Shit. I have to think and act fast if I want to keep that plate of food—it does look amazing—and get rid of Sylvia at the same time. And I have to do it with authority.
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to hurt Stirling’s feelings,” I say as I stalk over to Sylvia, “seeing as how he probably slaved all day over this pulled pork. So thank you for that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot of work to do here this evening.”
I take the plate out of her hand, turn on my heel, walk back to the door, and hold it open for her. First she gasps in shock, then she gets pissed.
“Fine,” she snaps. “But you don’t know what you’re missing. I know how to take care of a man, I’m not a virgin, you know!” She stops to stand in front of the door I’m holding open for her exit.
“I’m sure you think you know how toseducea man, Sylvia. But if you think that’s all it takes to care for a man, then you’ve just shown that you know next to nothing about love.”
She gives a low growl of frustration from the back of her throat as she stalks out the door.
“Oh, and Sylvia?” She stops at the top of the stairs and glares back up at me. “Just a reminder: this studio is off. Limits. Period. Thanks for dinner.”
Sylvia huffs angrily again and stomps down the stairs. I wait to receive confirmation that she goes back to her room and not back down to the kitchen to cause a scene. When I hear the door to her bedroom slam, I slam the door to my studio in return.
I’m furious with myself that I let that little tart into my studio, and worse, let her get under my skin. I’m suddenly worried for Amanda, and then angry again that I even care. And despite the fact that all of this has all but ruined my appetite, I’m fucking starving. My stomach growls with a warning that I’d better not ignore it either.
The sandwich is still warm, and I know that none of what I bought at the store today will be as good. And the sides look fantastic too. I bite into the pulled pork sandwich and it’s nothing short of heaven. A pang of regret wells up inside of me when I picture how it might have been if I had gone downstairs to join them earlier, helped Stirling with the grill, chopped and stirred alongside Margot, swam and talked with Amanda…how it would have been if we were still together.
The fact that Grayson’s arrogance and overconfidence has finally cost him his business brings with it a double edge of desire to gloat and a panic about what will become of Amanda. She’s smart and strong, and the last piece of news I read about her showed what a success she’d made of the flagship jewelry store in Beverly Hills. But that was right after she broke up with me, and I’ve worked hard to avoid any news about her or any member of the Sutter family.
As hurt and angry as I still am, I truly don’t want any harm to come to Amanda. Maybe in some way, losing the family fortune will clear the way for her to find a meaningful relationship with somebody, even if it wasn’t me.
I realize after a very short time that I’ve completely devoured the plate of food. But the combination of stress, and too much coffee, especially of the spiked variety, means I’ll probably regret that. Still, it was heaven going down, and I bring a bottle of antacid tablets and a glass of water to keep on my bedside table tonight.
All the worries I had last night have now multiplied, and after a few hours of trying to work out how I’m going to express it all in my work, sleep finally wins.
9
Amanda
It’sMonday morning and my first thought when I wake up is how much I missed having fireworks.
I mean, we never had them growing up anyway, but I’ve been to some nice Fourth of July displays in my adulthood, and I was secretly hoping we’d at least have some sparklers last night while we were sitting around the fire pit. But Stirling hadn’t gotten permission to do any when they signed the rental agreement, and I’m sure no one felt like braving the third floor to ask Damon for it on Friday night.
Like Damon’s absence at the festivities, the outcome of Sylvia’s little trip up to his studio lay just below the surface of knowledge too, like the killer shark Stirling and I hoped would never surface. Margot was still mercifully unaware of the incident, and probably thought that Stirling had retrieved the empty plate of food from Sylvia’s room instead of the floor outside of Damon’s studio door the next morning, but his glance at me when he walked into the kitchen the next morning with it tells me otherwise. I stifle a grin just now, as I imagine Damon wolfing down that pulled pork, even though there’s no one around to see me. He always was a sucker for home-cooked food.
My second thought is that I wish I was back at the store in Beverly Hills. There, I’m in control. Damon’s not there. Then again, with everything that the company is faced with, and knowing what’s waiting for me back there, that could be just as depressing. And it does increasingly feel like I need to face him before running back to Los Angeles with my tail between my legs.
I realize I’ve got some thinking to do—I can’t do anything about Father losing the company or the house, but I have to start planning what I want to do next. I got my own financial ducks in a row about two years ago when Father really started making poor business decisions, and not caring that he was. So I know I’ll be okay. The two worries I have are supporting Father through the inevitable crash that’s coming, and choosing my next career path. The worst part is, I don’t have a fucking clue what I want to do. Manage another luxury jewelry store? Own one? Or try something completely different? Who the hell knows? The idea of going back to school is not entirely unappealing, but it just reminds me of Columbia in New York, and I don’t think any educational experience could top that. Not to mention, I won’t have Damon by my side again.
For the moment, I guess it’s better to be sad in paradise. At least here I’m surrounded by the beauty of nature. I shake off my worries and decide to finally walk down to the beach before breakfast.
The sun is fully risen by the time I splash some water on my face and throw on some shorts and a tee shirt. I pull my hair up into a messy bun and slide my bare feet into some sneakers. I don’t really care what I look like anymore, not even if I run into Damon again. And if I do, I can always walk in the opposite direction.
No one is downstairs yet, or at least not in the kitchen. There is an office tucked away somewhere on the first floor, and I imagine both Stirling and Margot are holed up in there catching up on work after the holiday weekend. I’d bet money that the girls are sleeping in, so it looks like I’ll get some alone time for my walk.
The pool looks like a big sparkling blue topaz diamond, and I’m so tempted to just jump in and swim in my clothes. But I haven’t seen the ocean up close and that’s a crime. I can always take a dip in the pool after my walk.
The colors of Damon’s garden become more glorious and stunning to me every day I’m here. Every vista is alive with saturated color—bright, sunshine yellow, poppy red, deep, romantic fuschia and every shade of green playing in the light and shadow. I can see why Damon thrives here as an artist in a different way than he must have in New York. Even though all the paintings hanging in the house right now are so full of pain, the colors are amazing, just like the surroundings.
By the time I reach the lower gardens the fragrances are headier than any couture perfumery I’ve ever been in. I stop and take a few deep breaths. Like the pool, the garden is tempting me to bury my bare toes in the carpet of thick grass, and even stretch out and gaze up at the perfect blue. But the salty ocean breeze picks up and does its magic to lure me on further to the beach.
When I reach the last of the shallow steps down to the beach, I chastise myself for waiting this long to come down here. If the gardens are gorgeous, the ocean is breathtaking. I rip my sneakers off and leave them at the bottom of the steps. It’s a private beach, so I doubt anyone will steal them while I’m romping in the waves.
I immediately run across the sand toward the waves like a child at an amusement park—nature’s giant water park and I’ve got it all to myself. At least that’s what I think at first. I’m so busy skip-dancing toward the water, that I miss Damon about a hundred yards down the beach.
I stop cold, with the water at my ankles. I’m mesmerized by the sight of him standing there. He seems to be more entranced in the ocean’s spell than I am. He stands on the wet perimeter of sand, staring at some distant point on the horizon as the tide skims his bare feet. He dangles his sandals from the fingers of one hand, while his other hand stays plunged securely in the pocket of his shorts. Even with just a side view, I can imagine the intensity of his gaze under his sunglasses. I can make out a hint of a furrow on his brow too.
