Turning my cell back on, I saw I had several missed calls from Harper and a few other messages. I decided I would deal with them later and pushed my phone into the glove compartment.
I then drove the Jeep up the long driveway and put it in park.
As I got to the door, I started to fidget with the hem on my hoodie; what the actual hell? Ineverfidgeted. I’d showered again that morning and put on fresh clothes at the gym, but I still felt like I probably looked like shit. Too rough to fit in at the mayor’s fancy house anyway.
As I’d driven Reed’s Jeep through the electric gates into the estate, I’d felt calm. So why did I suddenly feel like I was going to hurl?
You look fine, and who cares anyway?
Whoever they’d dispatched to answer the fricking door was taking their sweet time. Releasing a puff of air in frustration, I jammed my hand through my damp hair and contemplated pressing the buzzer again. But would that suggest I was too keen? Either that or as impatient as fuck. And of course, the latter was the most accurate.
As I rocked back on my feet and attempted to see into the house through the blurred glass panels at the side of the door, I heard a click, and it started to open.
Clearing my throat, I prepared myself for the unexpected.
And there. She. Stood.
Theunexpected,Mrs.Summers.
What?I hadn’t prepared myself for that. Did she even know?
Rachel Summers was the spitting image of her daughter, Storm. A tall, elegant woman with dark hair and the same slate gray eyes. Eyes that could put you in your place without their owner muttering one single word.
I got the answer to my question about her knowing about me as she looked me up and down. “Nic was right. There really is no need for a paternity test. You’rehis double at the same age.” Her eyes then narrowed as she added, “I can’t believe I never noticed that before.”
I cleared my throat but remained silent. Her use of the name Nic confused me at first until she finished that sentence, and my brain clicked back into place. The mayor’s wife shortened her husband’s name to Nic, rather than Dom,apparently.
“You’d better come in. He’s waiting for you,” she added, standing back and pulling the door wider. “What happened to your hand? Do you need medical attention?” I frowned as I glanced down to where she’d motioned. My knuckles were still red and raw.
“Why do you care?” I said rudely as I walked through the door and turned to face her.
“I don’t care, but if you get blood on one of my rugs, you’ll have to pay for it.”
Bitch.
“It’s fine, it’s an old injury.” I placed said hand behind my back.
“Suit yourself,” she deadpanned.
“I always do, ma’am,” I replied with feigned charm.
Talk about frosty. She clearly wasn’t pleased to see me, even though I was expected, and why would she be? I was the result of her husband cheating on her. Major bummer.
The woman turned her back, and I glanced around the space. It looked different. Bigger somehow? That was probably due to it being clutter-free. On the day of the party, most rooms were filled with guests and obnoxious party decorations.
After closing the door, she set off down the corridor. “Follow me,” she said. The mayor’s wife was dressed in a silk blouse, cream slacks, and killer heels that clicked on the floor as she walked; the noise was like Chinese torture. I kept my eyes off her ass out of misguided loyalty towards her daughter, aka my half-sister.
It was a miracle that my head didn’t explode.
She led me into what appeared to be the mayor’s study. It was a large room, clearly modeled on the fricking Oval Office of the White House, and failingmiserably. There were paintings everywhere, flags, and general election-type memorabilia.
“Do you want a drink or something? I’ve opened a bottle of Nic’s favorite bourbon,” Mrs Summers explained with a sweep of her arm.
It was barely four in the afternoon. “No, I’m fine thanks,” I replied as I watched her turn away and walk with a purposeful stride towards a drinks trolley. Above it, mounted onto the wall, was a large oil painting of the Summers family. Father, wife, and daughter stared down at me. It must have been commissioned a few years ago, as Storm looked much younger. They appeared in that canvas like a picture-perfect family, oh, the irony.
“So, I suppose you’re my stepson? You can call me Rachel rather than stepmother. Stepmother makes me sound like the villain in a fairytale,” she muttered.
You said it, sweetheart.
