It would make things far worse if I told her I had nothing to do with buying or maintaining this place. When you reached a certain point, it all just got taken care of. And the people who took care of it got taken care of. I only ever saw the bottom line, and personally, I didn’t even care about that.
She seemed to sense I was thinking about the obnoxious facts of my wealth, because when she plucked another cracker from the bowl, she said, “Did you always want to be a billionaire, Mr. Harrington?”
So she’d looked me up. Of course, she had. Or Cassandra told her.
I clicked my teeth. “You really get right to the point, don’t you?”
Winona opened up another jar. “Do you prefer small talk?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “I’m just killing time until my clothes are dry. You going to eat?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat something, Mitchell.”
I huffed a moment, then reached for a jar, not bothering to read it before opening the lid and scooping a chip into it. I stuffed it in my mouth, not taking my eyes off Winona.
“No, I never planned on having money.” At least not this much. It was obscene how much had come. My money made money at this point for doing fucking nothing, no matter how much I handed away.
I took another bite of the chip and dip, still holding the jar in my hand. Baba Ghanoush. “Why did you jump in the pool, Winona?” The question was meant to steer her from money talk. But I also very much wanted to know. “Since we’re not doing small talk.”
“Why didyou?”
Touché.
I looked out to the still surface of the water, where you’d never guess what had happened only a short time earlier. “This book is… messing with my head.”
She looked skeptical. Like she knew it wasn’t only that. But she let it go for the moment. “What’s it about?”
“I don’t like talking about it.”
“All the more reason to tell me.”
I gripped the jar in my hand a little too hard. “It’s about a man lost at sea.” I gritted out, feeling stupid.
“Is that a metaphor?”
Yes, and transparent as fuck, apparently. She’d poked a hole right into my biggest insecurity. That my writing was actually trash, and I was only pretending to be a novelist. That I was an indulgent, privileged asshole who everyone would see right through.
She set the spoon she’d been holding down. “I meant what I said out there. If you hate it, maybe you should write something different. Or not write at all. Do you hate it?”
The answer danced across my mind.Yes. No. I don’t know.“It’s okay.”
“What would you write if it wasn’t this? If no one cared?”
I thought about that for a moment. “Something… fun,” I decided. “A second-world fantasy. Or sci-fi. One of those big fat tomes I used to read as a teenager.”
There was a smile on her lips.
My heart felt tender, like a bruise.
“Are you going to send a copy to your father when you publish it?”
I set the jar down. It clinked hard on the counter. She hadn’t meant it like a taunt. I could see by her reaction. But I still couldn’t stop the retort. “I don’t know, Winona.” The words are tight. “Why won’t you tell me who the man in Newfoundland was?”
I knew I’d gone too far. Her expression shifted, a mask coming down. “You need help.”
“Thank you for your insight.”
Her face flamed. She set the jar down. “Spare me the bullshit, Harrington. You jump in a pool and float there, making me think you’re fucking dead. Normal people don’t do that.” Winona stood up so quickly, her stool toppled. She stalked past me to the cupboard under the sink. “And this?” She crouched down, reaching under the basin and pulling out a mangled section of pipe. A shard of plastic splintered into a point, a metal tie on it twisted to the side. She shook the pipe at me, getting up in my face. “Why did you do this, Mitchell?”
