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As usual, I couldn’t let him have the last word, even though I betrayed myself with my final jab. “Might as well sleep in the bedroom. Layla’s probably in there fantasizing about you anyway. McGee totally called that whole situation… not that you listened to him either.”
The only indication Thatcher heard me was the slight widening of his nostrils. “Good night, Reagan.”
As he escaped through the bunk curtain, I felt that strange kind of emptiness that comes from pulling out of a lover. It was enough to make me low-key nauseated and edgy at the same time.
I opened my mouth to call him back, but the words didn’t come. Maybe it was better this way. It would be easier to keep our distance from each other if we couldn’t stand the sight of each other.
As I counted out the next two hours with the steady thrum thrum thrum of the bus tires, I did an awful lot of fantasizing about someone I couldn’t stand the sight of.
* * *
When we finally reached Honeybridge late the following day, I shot off the bus like I’d been fired from a cannon. Layla had treated me like a brainless bridge troll the entire day, and Thatcher acted like he didn’t have a single concern outside of work. It was a stark reminder of the truth. Thatcher Pennington was married to his job and always would be.
“Reagan, darling!” My mother’s voice cut through the thin winter air as she strode down the shallow front steps to greet us. Her crisp navy wool trousers and cream turtleneck sweater were a calm contrast to the bright silver metallic snow boots JT and Flynn had given her for Christmas. Thankfully, they’d refrained from telling her they’d only selected those particular boots because they were called “Cougars.” I was saving that tidbit for just the perfect moment.
“What took you so long?” she demanded, throwing air-kisses in my general direction before reaching out to grasp Thatcher’s hands. “Oh, and Thatch-errr.” She beamed a bright-white smile. “It’s always so lovely to see you. Come in, come in. It’s forecast to be utterly frigid the entire week of the festival. I’m so put out.” Her forehead might have creased with a scowl, if such a thing were possible.
One would think frigid conditions would be optimal for an Ice Fest, but I knew better than to say this out loud.
We all trundled to the foyer, and I inhaled the warm, welcome scent of home. My mother’s custom-blended botanical room spray was a cross between fresh pine and the glossy pages of a home-decor magazine. The usual bowls of wooden balls and vases of monochromatic feathers had replaced the holiday decorations since my previous visit over Christmas, but there was a roaring fire in the stone fireplace, giving the main living room a cozy feel.
As much as I enjoyed the bustle of Honeybridge in the summer tourist season, I liked the winter here just as well. And although I’d been dreading this interruption to our trip, I was surprised to find there were things I’d missed about this place.
My father stood in the living room, his cell at his ear, staring out over the rooftops of the town at the glittering waters of Lake Wellbridge in the distance. He was using his Senator Voice, so I knew better than to interrupt him with a greeting.
My mother continued her welcoming speech as our housekeeper, Rosalia, took Layla’s and Thatcher’s coats. Patricia was in her element, inviting everyone to sit and enjoy a “preprandial cocktail” before the other guests—you remember Bunty and Magdalena Lamb, don’t you, Thatcher? And the Parks and the Jains?—gathered for dinner. Her overly enthusiastic discourse contrasted with the rude continuation of my father’s phone call, reminding me what I didn’t love about coming home.
And then, as only Patricia Wellbridge could, my mother made it ten times worse.
“Reagan, dear, take Mr. Pennington’s bags upstairs and show him to his room while I help get Layla settled in the guest house.”
Thatcher’s eyes met mine as the heat of embarrassment crawled up my neck. “Yes, ma’am,” I said, keeping the sarcasm volume as soft as possible while still allowing it an escape.
I moved back toward the door to fetch the bags McGee had deposited in the entryway. The expression on McGee’s face was understanding and kind, which only made my humiliation more complete.
Once I had his bags in hand, I turned toward my boss. “Right this way, sir,” I bit out.
Chapter Sixteen
Thatcher
Reagan refused to look at me as we made our way upstairs.
Perhaps that shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was, given all that we’d said to each other the night before and the way we’d avoided each other most of the day. Maybe he’d intended for us to simply disappear from each other’s lives as suddenly as we’d crashed together. But seeing the way his parents had treated him when we’d arrived—his mother commanding, his father flat-out ignoring him—had raised my protective hackles, and I wanted to somehow reassure him that I cared about his feelings and was on his side…
Which was difficult when he was pretending I didn’t exist.
It was immature, I decided, which was probably why everyone said it was a bad idea to date someone so much younger. And it was pretty fucking ironic that Reagan was behaving this way after making remarks about my parenting skills. Reagan had no idea what it was like to raise a child. He also knew exactly why I blamed myself for Brant’s behavior. So how dare he cast judgment on me for feeling responsible? Furthermore, Reagan’s parting shot last night—accusing Layla of thinking inappropriate thoughts about me—was the pot calling the kettle black, not to mention completely off base and, once again, immature.
And I was going to tell him so. As soon as he deigned to look at me.
“You going to give me the silent treatment for a matter of minutes, hours, or days? I’d like to know so I can plan accordingly,” I said drily as soon as we were alone.
Reagan’s chin lifted a fraction, but otherwise, he pretended not to hear.
“You’ll be in JT’s room here on the right, Mr. Pennington.” His voice was crisp and scrupulously polite. Patricia would be so proud. “There’s an en suite bathroom that should have plenty of supplies, but if you need anything, Rosalia is usually in the kitchen and will be happy to help. I’m sure you’ve met her before. She’s the one who keeps this place running.”
He sounded like an automaton as he led me into the room and set my bags down on the crisply made bed. “I assume dinner will be served at seven. I suggest freshening up quickly unless you want to hear Patricia’s passive-aggressive statements about busy schedules leading to the downfall of the American family.”
