The next days are spent in never-ending video calls and crisis meetings. It’s bad enough that my mother and Jackiefinally relent and let me back in, even if I’d prefer to be in the boardroom, not pacing the floors of the cabin. It helps me feel in control and distance myself from Eliza. Put some much-needed space between us. She doesn’t press and I don’t know why I’m not happier about it.
Until Martha calls. “It’s time I cashed in your promise to join us for dinner.”
“It’s not a great time.”
“Even more reason to take the night off and relax.” Eliza must have told her. “You can’t leave before you taste my famous moose roast.”
“That sounds…” Appalling. I wonder if she hunted it herself; she would be the type. “Intriguing.”
“We’re expecting you both tomorrow. Don’t be late, Sam’s been fretting with his computer, but he’s too proud to ask for help.”
When did I become the IT guy?
The conversation forces the thought of Eliza back to the front of my mind. Why did I tell her the whole story? She manages to peel off the layers of protection my father built with terrifying ease; the shields woven into my being to the point I can’t tell the difference.
Solitude is preferable to finding out I’m worth nothing more than my name and fortune. I’m in control when I don’t let people get too close and allowing her to hold this power over me is not a gamble I’m willing to take.
A clear sign this is a mistake is that I spent too much time thinking about her instead of focusing on what’s important and real. I must have lost my mind.
The small section of wine is not something to write home about. I’ve been stuck in this aisle for far too long picking a bottle. And stalling. I dread seeing Eliza for the first time in days.
The laughter of two women in the next row distracts me and my ears perk up at the mention of Eliza’s name.
“Greta saw them at Mark’s restaurant. She says it looked like a very romantic dinner. She was all over the boy.”
I peer through the gap in the shelves and one of them is leaning over the shopping cart, hungry for gossip.
“I would be too if he was my meal ticket. The fact that he’s a hunk doesn’t hurt.”
They cackle and I’m livid. The seed of doubt sprouts and unease slides up my backbone. Is the way she gives herself to me and the intensity of it fake? She didn’t strike me as that kind of a person. But neither did Laura and she had me fooled for four years.
My mood sours as I keep turning over the facts in my head on my way to Eliza’s. I’d reluctantly agreed to leave together. Each news alert is a drop of gas on my foul disposition. They’ve been relentless.
I’m shaking my head by the time I finish the last report and she opens the door.
“Can I help with anything?” Genuine concern pinches her features.
“I wasted my time here,” I scoff, waltzing into her house. “It’s all going to shit and I’m making social calls.”
Her steps falter on the way to get her bag. “You don’t have to come. I guess you have more important things to take care of.” There’s no hint of reproach in her voice. She doesn’t look at me, and I hate she’s so considerate.
“What’s two more wasted hours?” I dismiss her. It’s petty and a cheap shot. I don’t attempt to contain the frustration eating me alive while I write a rebuttal in the company crises group chat.
The front door slams behind her and a wave of guilt washes over me before I remind myself I have more pressing issues in my life than cradling her ego.
During dinner, Sam keeps trying to engage me in conversation, but my mind keeps drifting to the list of tasks to delegate.
“How is it going with the courses?” Martha asks and I don’t know who she’s talking to until I lift my eyes from the plate.
“Not bad. Mostly they show me I’ve got a long way to go before I can call myself an interior designer,” Eliza says with a self-deprecating laugh.
“You’re taking classes?” The question spills out before I can temper the incredulity marring my words.
Eliza recoils but looks at the Duntons and shrugs. “It’s just some online course from a school in New York.” The way she minimizes her efforts doesn’t sit well with me. “Who knows if anything will come of it?”
“You already have talent and a website. It’s a start.” I try to soothe the defensiveness in her stance.
“What website?” Martha asks, frowning at me.
