She nods at the reporters. “There will be more interviews like this, of course. It’s fun doing it here, in Mystic Meadows, where all this started. It’s cute, really. But this isn’t real life. Real life for a Maddox occurs in the boardroom, in a hotel.”
In a hotel.
Of course I know that. Pane’s lived in a hotel his whole life. But he said he doesn’t want that, that I’m his future.
But it’s not really true, is it? The company is his future, and that doesn’t exist here. The hotels are in different cities, across the country, around the world.
What’s actually in Mystic Meadows for Pane Maddox?
“Has my son ever told you about his father?”
I’d almost forgotten that Sylvia was here. “I’m sorry?” I clear my throat, hoping that will remove some of the cobwebs hazing up my brain. “Um. Yes, he has told me something about him.”
“Has he told you that the man married me for my money?”
“No, not exactly.” What did Pane say about his dad? “He just said that he ...” The wordabandoneddoesn’t seem like a nice way to phrase what I know. “He left, Pane said.”
Sylvia takes a calculated step toward me, sizing me up with eyes that radiate arrogance and affluence. “He married me for my money, and when he realized that he wouldn’t get any of it, he left, abandoned our children. He was a fortune hunter. I’ve always told Pane to be leery of such people.”
Heat flushes my neck. Is it hot in here? Itfeelshot in here. I fan my face with one hand. “I can understand that. Mrs. Maddox, I can assure you that I’m not interested in—”
“My son’s money?” She tips her head back and laughs. “Of course you are, dear. Anyone would be. That’s a given. My point is that even if you two wind up together, do younotsee how different you are?” She points one exquisitely lacquered fingernail to the decorations in the bar. “You are from this place. He is not. Once Pane takes up his new position, he won’t be returning to Mystic Meadows, no matter what he’s promised you.”
She lays a cold hand on my shoulder. “I’m trying to stop you from being hurt more than you need to be, because my son is not the sort of person who lives in North Georgia. He is a Maddox, and the Maddox life is one of luxury and service.” She delicately lifts one of her eyebrows; no doubt it’s a look that has weakened many a board member’s knees. “Do you see luxury anywhere here?”
No, I don’t. There’s no luxury here. What do I have to offer Pane other than mud and biscuits?
Nothing. Oh, myself, of course. But how long will it be before the shine ofmewears off? Before Pane realizes thatlittle Sunbeamcan’t compete with his world? It probably won’t take long. In a few months, he’ll wake up and realize I don’t fit.
My gaze lifts to scan the bar. He’s on the other side, talking to a reporter, giving an interview while wearing a three-piece suit. The dress I’m wearing is a Vera Wang knockoff. It’s made of cheap imitation silk and has itchy straps.
Pane turns and sees me. He smiles, but all I can feel is a pressure building. The pressure of not being good enough, of not meshing with his life.
Sylvia’s right: We are different. I run a pig farm; he runs hotels. At some point our differences will become blaringly obvious, and he’ll leave.
I’ll be abandoned again.
Realization crashes down on me. It feels like there’s a baseball in my chest. One that grows, expanding, filling up, and cutting off the air that tries to thread its way into my lungs.
I can’t think. Can’t breathe.
“Excuse me,” I whisper to Sylvia.
I push my way through the hot, crowded bar packed with people, throwing myself against the door and spilling outside.
The cool air caresses the film of sweat that coats my arms, and I shiver. I rake my fingers through my hair and inhale several deep gulps of oxygen. Air rushes into my lungs, and the claustrophobia that was setting in disappears.
I press my back to Sparkle Bar’s brick exterior and take my time inhaling and exhaling, trying to right myself and wrap my mind around what comes next.
Whatdoescome next?
The door slams open and Pane runs out. He stops, spins around, sees me, and comes over, his hands immediately sliding up my cheeks.
“What’s wrong? Did my mother say something to you?”
In his eyes, all I see is concern. Worry bleeds across his face, twisting his features. It’s the worry of a man who cares about me, who thinks we have a future.
I shake my head and push myself off the bricks, sliding out of his touch.
