I’ll give her that.
It’s been five days since she caught me off guard and left me marked with the results of her makeshift intruder deterrent system, and we’ve spent the past three days getting up to speed in our respective jobs at Spruce Creek, the retreat center in a valley beneath what used to be private ski runs for some billionaire who bought himself a mountain, and one day since I became absolutely certain she really is Margot Merriweather-Brown operating with a fake identity at work.
If it weren’t for the hundreds of pictures I’ve stared at of her since I started digging up photos from that association dinner where she caught my eye, and then finally spotting the security agent that I knew she had to have somewhere around here, I’d still think it was a coincidence that Margie Johnson, the triplets’ unexpected half sister, looked just like a billionaire heiress and businesswoman that I crossed paths with once at a gala where I wasn’t supposed to be working.
Where I had no idea who she was, just that she seemed kind in a place where I didn’t expect kindness, in a time when kindness would rapidly become in short supply in my life.
But now—now, after my research and spotting the agent and finding her real driver’s license in a box under her bed, I have no doubt.
The only question is,why?
And that question ofwhyis the full reason that I haven’t yet told Decker what I know about his half sister.
I told him I’d find out if he can trust his newly discovered half sister.
The quick and easy answer isof fucking course he can’tbecause she’s lying about who she is.
Except I’ve been around and worked for enough celebrities and CEOs in my lifetime—first watching my mom do her thing when she and my grandpa founded Technique Group, thenjoining the firm myself after the military—to know that the quick and easy answer isn’t always the right one.
I need to learn more about this woman.
Who she really is.
What she wants.
And to do that, I’ve taken to spying on her. Including now, mid-afternoon Wednesday, as she delivers fresh towels to a guest in one of the chalets.
“Are you sure this was washed with non-GMO chemical-free organic detergent?” the older man asks her as she stands on the chalet porch in her black uniform pants and shirt, offering him the stack of towels.
“Yes, sir,” she says smoothly. “I checked the detergent myself this morning because I knew it mattered to you. Would you like to see a picture?”
“Yes.”
She slips her phone out of her pocket and holds it out for him to see.
He leans in close—too close, in my professional opinion—and pretends to squint at the screen.
Fucker’s really squinting at her chest. I’d bet my entire month’s salary on it.
“Are you sure this is from the laundry room here?” he says.
“Yes, sir.”
“You didn’t take this picture somewhere else?”
“Sir, I’ve been at work since seven this morning, and I don’t have industrial washing machines at my house. See the timestamp? Just after eight.”
He straightens, still staring at her chest.
I feel a growl start low in my own chest.
It’s far more protective than it should be, and I don’t want to contemplate why.
She’s lying.
She’s lying about who she is, but because I’ve seen her show basic human decency to multiple people, she’s getting under my skin in the worst way.
The way that makes me vulnerable and stupid.
