“Sure,” Oliver said easily, but his eyes held unasked questions as he looked at Pierce and tilted of his head. “But shouldn’t you be wining and dining your fiancée?”
Pierce whipped his gaze to me and studied my expression for a moment. “Tomorrow, okay? We’ll visit the good places in town.”
“Sure.” Truthfully, while I agreed to the six months of fake fiancée-ship, I wasn’t exactly jumping at the heels to put myself out there and win the town’s affections for Pierce. Mainly because I had no idea how I would do such a thing. Old Mari wasn’t known for her friendly personality and new Mari spent a day at work and then slept hard while everyone else partied.
If Pierce was a villain in this town who wanted to buy up the old shops and modernize the city, I didn’t understand how I’d be able to talk anyone out of those beliefs, especially when he wanted to buy the oldest bed-and-breakfast on the East Coast with plans to modernize the historic operation.
But two million dollars were on the line, and I wouldn’t give up without a fight. Besides, I’d already emailed my site host in Guatemala with a promise of the money in six months. I hadn’t given her the details of how I planned to obtain the cash, but I described how Pierce needed to liquidate a few assets first and I wanted to hang around to help him while securing more funding if possible. Years passed, but I hadn’t lost my knack of writing an email that sounded fancy, yet actually said very little. I honed those skills over long nights filled with caffeine and financial reports.
I could do other things here as well. I figured I’d hit up a few of the other rich and old money families in the area and, if possible, fund one or more of the other projects we wanted to bring to our village people.
Pierce walked out of his home without giving his cousin and me a second glance, his steps led by determination to wherever he was going, but he hadn’t shared the details.
“Come on,” Oliver said as he saw me looking after Pierce’s retreating back. “I’ll help you take these clothes to your room and then we can make a sandwich.”
“I’m pretty sure Pierce promised me a gourmet dinner.”
Oliver smirked. “Babe, my sandwiches are gourmet.”
I laughed and grabbed as many bags off the floor as my hands could hold. Before I’d been forced to learn to cook, my idea of a sandwich consisted of peanut butter and jelly. I couldn’t wait to see what Oliver passed off as gourmet.
By “help me take the bags my room” Oliver actually meant he would carry the bags up the stairs, open my bedroom door, and fling them on the floor before telling me to hurry so we could eat.
I stopped for a moment and mourned the bumps and bruises the shoes obtained by his violent handling of them before ultimately following him downstairs to the kitchen. He promised me food, after all.
Pierce’s kitchen was a large and open space similar in look to the living room. White cabinets and marble countertops made the area glitter in brightness. It was a chef’s kitchen and not what I expected in the old home, which were known for their closed off tiny spaces.
Two black metal stools were lined up on one side of the kitchen island and I took a seat in the first one leaning on the countertop waiting to see what Oliver would come up with on his mission. I may have joked with him, but my expectations weren’t that high. Men of his caliber often thought putting a few pieces of turkey and cheese on white bread was gourmet just because his hands had crafted it.
But I didn’t plan to let on to my suspicions. Oliver took over Pierce’s kitchen as if it was his own, finding the cabinet for plates and then the drawer for silverware with ease. Next he rummaged around in the fridge until he had the makings of a decent sandwich littered across the island countertop.
“You weren’t lying about knowing what to do. Were you?” I asked, as he smothered a thick layer of mayonnaise on a few pieces of toast. Three years ago, I would’ve crinkled my nose in disgust and pushed it away, but I hadn’t eaten an American-made sandwich in years and didn’t plan to get snooty over it.
Oliver smiled, not disturbed by my question. “Jerome and I only grew up semi-rich. Strictly high, high middle-class, the lowest of bluebloods.”
My mouth fell open in mock shock and I covered it with a hand in fake indignation. “You poor thing. How did you survive?”
He shrugged nonchalantly, but his smile hinted at laughter. “It was horrible. We didn’t even have a nanny or a housekeeper.”
My exaggerated smirk grew. “No? The horror.”
Oliver laughed and my cheeks hurt from the smiling I’d done around him throughout the day. I would never have considered joking about someone’s wealth or implied lack thereof with anyone from my previous life.
“My brother and I had to fend for ourselves after school. One bored and hungry summer while my mother was working, I needed to learn how to make macaroni and cheese from a box so the two of us didn’t starve. It was a hard life.”
“It’s a tragic story, but you’ve obviously overcome your hardships and flourished in adulthood.”
“Yes, it’s been rough, but Jerome and I rose from the ashes. Pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps, if I say so myself.
“Okay, enough jokes,” I said as he passed over a turkey, avocado, and cheese sandwich with mayonnaise and mustard. “What did your parents do?”
I expected him to respond with something like his father was a lawyer and his mother was a doctor—both busy professions that required lots of hours at work but had a basic understanding of how the world works and that their children could live without the constant guidance of a housekeeper. Most people in San Francisco had forgotten such skills. Even though they worked hard for their money, they wanted to provide everything for their children, which included constant pampering of their needs. I saw firsthand because that’s how my parents raised me—the nanny, housekeeper, and the rest.
His answer wasn’t what I expected. “My parents were both missionaries. We spent most of our time growing up home schooled in a van in Africa. It’s why I bought the houseboat because I don’t have anywhere in America to call home. So when I tried to settle down, nowhere seemed right. Now I’m constantly on the move and somehow I find that stable and settling. Does that make sense?” He took a bite of sandwich while I processed his words.
“No,” I answered truthfully. “I grew up in San Francisco, strictly middle-of-the-road old-school blueblood. Prepared to take over the family business and everything, but life had other plans for me.” I’d gone to South Africa once for vacation, but until my time in Guatemala I’d never gone somewhere… well… impoverished. Back then I considered it a good thing, something to be proud of, but as I grew and experienced the world, I found it embarrassing.
“Yes, Pierce told me about your situation. He did a bit of… digging after your aunt called.”
