Page 9 of The Sweetness of Life

Taking a step away from her, I move closer to the door. “Seems to me he can take care of himself.”

She frowns at my tone. “Oh, he can without a doubt . . . but . . . well, never mind.” Concern flashes across her face and then disappears.

“But what?” I’m curious to know what kind of concessions she feels he needs.

“Nothing.” She shakes her head and smiles at me as she slides back into the golf cart. “Call me if you need anything.” With one final wave, she’s gone, and dust floats through the air in her wake.

Turning back to the cottage door, I unlock it, step inside, and drop my things in the entryway. This is the most tranquil home I’ve ever seen. The entire downstairs is one large great room, and I’m overwhelmed by all the details. The floors are made of large stones, and there are several huge gray shag rugs. The walls are white, and the windows are covered with sheer white curtains. There is a stone fireplace on one wall, and the gray furniture is accented with yellow and lavender pillows and throws. In the back of the space is the kitchen. The cabinets are distressed, there’s a large center island and a rustic wooden table, and French doors lead out back.

Twirling around, I see everything is perfect, and sure enough, there on the kitchen island is a large bouquet of wildflowers, a pound cake encased in plastic wrap, and a bottle of white wine chilling next to it. My stomach growls.

If there’s one thing a chef never misses, it’s a meal, and right now, it’s lunchtime.

I hunt down a fork and a plate then cut off a piece of the cake, which is delicious. Seems to me Michelle has her own culinary skills hidden up her sleeve. Deciding it’s five o’clock somewhere, I uncork the wine and pour myself a glass.

Raising a toast to myself, I repeat Meg’s words, “You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar.”

I can do these two weeks. It’s not as if we’ll have to see each other a whole lot. I’m here to learn, cook, and smile for the camera, none of which has much to do with him. The first sip of wine sets my taste buds tingling. Different flavors burst over my tongue, and I’m delighted by how smooth it is.

Picking up the bottle, I read the label, which declares it a chardonnay reserve, The Queen Bee. It’s one of their wines, and it’s very good. This confuses me, because if they’re all as delicious as this one, I’m not sure why they received that bad review. I’ve never tasted their wines before, but maybe I was wrong assuming they were below average.

From across the room, my cell phone rings. Hoping it’s Meg, I race to dig it out of my purse and see it’s a local number instead.

“Hello?”

“Shelby, this is Zach.” The timbre of his voice slides over me. He sounds every bit as good over the phone as he does in person. Wait—what? No! Nothing about him is good!

“How did you get my number?” I snap.

“How do you think?” Irritation leaks out between his words.

Silence ticks by.

“Well, what do you want?” If he called to antagonize me, it’s working.

He chuckles as if he knows what he’s doing to me. “Tomorrow at eleven thirty, someone will pick you up and bring you to the main house. The magazine wants to interview us at the beginning and end of the assignment.”

“Together?” Please say no. Please say no.

“Yes.”

A sigh escapes me. So much for not having to spend time together. “Fine, I’ll be ready.”

He snorts, and before he hangs up, he mumbles, “I’m sure you will.”

Whatever.

Such an asshole.

I toss my phone onto the counter and reach for the glass of wine, but it doesn’t help. The hostility and rejection from earlier weaves its way back through my muscles, and I hate that he made me think of my father. Granted, not a day goes by that I don’t hear him whispering one of his many slurs in my ear, like You’ll never amount to anything and You’re useless just like your mother, but up there at the manor, today, it just felt like more.

Letting out a deep sigh, I take another gulp of the wine and swallow the insecurities that surfaced. I refuse to be weak. I refuse to allow him or anyone make me feel inconsequential. I will continue to prove him—and them—wrong. I mean, why does Zach have to be so uncivil? Really, what is his problem?

My eyes drift to the French doors off the kitchen and land on a black crow standing on the patio table. My breath catches as I take the bird in. The crow tilts its head to the side, staring right at me, and my stomach drops. A black crow is a bad omen.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, okay? He and I are like oil and water, but I can do this. I’ve dealt with someone like him before,” I say to the bird. It bobs its head a few times and flies off. I hope I’m wrong about the bird, hope because it left, it thinks I can do this, too.

Tomorrow will definitely be interesting.