3
WILLOW
To think I never set foot in the Morgans’ Hamptons estate, even though I was engaged to Terrence, should have been yet another red flag in our relationship.
“It’s humongous,” Jamie says as we get out of my car.
We park next to a string of silver and sleek black Lexus sedans. At the base of the palatial mansion’s front steps, an artesian fountain displays its marble angels that pour water into a small pond surrounded by a cobblestone pathway. At the top of the stairs, a man in a dark grey butler’s uniform awaits.
“They’ve had this place for generations,” I tell Jamie. “I’m pretty sure they built it from the ground up, somewhere around the turn of the twentieth century.”
“Well, the Morgans have been rich and around since long before that,” he says. “They probably wanted a summer palace, like the European royals or something.”
“It does make you wonder.”
“Wonder what?” Jamie asks.
“What they’re like. I mean, the brothers are dashing, charming, and handsome, but what are theyreallylike?” I wonder aloud. “Are they as entitled as Terrence, just better at smooth talking?”
Jamie leans in. “I don’t think you should use a loser like Terrence as a blueprint for the Morgan brothers. Just remember that he’s not really?—”
“A Morgan,” I say, finishing his sentence for him. “You’re right.”
Some skepticism is healthy, but I’m probably delving into overly cautious territory, and the chemistry I felt with Cole, Asher, and Toby hit differently. It was deeper, more intense, and more intentional than anything else.
“Good morning and welcome,” the butler says, greeting us as we reach the top of the stairs. “My name is Ian. I hope you had a nice ride out.”
“There was not as much traffic as we expected,” I reply with a smile. “Then again, the cold weather is upon us. I assume most of the Hamptonites have already gone back to the city to prepare for the holidays.”
“They have. The Morgan family will be moving their operations to the upstate winter estate, as well, by the end of next week,” he says. “Now, if you would both follow me inside.”
We do, quiet and observant as we walk through the massive double doors. The mansion’s exterior is painted white with dark blue window frames, and the wood bears a dark, almost chocolatey grain. It’s a dramatic and imposing contrast, reminiscent of the nineteenth-century nauticaltheme so many of America’s bourgeoisie chose for their summer homes.
The interior is exquisite and enormous, with tall ceilings and lacquered parquet floors. The windows are equally tall, providing a constant source of abundant light, while the textiles are light in color. Paintings of nautical scenes and family portraits adorn the walls, along with vintage photographs of some of the Morgan men’s most treasured yachts.
We’re taken to the tearoom, and as soon as we walk through the French doors, my stomach begins to violently churn.
Sheila stands up from one of the embroidered chairs while steam rises from a porcelain pot on the table next to her. “Glad to see you both made it,” she says, looking elegant and composed in her white silk shirt and black pencil skirt, heels clicking on the marble floor. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“Yet here we are,” I reply, my tone clipped and my blood close to a boiling point, but Jamie takes the lead, like we agreed.
“Thank you for the invitation,” he says.
We cautiously approach as the butler steps back. I steal a glance at the man in his late fifties and notice the discomfort deeply etched into his face. He doesn’t like Sheila that much either. At least I’m not alone in this sentiment.
“I had tea prepared. Have a seat and make yourselves comfortable,” Sheila replies, motioning toward the other seats around the table.
I sink into one, while Jamie takes the other next to mine, and Sheila returns to hers, proceeding to pour some freshly brewed, rose-colored tea into one of the dainty cups—part of an elegant set prepared for this occasion. It smells nice, buther perfume is so intense and far too sweet, quickly overpowering my senses.
“I had Ian supply us with an artificial sweetener,” she says, looking at me with a flat smile. “Assuming you’re watching your calories.”
And there it is. Another jab. But I need the money, and I need this project, so I clamp down on my pride and flash a cool grin. “No, I’m good with regular sugar, thank you,” I reply and pour a cup of my own, adding two teaspoons of brown sugar for good measure.
The muted horror in her eyes gives me tremendous satisfaction.
“Now I understand you’re organizing a wedding,” Jamie says with a polite nod, as he takes out his iPad for meeting notes. “Who’s the happy couple?”
“As if you didn’t know,” Sheila shoots back, smiling from ear to ear. “Terrence and Katrina are eager to tie the knot just before Christmas, so?—”
