I stop walking, turning her to face me.
"Look at me."
She does, those whiskey-colored eyes wide and anxious.
I cup her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. “You're smart. You're resourceful. You walked into this resort with zero backup and made Veronica Vance flee in under five minutes with nothing but audacity and a fake backstory. You can handle my mother."
I lean in, mouth hovering over hers. "And you've already got me in your corner."
"Your mother is a lawyer."
"So am I. Technically." I brush a strand of hair behind her ear. "And you're tougher than both of us."
"I don't feel tough. I feel like I'm about to puke on very expensive marble."
"Don't puke on the marble. It's imported." I tease.
That startles a laugh out of her. Small, but real.
"There she is," I say, smiling despite myself.
She takes a breath, nodding. "Okay. Okay, I can do this."
"You can."
"What's the worst that can happen?"
"My parents disown me, my Aunt Milly writes me out of the family trust, and I get banned from all future Prescott events."
Jane blinks. "That's... weirdly comforting, actually."
"I know, right? So, let's go."
My parents’ casita is twice the size as mine with floor-to-ceiling windows frame the ocean view.
A round table set for six, crystal and white linens, fresh orchids in the center is already set.
They've had brunch catered—silver chafing dishes gleaming on the sideboard, mimosa fixings already set out.
My mom is already seated, smiling as we approach, though there's a sharpness to it that means she's curious. But there's caution there too.
My father stands, extends his hand toward the empty chairs. "West. Jane." He's assessing, the way he does with expert witnesses in depositions—kind but careful, reserving judgment.
And at the head of the table, tiny and formidable in lavender linen, is Aunt Milly. Her bright eyes watching us with unconcealed interest.
The three of them united front when it matters. And apparently, meeting Jane matters.
Jane sits very still beside me, her hands folded in her lap.
My mom wastes no time.
"So," she says, her tone light but lethal. "There's been some interesting conversations circulating about you, West."
Here we go.
"Has there?" I say mildly.
"Veronica Vance called me yesterday night. Quite distressed. Said you have a boyfriend in Tribeca who sculpts."
