger brother’s definitely home. A moment later, he comes shooting out the door, yanking a white wife-beater over his head as he stumbles toward us. “Hands off.”
“There are plenty,” Mom says with a smile. “I was kidding about making more. I just won’t have any leftovers to freeze.”
“Is Ardath home?” Bea asks.
Mom shakes her head. “She’s studying—been at the library every single night lately.”
“What’s new?” Killian asks. “She’s always studying every night.”
Ardath joined our family almost ten years ago, and I can attest that Killian’s right. She’s literally always studying. People hassled me for my love of numbers and lists. . .until she showed up. “She makes me look chill,” I say.
Killian snorts.
“Maybe not chill, but at least normal,” I say.
“You’re all exceptional,” Mom says. “Who wants normal?”
Dad opens the back door and wipes his boots on the mat. It’s not exactly spring anymore, but summer hasn’t really set in yet. “The bushes are trimmed, and that birdfeeder that fell down is officially rehung.”
He still hates the garden, but he loves Mom enough to do anything she wants, including gardening tasks.
“Wait, which bushes did you trim?” Mom arches one eyebrow, her hands freezing mid-apple-filling-and-tucking.
“I didn’t cut the butterfly bushes, if that’s your question. Just the roses, as instructed.”
She sighs. “Thank goodness. I was worried you’d killed them last year.”
“If I had, you certainly know where to buy more.” His smirk is a kind one. Mom doesn’t handle anything dying very well, not even things that are easily replaced. She has the softest heart of anyone I’ve ever met, and it has been bruised plenty already.
Her delicate light in spite of it all is why we all love her the most.
“Why are you two here?” Dad frowns. “Need money?” Now he’s smirking. “Because I have some lawn that needs to be aerated, and there’s a pile of—”
“Emerson did get fired,” Bea says. “And he ticked off the head caterer when I got him a temp job.”
I can’t help glaring at her.
“What?” She shrugs. “You did.”
“Did she at least tell you that it was wrongful? The guy I was working for did some things he shouldn’t have, and someone had to get blamed.”
“You should stand up for yourself more,” Dad says. “We could write a letter, or I can call someone.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I have a plan.”
“I knew you would,” Mom says. “You always do.”
“He’s filling the landfills with lists,” Bea mutters. “You should have Grandpa talk to him about that again.”
“Grandpa never talked to me about my lists,” I say.
Dad’s father has officially retired now—all the way this time—but he used to own the biggest trash collection company this side of the City, and he’s passionate about it. Getting stuck talking to him about the garbage business is. . .not always fun. “And I’m not filling any landfills,” I say. “Everything’s under control.”
“His girlfriend dumped him the same day he got fired,” Bea mutters. “He’s not fine.”
“Wait, Lisa did?” Mom actually drops the turnover she’s holding onto another one, smooshing both.
The oven beeps to tell her it’s ready.
She looks more flustered than I’ve ever seen her. She always has the first pan ready to go when the oven hits full heat. It’s kind of her thing. Effortlessly perfect timing.
“It’s fine,” I say. “My plan addresses that, too. Lisa’s always been worried about what her dad would think about me—he’s particular—but getting fired. . .” I sigh. “I think it pushed her over the edge. Once I get my career back online, we’ll get back together. Trust me.”
“I don’t like that she dumped you when things were down.” Mom’s frowns deepens. “That’s not the kind of person—”
“She had other stuff going on too,” I say.
“Like what?” Mom asks. “Because that’s the point of having a family and loving someone. Being there for them when things are hard.”
“Trust me, Mom. Lisa’s a good person, and we’ll be fine.”
After studying my face for a moment, she nods. Then she picks up the turnover, finishes it, performs a little remedial work on the other one, and pops the first pan in the oven.
Whether they’re pristine or not, my mouth’s already salivating.
“You two are like vultures,” Killian says. “Did someone tell you it was turnover night?”
“There’s almost always something baking here,” I say. “It’s all good.”
Dad pats his belly, which isn’t big, but it’s bigger than it was. “Sadly, that’s very, very true.”
“Did you want me to stop?” Mom arches an eyebrow. That’s never good.
Dad crosses the room in four big steps and wraps an arm around her waist. “Not as long as you don’t want to stop me from eating it. You’re the one suffering from your own success.”
She laughs, and I notice the tiny lines she didn’t have the first day we met at the sides of her eyes. I’m not sure she ever would have had those lines, if not for Dad. Mom was like me when we met—she didn’t smile much.
I think Mom’s smile lines and Dad’s small gut are both signs that they’re doing pretty well. That’s when I realize why I came home. Tomorrow, I’m going to the Richmond mansion, and I have no idea what to expect. My grandmother might be distant and cold, or she might be aggressive and overbearing. No matter how she acts, I can pretty much guarantee it won’t be at all like this.
But I have a family—a family that’s more real than blood. A family that cares about me. As I sit at our big table, eating my second apple turnover, my slightly fractured heart heals just a little bit. It’s been a rough week and a half, but I do have a plan, and I have a home. No matter what happens, my real home’s still here.
I don’t tell Mom and Dad about the funeral, and neither does Bea. She’s annoying, and she’s a little in-your-face sometimes for an extrovert who’s always hiding from the world, but she knows where the line is, and she never crosses it. I think telling them about the job and the girlfriend was her way of making sure she kept the bigger secret until I’m ready to share it myself.
The next morning, I surprise myself by only throwing toiletries, two pairs of pajamas, and a few pairs of pants and button-down shirts—with a weeks’ worth of ties—in a suitcase, and heading out to my car. Bea comes tearing after me, hopping on one foot as she slides her second shoe on. “Wait. I’m coming!”
“What do you mean? You can’t live there, and trust me, you really don’t want to.”
“I need a ride to work—isn’t it kind of on the way?”
The Opus is exactly the wrong direction, but I just roll my eyes and drive her anyway. I’m leaving with loads of time to spare, because I hate being late. Also, driving calms my nerves, usually.
Today, after dropping off Bea, a semitruck moves over while I’m in his blind spot, forcing me onto the shoulder, and while my heart’s still racing from that near miss, some idiot on her phone practically plows into me—merging across a solid lane line.
I slam on my brakes and barely avoid hitting the car to my left as I slide out of her way. By the time I finally turn down the street where the directions say the Richmond mansion is, my nerves are shot. But then, I see it, behind an imposing iron fence, and set back on a lush green lawn. It’s a pretty standard red brick colonial. Three stories tall, which is impressive I guess, with wings on either side that are a mere two stories apiece. But what stands out isn’t the size.
No, it’s that it’s in the very center of Old Scarsdale, where the richest families in town live, and it’s on the very biggest lot. It must be at least six acres, right in the center of town. Judging from the outbuildings, which were all tastefully designed to match, there’s a gardener, a cleaning crew, and likely staff. I wouldn’t be able to spot any of that, except Mom told me about the much simpler but somewhat similar setup at the Colburn mansion before it was turned into an inn.
Sure enough, when I reach the front gate, an attendant meets me with a knowing glance. “Mr. Duplessis.”
I nod.
He waves me past, the gate closing as soon as I’ve driven clear. I pull up to the front of the house, and the massive door opens, an honest-to-goodness butler standing in the entry when I walk up the steps.
“My name’s Stanley,” he says.
“Uh, I’m Emerson,” I say.
“I know.” He gestures. “Mrs. Richmond is in the library.”
The library. How pretentious.
But as I follow him into the room to the right of the foyer, I realize that it couldn’t really be called anything else. There are not two, but three floors of books along all four walls, with a massive desk in the center, flanked by huge chairs on either side. There’s also a generous sitting area with more heavy leather chairs framing up a matching leather sofa.
At least there aren’t any glassy-eyed animal heads or terrifying old portraits that glare through time.
“Emerson.” My grandmother stands, and I realize she was in one of the leather chairs.
“I expected a larger house,” I say, hoping maybe she’ll laugh.
She frowns. “It’s eighteen thousand square feet. Anything more would be excessive.”
Anything more would be excessive? I manage to stifle my laugh, and say, “I was only kidding.”
“Ah. Well, I’ll have Stanley show you to your room, and we have a shopper from Saks stopping by in two hours.”
“A shopper from what?”
“Saks Fifth Avenue?” She raises her eyebrows. “Would you prefer Bergdorf? Or someplace else?”
“I usually shop at Macy’s,” I say. “When they have a decent sale.”
She swallows in a rather pained manner. “And I see you did bring a bag. How lovely.”
Of course, the way she said it, it sounds like she’s saying, How terribly disappointing.
“I figured I should bring the essentials, at least,” I say. “It’s not like my pajamas matter, for instance.”
She looks like she swallowed the rind of a lemon. “I’m hosting a welcome party for you tonight at seven.”
“Where are you supposedly welcoming me from?” This should be interesting. There’s no way I’m about to tell everyone I’ve been in Africa or Europe or something ridiculous.
“You wanted to learn how normal people live, obviously, and now that your father has passed, you’re finally being forced to step into the role that was always waiting for you.”
“Normal people?” I can’t help it. I laugh. “You didn’t want to tell everyone I’ve been studying abroad?”
Her cheeks flush a dark wine color. “Would you be able to maintain that lie? I thought something very close to the truth would be best.”
She’s apparently not keen on telling everyone that I was an accident that she failed to erase. That’s not a surprise, but the welcome party still stings a little.
“Well, I can’t wait. I just love a good party. Especially when I’m not the waiter passing drinks around.”
“Mrs. Herbert told me that was a temporary position.” She frowns. “I’m aware that you’re an accountant who was recently fired by Jennings.”
“You should also know that it wasn’t at all my fault. The person whose fault the mistake was is still there.” And I’m clearly angrier than I realized.
“In any case, I’ve had my lawyer draw up some preliminary documents. The drafts are in your room for your review, but you can also forward them to a lawyer of your choosing. I’ll be happy to pay their bill, of course.”
“Documents?” What’s she saying?
“They establish the rules of our little gambit,” she says. “I like things to be crystal clear.”
“Like, how I have to marry to someone you choose?” I ask.
She sighs. “Not someone I select, but someone of whom I approve.”
Right. Not much difference, I suppose, but it’s something.
“And I have to produce two children within three years?”
“Just the one,” she says, “though there’s an early success bonus for having a second.”
She’s insane.
I should leave now, while I still think this is all utter nonsense. I’m worried that being here might warp my brain.
But then I think about Mom, Dad, Bea, and Jack. Even book-obsessed Ardath and youngest-child Killian could probably help. I’m surrounded by people who will help remind me if I go nuts. And Bea’s right. I should at least look into something this wild before I turn it down.
Maybe, after she meets Lisa, my grandmother might decide that she approves. It strikes me as ironic, in that moment, that Lisa broke up with me for fear her dad would never approve, and now my grandmother’s already decided that the same girl’s not good enough for me.
People are remarkably stupid, deciding who others can love.
Stanley takes me up to my room, which is more like its own apartment. It has a large sitting area as an antechamber, with a sofa and chairs, a television, and a large desk under a huge bay window with a walk out balcony.
“Mrs. Richmond doesn’t like direct light,” Stanley says.
My bedroom is even bigger than that area, with yet another desk, bookcases already full of leather-bound books, and a large settee. There’s not a second television, but otherwise, it looks like what I’d imagine the nicest hotel might have, including a small kitchenette. The bathroom that opens off the bedroom has a huge jacuzzi tub, a tremendously large walk-through shower with three heads, and an adjoining closet that would fit a small elementary school class.
Once I’ve finally found my way back to the sitting room, I see them. The massive stack of papers. They say just what Grandmother said they would, but in a more irritating way.
And she wasn’t kidding about the personal shopper coming later, either. A tall and commanding woman shows up almost exactly as I finish reading the preliminary handcuffs, and she orders me to put on at least three dozen different ensembles—her word—one after another. She clucks after each one, like I’m some kind of living doll who isn’t performing up to standards. After half a dozen more, my grandmother’s summoned for her opinion.
This is even worse than I thought it would be.
When I slink out in my third ‘ensemble,’ I ask, “Is this really necessary?”
My grandmother scowls. “I’m about to introduce my twenty-seven-year-old grandson to hundreds of people who have never met him as though it’s natural. As though it’s perfectly normal.” She narrows her eyes. “We need to make you feel as familiar to these people as we can. What you wear, what you say—it’s all important. Tonight will set the tone for all the relationships that are about to be most valuable in your life going forward.”
She’s clearly nuts.
“I have parents, you know,” I say.
“Your name is Duplessis.” She frowns. “You said your mother died.”
“I was fostered by—”
She waves her hand through the air. “Fostered.” She rolls her eyes. “We’ll line you up to attend Columbia for your MBA this fall.”
“What?” Now I’m rolling my eyes. “What if I don’t want an MBA?”
She shrugs. “You can take a few classes, and they’ll award you the degree, if you really don’t want to learn there.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.”
Her half smile’s condescending in the extreme. “Oh, you’re cute. With the amount of money we’ve donated, they’d give you any degree you want.”
It’s like everything she says is worse than the last. Can that possibly be true?
“He’ll wear the blue sweater over the white shirt with the khakis. Luckily the weather cooled down this weekend enough to make that viable. I want a subtle country club vibe.”
Subtle? “It looks like a country club puked on me,” I say. “Maybe we should lose the sweater.”
She doesn’t even bother saying that I don’t get an opinion. She just stares at me for a moment and pivots to leave. “We’ll have to fix your hair later.”
“Wait, what’s wrong with my hair?” I hate that I’m shouting at her retreating frame, like my audience with the queen has ended, and I’m not ready for that yet.
My closet’s now full of a bunch more things that look just as bad as the one she wants me to wear tonight. If that’s not bad enough, when I check the tags on the clothing, all of it brand new, I practically choke. One sweater would have paid my college tuition for a year—Tom Ford and Brunello Cucinelli must really be proud of their sweaters.
When it’s five minutes until I’m supposed to be heading downstairs, I decide that I’m not a paper doll for her to play with. I toss the clothes she picked on the floor and pull on a pair of jeans instead. The denim’s still two thousand dollars, thanks Prada, but I pair it with the ugliest shirt I’ve ever seen.
It’s louder than Bea throwing a tantrum.
It’s more like grotesque, really. Yellow and black, and it’s patterned so heavily that I have no idea where to look. I should look as ridiculous as I feel, right? She can’t get too upset. Her shopper picked it for me. But when I try to walk out the door, I just can’t. I’d start laughing or crying the second someone really looked at me. I toss it on the floor, or at least, I try. The price tag says it was eleven hundred dollars and change, so I hang it up, inside out—take that, Grandmother—and put on another, slightly less exaggerated monstrosity. I also hang up the country club trash at the same time.
I mean, there are other ways to rebel, right? I don’t have to leave thousands of dollars in a pile on the floor. What does that prove?
The shirt I choose actually says the words “Dior Tears,” on the front of the shirt, but you almost can’t read them, because the company blobbed the words over a bunch of Hawaiian looking flowers. I swear, the people like this shopper who are buying this junk must be blind. Either that, or they’re bored. The emperor pretending to wear clothes was smarter—at least he hadn’t paid a mint for them.
As I walk down the stairs, Grandmother arches one eyebrow, but she doesn’t say anything. I should’ve just worn the sweater—if I want to convince her to approve of Lisa, I shouldn’t irritate her over and over with dumb stuff—but I always seem to do this. I have trouble when someone tells me I have to do something. I had a vague concern that people would already be here, and that she’d be introducing me like some kind of debutante. Thankfully, they appear to just be arriving now.
Grandmother sticks to my side like we’re partners working a beat until a man close to her age shows up and starts asking questions about some kind of development. After introducing him as her CEO, she finally walks off, thankfully, grilling him about something or other.
“You’ve been freed,” a tall guy in the exact blue sweater I was supposed to wear hisses. “Make a break for it.” He looks like he walked right off the cover of Horse and Hound. Or Golf Pro Today, if that’s a real magazine. Shaggy dark blonde hair. Five o’clock shadow. Piercing blue eyes.
“My grandma wanted me to wear that exact sweater.” I shake my head. “We could’ve been twins.”
He laughs. “I doubt I’d have noticed.” He looks around and drops his voice to a whisper. “Everyone here looks the same, and I doubt any of them bought their own clothes.”
“I certainly didn’t buy this,” I say. “What a stupid shirt.”
“You wore it to send her a message?” The guy whistles softly. “You’re a braver man than I am. Your grandmother’s absolutely terrifying.”
“I can’t disagree with that,” I say. “That’s why I’ve been hiding all this time, pretending to be a normal guy.”
“Ace Devonshire.” He holds out his hand.
“I suppose you already know who I am.”
“The long-lost grandson—Emerson Richmond.”
“My mom wanted to spare me exactly the life you see.” I shrug.
“She’s a smart lady,” Ace says. “Is she around here somewhere? I bet she’s irritated.”
“She passed away,” I say.
Ace winces. “I’m sorry, man. I tend to do that—say just the wrong thing. And your dad just died, too.”
I don’t tell him that I never met the guy. I’m not sure Grandmother wants that getting out. “It’s fine. You didn’t know.”
“Here.” Ace flags down a waiter, which could have been me a few days ago, and grabs a drink. “Take this. Drink enough and they’ll make this whole thing more bearable.”
“Trust Ace to be passing out the booze,” another guy says, stepping toward us. He reaches for a glass for himself.
“Oh, you can have mine.” I offer him the short, squatty glass.
“You don’t drink?” The other guy has nearly black hair and even lighter blue eyes than Ace. “That’s a mistake in this crowd.”
“Especially today.” Ace takes a sip and closes his eyes. “Your grandmother must be happy you’re here, because she broke out the McAllister.”
“The 2001?” The dark-haired guy smiles. “You should make an exception.”
I shrug. “My mom never drinks—neither do I.”
Ace nods slowly, accepting my somewhat cryptic response without pushing. “Well, we’ll drink yours for you then.”
“You’re still not drinking?” A familiar voice behind me has me turning. Before I even see him, Uncle Bentley drops a hand on my shoulder.
“Uncle Bentley,” I say. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Wait, Bentley’s your uncle?” Ace’s brow furrows. “He’s, like, what? Forty?”
Bentley laughs, the same lines Mom has crinkling just a bit by his eyes. “Close. Emerson’s not really my nephew, but I’m close with his family, so he’s always called me that.”
I have no idea what to say. I didn’t tell Mom and Dad. It didn’t even occur to me that he might be here. “I thought you were in Europe.”
“Just got back.”
His half smile’s the only familiar thing in this room, and I cling to him like a life preserver.
“I could work hundred-hour weeks in Europe forever and never run out of business. They have no idea how to fire people over there, even when they’re clearly dead weight. The only reason their bloated corporations haven’t all gone belly up is American consulting firms.”
I just nod like I understand.
“I missed cheeseburgers so much that I finally came back, and it’s a good thing. I would’ve hated to miss this—pretty big day for you.” He lifts both eyebrows.
“Sure,” I say.
“Who are you, exactly?” the dark-haired guy asks.
“Bentley Harrison.”
“Harrison Consulting?” The dark-haired guy’s eyes widen. “I applied to work at your firm, and—”
“I don’t make hiring decisions,” Bentley says. “And I never hire the children of people I know. It’s too awkward. You probably never had a chance.”
“How many employees are you up to now?” I ask.
Before Bentley can even answer, the guy jumps in again. “I’m at Sorenson now, but if you’re ever looking for someone, I’d love to reapply.”
Bentley eyes him and nods. “Let’s talk now.”
Before I know what’s happening, my life preserver’s floating away, chatting about a bunch of business things I don’t even really understand much about. Margins. Shell companies.
Great.
This is where I drown.
“Why haven’t we met before now, even if you were avoiding all the successor drama?” Ace asks. “One of the best things about it—the only way I survived—was making friends who got it.”
“We definitely went to very different schools,” I say.
“Ooh, did you go overseas? I got my MBA at London School of Economics, but mostly because I love British accents.”
“Actually, I went to a local school.”
“Cornell?” Ace asks. “NYU? Columbia?”
I laugh. “Not quite.”
“Don’t tell me you commuted all the way to Yale.” He frowns. “Georgetown? No, Dartmouth?” He looks incredulous. “You really don’t look like the Brown type.”
“I actually think all the Ivy Leagues are terribly overpriced and most of the curriculum they deliver is a study in uselessness.”
Ace’s jaw dangles open.
“Come again?” A man with greying hair turns around. “What did you say?”
My new pal Ace turns his thumb sideways. “David Oldham. Provost of Columbia, meet Emerson Richmond, rogue heir.”
Shoot.
“I can’t wait to hear his explanation of why Ivy Leagues aren’t worth the price tag.” Columbia’s provost looks seriously peeved.
“Well, maybe for children with wealthy families it makes more sense, given their ample resources, but consider people from lower income families. If they spend two hundred thousand dollars on a college degree they could obtain for twenty to thirty thousand elsewhere—often while working part time—it will take them years and years to ever repay the price tag for Harvard. The statistics show that those people don’t make commensurately more money in their chosen careers, on average, to offset that expenditure. Most people from a modest background who attended an Ivy League in the hopes of changing their lives, when polled, said they wished they hadn’t spent so much on a meaningless piece of paper, and that doesn’t even get into the frivolousness of the curriculums compared to the more practical classes offered at state and trade schools.”
“Frivolous? A piece of paper?” the man next to the Provost is sputtering.
“Who’s that?” I whisper.
Ace winces a little. “Joseph Lundgate, one of the overseers at Harvard.”
That’s what I get for running my mouth.
“The one thing that never changes about good old Emerson is that he’s always riling people up, just for effect.” A woman I do not know walks toward me, shaking her head. “Don’t mind him. He partied a little too much in college, like me, and he flunked out. Had to go to a city school after refusing to pull the family card, and he’s been sore ever since.”
“No kidding,” Ace says. “Smart to do it then—you’ll never get away with partying now.”
“Right?” the woman smiles. “Don’t let him rile you up, though. He’s always making straw man arguments. His grandmother’s the funniest to watch when he does it, but I’m not as brave as he is.” She drops her voice. “Caroline scares the pants off me.”
Apparently she scared them too, because David and Joseph, whom I will always mentally call Columbia and Harvard, both nod and back away slowly.
“Elizabeth Moorland, coming in clutch with the de-escalation.” Ace shakes his head. “When your brother called me today and said you’d be a good assistant, I think I laughed for an hour. But maybe he’s right.”
“Your assistant?” She rolls her eyes. “As if.”
“Easton said you’re desperate.” Ace looks pretty confident.
“Well, I do sort of need a job, but working for you?” She cringes. “Will I ever really be that desperate?”
“Hey, now.” Ace is smiling broadly now. “I’m not that bad.”
“The ditch incident.” She holds up one finger. “The blueberry ice cream.” She holds up another. “And the kite.” She shakes her head. “Just. . .no.”
“Hey, I was—that was a long time ago.”
“The ice cream was last year.” She shakes her head.
“This is different. It’s not fun—it’s work.”
“And you’re a good boss?”
I’m impressed. This girl turned Ace around from possibly considering her to actually working hard to try and win her into taking the job.
“Look, I may not be voted boss of the year, but I’m also not the worst, and my company’s doing great.”
“I might consider the position, but I’d have rules.” She folds her arms.
“Like what?” He’s frowning. “Usually as soon as I hear about a rule, I’m jonesing to break it.”
Elizabeth rolls her eyes. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. I’m passing. Thanks anyway.”
“Oh, c’mon. Just tell me what they are.”
I can’t help watching this interaction in awe. She’s herding him around like some kind of working dog.
“I won’t schedule dates of any kind for you as part of my job.”
“Jealous?” Ace’s smile deepens.
“Hardly,” she says. “Disgusted is more like it.” She shakes her head. “I won’t send flowers or gifts, and if some woman comes after you with a gun or something, I’m ducking. Don’t expect me to defend you.”
“I can handle that.” He laughs. “Wow, how badly do you need a job to work for someone you clearly detest like that?”
“Easton says you’re not that bad.” She doesn’t look very reassured.
“I hope he’s wrong,” Ace says. “I kind of like the idea of being the absolute worst.”
She looks pretty unimpressed. “Send me an email or something. I can start next week on, like, a trial basis.”
“Great,” he says.
“But you?” She turns to face me. “I need to talk to you right now.”
Oh, no. Now the shepherd’s coming for me—but where’s she planning to herd me? That’s the question. “Do you even know who I am?”
Her smile’s wry. “More than you realize.”
Ace swears. “Well, now I feel left out. You better be ready. I’m going to try and figure out what this is about on Monday.”
“Not a chance.” Elizabeth points at the coat closet. “I just need a moment alone.”
Ace is whistling again as we walk away, but he looks as lost as I feel.