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Well-tended bushes flanked the driveway and opened into a circular parking area that had a water fountain in the middle. Anthony’s Town Car was parked next to a silver Porsche Coupe.
“My aunt’s car,” Blake said, noticing my line of sight. “Come on, let’s get this over with.” Some of the brokenness in his voice had gone overnight. He sounded more certain of himself, and I knew it was because he was determined to make his uncle see sense.
Blake exited the car and came around to the passenger side to help me out.
As I slid out of the seat, a female voice called, “Blake, honey, how lovely to see you. We weren’t expecting you.”
I stepped out of the car and pressed myself slightly behind Blake. What I really wanted was for the ground to open up and swallow me whole, but the universe had never been on my side.
I doubted it was about to start now.
“And who is this?” The lady’s voice didn’t sound annoyed so much as inquisitive, and I wondered if she wasn’t privy to knowing her husband’s way of dealing with unwanted problems.
“Aunt Miranda, this is Penny Wilson.”
I peeked out from behind Blake and gave her a weak smile. Miranda regarded me for a second, giving me a cursory once-over. I closed my eyes just for a second, already feeling the scrutiny of these people.
When I opened them again, Blake’s aunt was smiling directly at me. “It’s lovely to meet you, Penny.”
Taken aback by her warmth, I replied, “Thank you. It’s very nice to meet you too.”
Blake didn’t let go of my hand as we walked to the house where Miranda was standing.
“Is he here?” he asked.
His aunt nodded and turned for us to follow her inside.
If the outside was anything to be impressed by, the inside of the Weston’s home was stunning.
I walked beside Blake in awe of the regal feel of the place. Soft, rich furnishings occupied the space, ornately framed photos covered the hallway walls, and everything just complemented everything else. Even the Christmas decorations matched to perfection. It was beautiful.
We stopped outside a door, and Miranda knocked gently, pressing her ear to the wood. “Ant, we have guests.”
My heart started to pound, and I squeezed Blake’s hand for reassurance.
“Come in,” a deep voice said from the other side of the door.
Miranda opened the door and motioned for us to enter the room. She followed behind us and shut the door. Anthony Weston sat behind a large antique desk. He looked up, and his eyes glowered, dropping to where Blake’s hand entwined with mine, and all the air was sucked from the room.
I wanted to run—to get the hell out of there. Old habits died hard, and my anxieties screamed at me to turn around and walk away. I wasn’t built for this kind of confrontation.
Not when I was the issue.
But Blake kept my hand planted firmly on his. He squeezed gently and said, “Uncle, we need to talk.”
Anthony rose from his chair and stalked toward us. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Miss Wilson. I take it you told my nephew about our little conversation.” He homed in on our joined hands again, and I tensed.
“Uncle, don’t.”
“What is she talking about, Ant? You visited Penny? When?”
“Miranda”—he let out an exasperated sigh—“please stay out of this. This is between the three of us.”
“Oh no, you don’t, Anthony Matthew Weston. If this concerns Blake, it concerns me. I will not stand by and watch you drive him away.”
I suddenly felt as if I was missing a whole part of the story. Miranda was nothing like her husband; her eyes were warm and friendly, and she had welcomed me into her home with no questions asked.
A stark contrast to her husband, who looked ready to burst a blood vessel.
