I can’t stop staring at the postcard, filling all the way up with emotion. My throat is raw, eyes burning. He nudges it. “You know, I think I like it better like that.”
“Pink?” I sit down on the bed, laugh hoarsely.
“The house does need a paint job anyway.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “You’d let me paint the house pink?”
My mind is a fanciful storybook that loves symbolism and parallels. It invents romantic notions, where there often aren’t any, in everyday life situations. It has led me to perceive many a man in a nobler light than he deserved, and it’s told me bad situations weremeant to beas a coping mechanism to make them bearable. Wesley is watching me with a glint in his eyes that draws an imaginary parallel line into the misty past, X marking the spot on Victor. I think of how Victor used to look at Violet with a similar expression, like he knew an extraordinary secret and she was theonly other person in the world in on the secret with him. I think of the incredible, million-to-one odds that out of all the pictures Gemma could have used to catfish me, she usedhis.
Wesley smiles, which sends the warning sirens blaring. I’m reading into coincidences. The universe is chaos and coincidence. If it were operating with any intention, it would be cruelty.
“Not by yourself,” he says. “I’d help you paint it. We’ll put some gold touches around the windows and doors, too, like the way the light hits it here.” He taps the postcard, but I don’t tear my gaze from him. My heart is thumping fast, fast, racing right toward a cliff. A little bit of friendliness doesn’t mean anything more than that. I’m a danger to myself, my imagination running away.
I nod mutely.
“As someone who likes paint,” he says sheepishly, refusing to simply sayAs an artist, “I think the project will be kinda cool. Trying to make the house look like it’s sitting in a perpetual sunset.”
“Yeah,” I force myself to say. “That would be wonderful.”
I thank him for the discovery, clutching it as I depart. I am nearly in the clear when my Achilles’ heel is attacked—he’s turned on Christmas music at top volume,sleigh bells riiiiingfollowing me down the stairs.
Chapter 12
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Ihead over to the manor to get to work and it’s a relief that Wesley’s away doing a job. Why did I think friendship with Wesley would be a good idea? It’s aterribleidea. I’m going to catch a crush on him. He’s dreamy, but until now his grumpiness has saved me from making an idiot of myself. If he shows me the barest hint of warmth, my weak knees will buckle like clockwork. It’s my worst habit.
Right now, a crush swelling with the most dangerous undertow I’ve ever laid eyes on flits at the horizon, tearing it up at warp speed, but I’ve still got time. I’ve got willpower. I am resolving myself here and now to keep my distance, which should be easy enough. Wesley loves distance! We’ll ignore each other. Wesley loves ignoring each other! I’ve picked so many insensitive, cold hearts to give mine to, but his is a new record. I’d be the least safe in his hands: What if we dated and it went south, as most relationships do? We share a house! Neither of us wants to give it up. I’dbe living directly under my ex, unable to escape him. If he cheated on me like most of the others did, that would ruin Falling Stars for me forever. It’d be too painful to stay—I’d have to give up the hotel of my dreams. Unacceptable.
I can’t decide if that scenario is better or worse than another contender: that I’ll develop feelings, and those feelings will be unrequited.
I’ve got to stamp out those feeble quiveringsnow, before they become a problem. He’s gone and dug a tent out of storage—one tent, singular—to use on Saturday, as he casually mentioned the trip will take us all day and most of the terrain we have to explore will have to be trod on foot. If it gets late, we’ll camp out. In the same tent. Together. Maybe he’s able to be blasé about it because he finds me so unattractive that I’m not even a shadow on his radar; I’m like a shovel, just part of the expedition gear. Or maybe he plans to seduce me. I envision us lying next to a roaring fire as he feeds me s’mores...
“You don’t like him,” I tell myself sternly. “He’s a grouch.”
I walk into the ballroom, determined to lose myself in cleaning. The first thing I see is the handmade tinfoil star that’s appeared at the top of my Christmas tree, which I’m not able to reach. Someone has indulged my untimely holiday spirit.
I groan louder, spin on my heel, and walk right back out.
“He doesn’t like me,” I growl at myself. “I’m just the pesky equal inheritor. The necessary evil he can’t get rid of, so he’s sucking it up and making the best of a bad situation.” I smack my face lightly. “Even if hedoeslike me, it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change the fact that muddying those waters is a bad, bad, bad idea.”
Think long-term, Maybell. Priorities. Eyes on the prize.
I open the dumbwaiter longingly and despair that it’s empty.He made me atree-topper. It’s even better than a store-bought one, with its cute little irregular edges... I have no willpower at all.
I smack myself again.
There’s only one tried-and-true method to escape dwelling on this. I pace back and forth, giving myself a workout, mentally reaching for the door of my café. It won’t open.
A sign on the door readsout for lunch.
“Can’t stop me,” I grumble, probably losing it, as I pick the lock and the door in the clouds shoves open with a tinkling chime.
I definitely didn’t put all these ferns here. Moss creeps up tables, swarming napkin dispensers and condiment bottles. I hack vines out of my way, sidesteppinghazardsigns, breaking a sweat to get behind the counter. A gurgling sound of rushing water is coming from the jukebox. My doting parents pop their heads in, concerned. “Are you open?”
“Yes! Just give me a minute. It’s... ah...”
“You’ve got a forest,” Mom notes, eyes large as she stares around.
I scratch my head, three small birds circling. I’m going to get cited by the health inspector. “It would appear so.”
