Shame prickles down my back. “No danger of that. If I were being nice, I would have dumped out your coffee milk.”
She makes a face of outrage. “Coffee milk is Rhode Island’s beloved state beverage.”
“It’s also the home of ‘clear chowder’ in case you’re a fan of watery clams, too.”
“Aren’t you the attorney general’s son? You should be enjoying coffee milk with every meal.”
“Thanks, but I prefer my drinksnotto be sourced from Satan’s teat.”
She groans in exasperation and lifts her wine bottle.
“Speaking of which…” I say, “I don’t think that particular vintage is doing you any favors either.”
She frowns. “You know, snobbery was something your grandmother couldn’t stand.” She takes a pointed sip. “Then again, it doesn’t seem like upholding her values is your top priority.”
Defensiveness flares bright but quickly winks out. After our clash in the garden, I made the effort to see past her accusation that I don’t care about my grandmother’s wishes. It wasn’t hard to do—at least, not after a few punishing, slightly angsty laps in the pool.
Honestly, it shouldn’t have taken me so long to get past my misplaced anger at Gracie. She’s raised valid concerns regarding myplans, and that doesn’t give me the right to lash out at her—not when I’m the asshole ruining her life.
With a pit in my stomach, I sit back down as she takes a delicate bite of her toast.
“I understand why it might seem that way, and I’m sorry my decision has been so stressful for you,” I tell her quietly.
Her wary eyes meet mine, but when she doesn’t snap back, I go on.
“It was shitty of me to break the news to you so harshly, and I have no excuse for being so rude. You’ll probably find this hard to believe, but I’m not actually rejoicing over the loss of your job.”
Her eyes get brighter. “So, is this apology toast then? Did something in Agatha’s will make you reconsider selling Larkwood?”
I shake my head. “Unfortunately, no. My mind is made up on that.” The hope in her expression dies, and for one, logic-flinging moment, I want to promise she can stay in this cottage indefinitely. Which brings me straight back to reality, because technically, under the terms of Nana’s will, she can. That is, until I use every legal intimidation tactic in my arsenal to scare her into selling it to me.
God. She only thinks she hates me right now.
“Then what on earth did you want to tell me?” she demands. “Have you come to offer me a replacement job as your henchman? Or inform me that I’ve been living with asbestos for the last three years and can win BIG in court with you if I call 1-800-OMG-FML?”
I only barely manage not to laugh. “Pretty sure that number’s missing a digit and no. I’m not that kind of lawyer, Gracie.”
“Oh, right. I forgot. You’re the kind that charges five hundred dollars a minute to dance on the graves of dreams and happiness.”
I can’t help my smirk. “I can assure you that my grave dancing services are entirely complimentary.”
She glares at me and takes another bite of toast. Meanwhile, I try not to acknowledge the alarming satisfaction of seeing Gracie eat food that I’ve made her. Instead, I use the opening to bring up the reason I’m here. “But I do have some news about the estate that’s relevant to you. You remember my friend Henry, who’s handling the probate process?”
“The handsome guy with the dimples?” She nods, swallowing her toast. “He was sweet.”
Does Henry have dimples? If he does, they’ve never fully registered. Disconcerted, I continue with an off-balanced “Right. Well, after going through Nana’s will, he discovered that in an act of misguided generosity, she bequeathed this cottage to you.” I take a breath before continuing. “I say misguided because, unfortunately, ownership comes with a number of significant financial demands, including property taxes on a historic site, as well as a preservation clause that would require you to finance the restoration and upkeep of the property to an exacting standard.” Here, I pause, allowing the gravity of my words to sink in while gauging her reaction.
Gracie blinks rapidly, tears quickly welling in her dark, expressive eyes.Yes, good, I think, fully aware that I may as well be twisting an evil villain mustache.
“I know it’s a hard pill to swallow,” I say, adopting the gentle tone I use with clients after a loss in court. “At first glance, it seems like owning the cottage would solve all your problems, but selling it to me would actually—”
Gracie’s tremulous voice makes me stop short. “Agatha remembered me in her will?”
Mentally, I backpedal. “Uh, yes. The cottage has been left to you, along with the financial responsibilities of ownership.”
A little clumsily, Gracie puts her plate of half-eaten toast and the glass of water on a side table. I’m about to suggest (or beg) that she finish them when she knocks over the wine bottle by her foot.
“Dammit,” she says. Quickly, we both reach down to grab the bottle, which thankfully (and worryingly) is too empty to have spilled. Our hands accidentally brush, and the brief sensation of her skin against mine violently elbows every one of my thoughts out of the way.
