“I have work to do.”
She walked out. Not running—walking with the dignity of someone who’d just realized she was standing in mud.
I slammed my fist against the stall, startling Daisy. “Fuck!”
Pops was on the porch, nursing a beer. He took one look at my face and set the bottle down.
“Trouble?”
“Disaster. Solene’s coming. An old… flame. Ten minutes out.”
Pops’ eyes narrowed. “How’d she find us?”
“My dad gave her the address.” The betrayal tasted like bile.
Pops exhaled slowly. “He’s twistin’ screws. Checkin’ if you’ll break.”
“I don’t want her here. This is my place. I was happy here.”
“I know, son.” Pops grabbed my shoulder, grip hard. “But she’s comin’. We’re Jamesons. We don’t turn away travelers, even unwanted ones. But Winnie’s watching. She needs to see what you choose. Not what you say. What you choose when it’s standing in front of you in a silk dress.”
“I choose Winnie.”
“Then make damn sure Solene knows it. Quickly.”
Winnie appeared, face professionally blank. Hair pulled into a tight bun, stripping away softness.
“Guest house is ready. Fresh towels, extra pillows.” All efficiency. “What time for dinner?”
“Within the hour,” I said quietly.
She nodded, already moving to the kitchen. Walls so smooth I’d never see her climb them.
An engine cut through the evening. We all turned.
A black mercedes rolled up the gravel, sleek and monstrous, violently out of place. It stopped in a cloud of dust.
Solene Duval stepped out like she’d taken a wrong turn to Fashion Week.
Cream silk slip, strappy stilettos sinking into dirt, oversized sunglasses in perfect blonde hair. She scanned the yard with curiosity and a faint nose-wrinkle.
“Beau!” She picked across the grass like the ground might bite. “Oh my god, look at you.”
She launched at my neck before I could brace. Chanel and old money wrapped around me. “You look rugged. Like farmhand porn. Did you grow muscles, or is this a really good shirt?”
“Solene.” I pried her off, stepping back. “Knock it off.”
She pouted. “Don’t be grumpy. I drove two hours in heels for you.” Her voice dipped. “I’m so turned on. Those jeans should be illegal. Take me inside.”
“Solene.” I glanced toward the porch. “There are people.”
She finally noticed the others. Her gaze skimmed Pops, then Winnie—boots, cutoffs, work shirt, dirt-smudged hands. Her expression dismissed what it registered.
She turned to Pops, smile snapping into place. “Hi! Granddad, right? I’m Solene. Rescue mission. Someone has to remind Beau about air conditioning.”
“Ma’am,” Pops said evenly.
“This is rustic. Very authentic.” She waved toward the barn. “If someone could grab my bags? They’re Vuitton. The dust here is brutal.”
