Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 43239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
As I fold towels into miniature bunnies for the welcome baskets, my gaze drifts up to the framed photo of my mother. With her wavy red hair, the constellation of freckles across her nose, and those striking emerald eyes, I could pass for her twin.
The grief hits out of nowhere.
To keep from breaking down, I pull out one of her old scrapbooks and flip through the thick, crinkling pages—each one heavy with memories. I’m halfway through a spread of her in the kitchen—laughing in an apron, flour dusting her cheeks—when there’s a soft knock at the door.
“Can I come in?” Janey’s voice is tentative, but she’s already stepping into the room, a tray of my favorite tea in her hands.
“As long as you promise not to bring up my brother or his friend,” I warn.
“Oh, so you get to blow up my phone with a thousand texts and voicemails, but I don’t get to say a word?” She arches a brow.
“Exactly.”
“Fine.” She shrugs, carrying the tray over to the table. “Your brother is still number one on my hot-as-hell list. But I just ran into him and his New York friend, and I gotta say—he might have some competition.”
“Did you not hear what I just said about discussing them?”
“If you weren’t my best friend, I’d totally bang your brother.”
“Okay.” I point toward the hallway. “You can’t be in here anymore.”
“I’m done now, I swear.” She laughs and plops beside me, gently tugging the scrapbook from my hands. She flips straight to her favorite page—me, age six, twirling in a matching skirt set with Mom, both of us drowning in ruffles and too-big sunhats.
“You think if she were still here, she’d slap the hell out of Jackson for me?” I ask.
“No…” Janey shakes her head. “Lance might, though.”
“I’ll write back to him the next time he sends a card and see how long it takes him to get here,” I say. “He wouldn’t stand for Jackson belittling me.”
“I don’t think Jackson’s trying to belittle you at all,” she says. “He’s had your back since forever, and he’s ready to fight anyone just for giving you a side-eye.”
“So, you think I need charm school, too?” My voice turns sharp. “You honestly believe I need help in that department?”
She picks up a teacup and takes a long, slow sip.
“Oh, I see,” I say, nodding. “So, you’re a traitor, too…”
“A few lessons in ‘people skills’ won’t kill you,” she says, exhaling. “It’d be nice not to worry about you biting a vendor’s head off every time someone asks a question.”
“Oh, please.” I let out a breath. “I’ve never been rude to a vendor.”
Janey stares at me. Blank. Silent.
“Not intentionally rude…”
She pulls out her phone and taps on a video. It’s me—at the front desk, glaring at some guy.
“Get your ass off my property,” I snap. “You’re trying to rip us off.”
“It’s just business, Miss Eliza.”
“Business with a random thirty percent increase in the price?”
“Harvest season was rough this year.”
“It wasn’t that damn rough,” I hiss, my hands on hips. “Everyone’s got overstock, including us—you’re just trying to squeeze extra profit.”
“Can I talk to an adult, please?”
"What the hell are you trying to say, you cheating-ass mother-fu--"
The video ends, and I blink at her.
“In all fairness,” I say, “he really was trying to rip us off, and I don’t regret losing his business.”
She taps another video. It’s me yelling at the lawn guy.
“He mowed down two of my favorite hydrangea bushes,” I protest, not needing to relive the moment. “It took me two years to grow those.”
Then a third video plays—me running after our disaster of a mail carrier for what was probably the millionth time.
“I can do this all day,” Janey says, not looking up from the screen. “Do you see the problem?”
“The only problem I see is my so-called best friend recording me without permission. Let’s talk about that, shall we?”
“Eliza…” Her tone softens. “Do you really not see a problem?”
“…Maybe.” I lift my hands in half-surrender. “Okay. I could stand to brush up on my confrontation skills. I’ll take an online course or something.”
“That’s not going to be enough.”
“What else am I missing?”
She hesitates, then lowers her voice. “When we go to events, everyone looks like they just stepped off a magazine cover. And you show up in… jeans and sarcasm.”
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll order a rack of business suits from Amazon and you can pick your favorites.”
She sighs. “Your brother wouldn’t have brought that guy here if he didn’t think it was in your best interest. This resort is everything to him—besides you. He wouldn’t risk screwing it up just to get a rise out of you.”
“I can’t believe you’re taking his side.”
“I’m taking the side of what’s best.” She squeezes my hand. “Can you just sleep on it before shutting the idea down completely?”