His lips twitch. “You ever been to a ski lodge?”
Her mouth snaps shut, and her eyes narrow. “No, but I’ve seen one on TV.”
Crew nods toward the passenger door. “C’mon,” he says, reaching for his hat where it lies on the back seat. He pops it on, then opens his own door and steps out. “Lunch’ll be ready soon.”
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Somehow, the interior of thehouse is even more gorgeous than the exterior. It shouldn’t surprise Grace—Renata Caldwell is a woman of impeccable taste, and though Grace knows next to nothing about interior design and styling, it’s evident that great care and thoughtfulness has gone into every inch of the home. There’s such refinement to it, an ease and sophistication that doesn’t scream old money but whispers it elegantly, a comforting caress across your cheek instead of a slap. The cherrywoodfloors squeak with every step Grace takes through the foyer, which leads into a sitting room complete with dark brown leather couches covered in plush, soft-looking pillows.
Taking in the art on the walls, the shelves lined with hundreds of books and gilded trinkets, Grace notices a shelf dedicated to framed pictures, all varying in sizes and shapes. She takes a few steps closer to get a better look, seeing first that there are three large frames with three similar-looking portraits—school pictures. The one on the far left looks a lot like Crew, though he had yet to build the muscle that would eventually complement his too-tall frame. In the photo, he looks like he’s all limbs, and the smirk on his mouth is far less serious than anything she’s seen on the man she’s encountered today. But it’s the eyes that give him away, signaling that it’s definitely him—as dark and discerning as they are now, and far deeper than any belonging to a teenager. Next to Crew’s photo is one of a girl, and it’s uncanny how much she looks like Renata. Though her teeth are covered in braces and there are stubborn sprinkles of acne on her cheeks, Grace knows immediately, in the same undeniable way she recognized Crew, that the girl is Renata’s daughter and Crew’s sister. And the last of the three—another boy, the youngest and most carefree of them all. He’s smiling wide, showing off a gap where a canine baby tooth used to be, and his eyes are alight with joy and mischief. Grace smiles, wondering how long it must’ve taken him to sit still for the photograph.
Though it’s not visible from where she stands, the kitchen can’t be far off, because a delicious, savory smell hits Grace’s nose and a pang of hunger throbs in her belly. She’s been so caught up in the magic of the house that she hasn’t noticed Crewleaning against the threshold, hands in his pockets. Watching her. A flare of self-consciousness sparks under his scrutiny, and Grace folds her arms over her chest as she says, “Nice place you’ve got here.”
Crew lifts a shoulder—a gesture Grace is beginning to notice he is wont to do. “It’s not mine. I live up the hill.”
It’s a different version ofI’m not rich; my parents are rich—such a typical response from someone with generational wealth that she almost has to laugh.
“Right,” Grace says, nodding. “I’m sure it’s a real fixer-upper.”
His eyes narrow slightly, and he appears to be gearing up for a retort when he’s cut off by the click of heels against the wood floor.
Renata Caldwell bursts into the room seconds later, her entire face lighting up in a sparkling grin as soon as she sees Grace. “Grace, ah—honey, I’m so glad you made it,” she exclaims melodically, walking directly into Grace’s immediate space and wrapping her up in a hug that is surprisingly firm for such a petite woman. It lasts about five seconds longer than Grace expects it to, and when the woman finally pulls back, she’s still grinning from ear to ear. “My son didn’t give you any trouble, did he? He’s a real curmudgeon, but we love him for it.” She doesn’t look at him when she asks this; Grace looks over his mother’s shoulder to see Crew ruefully shaking his head.
“Not at all,” Grace replies, returning Renata’s smile with a small, reserved one of her own. “I appreciated the ride. I didn’t think you’d bring me out so quickly.”
Renata nods, then takes a step back. “I hope it’s all right. We have a stud who needs some serious work.”
“Of course, ma’am,” Grace says. “I appreciate the opportunity.”
“You hungry, honey? Ronnie cooked up some enchiladas, rice and beans, and sopapillas. But if you’re not a Tex-Mex person, she can make you whatever you like.”
The little upturn of Grace’s lips, that conservative smile she keeps on for the sake of politeness, evolves into a real, full-blown grin. It’s been three months of eating cheeseburgers and tacos out of greasy paper bags; the thought of a homemade meal has her practically salivating. “That sounds wonderful. Thank you.”
Renata waves a hand, encouraging Grace to follow. She leads her into a dining room, bright with natural light from the floor-to-ceiling windows and anchored by an enormous table that’s really just a giant slab of what looks like unfinished mahogany, deeply red and rustic with industrial bolts scattered about the middle.
Two seats at the table are already occupied—an older gentleman at the head, dressed smartly in an expertly starched pearl-snap shirt, and a younger, scruffier man to his left, two seats down. They’re leaning in to talk to each other, not yet noticing the new people in the room, and Grace recognizes similarities in the way they both smile—wryly, slowly, like they’re hard-earned and always brief. It reminds her of someone…
She turns around then, catching Crew’s eyes as he makes his way toward the table, lingering behind them by a few steps. The puzzle pieces fall into place, and Grace looks back to the table, now understanding this must be his father, and this appears to be the grown-up version of the other boy from the photographs—the younger brother, surely. They all look too much alike to be anything but immediate family.
The two finally look up and spot Grace, Renata, and Crew now standing at the edge of the table. They stand, the youngerman jumping to his feet, while Crew’s father takes a little longer and grunts quietly as he lifts himself out of his chair.
“Boys, this is Grace,” Renata says, walking to what must be her seat at the left hand. “Grace, this is my husband, Clint.” She places a hand on Clint’s shoulder, then gestures to the other man. “And my youngest, Cooper.”
Grace smiles, making a point to lock eyes with both of them for a brief second and nodding. “So nice to meet you both,” Grace says, then does a quick scan across the room. “You have a lovely home. I appreciate you welcoming me into it.”
“Aren’t you sweet,” Renata says, squeezing Clint’s shoulder. “Isn’t she sweet?”
He gives his wife a lovingly amused glance before turning back to Grace with a quick nod. “It’s a pleasure to have you, Grace. Have a seat, now. Ronnie’s just about done with lunch.”
Grace nods, walking up to the seat at Clint’s right and pulling out the chair. She doesn’t notice until he’s stepped into her space that Crew is right behind her. She has to crane her neck to look up at him as he stares downward, eyebrow kinked.
“That’s my seat.”
From across the table, Cooper barks out a laugh. “As if you ever eat in here.”
Crew doesn’t look at his little brother as he says through hard-lined lips, “Well, I’m eatin’ in here now, aren’t I?” He points to the vacant place setting a seat down. “You can sit there.”
The more time she spends in his presence, the more Grace is beginning to understand this man is a walking contradiction. Accommodating but also impatient, like he was on the drive, and now, boldfaced rude but also polite, evidenced by the wayhe pulls out the chair next to his and gestures for her to sit in it. When she does, he even goes out of his way to tuck her into the table. She feels something akin to whiplash with how quickly he seems to switch between hot and cold.
