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She frowns. “I know, which makes me think we need to add a jacuzzi, since we don’t have a pool.” She points to an area near the patio. “Over there.”
“Would it be ready in time?” It’s remarkable how big the space is, and it’s only the side yard.
“I can make it happen.”
I turn to her. “Are you making sure to rest and take care of yourself?”
“Daire wouldn’t have it any other way. He massages my feet every evening when he gets back from the office at the farm.”
I cover my heart and sigh. “You won the husband lottery.”
She beams. “I did, didn’t I?”
“Where do you think Easton went? I should rescue him from Detective Pickles.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. My guess is he’s in the kitchen.” She rubs her belly, then turns and heads in the direction we came. “Let’s go find him.”
I follow her through the inn to a hallway and the secret bookcase door she’d told me about earlier.
“I love secret doors,” I gush as we pass through.
She closes it and pushes a button.
“What did that do?”
“Locked it.”
“So cool.”
This side of the house with its new design and renovations, I’ve seen. They did this first before starting work on the inn. I call it southern chic. Daire let Everleigh have full reign. She kept the study and billiard room modern for him, but the rest is so my best friend with its neutral colors, hydrangeas, comfortable furnishings, natural woven rugs, and light stone fireplaces.
The house on this side smells fresh, with a hint of floral. “I love what you chose for this house.” I’ve told her this before. It’s like stepping into a magazine. For how big the estate is, even with the separation for the inn, the décor makes it cozy.
“It takes my breath away,” Everleigh says over her shoulder, leading the way to the kitchen. “I can’t believe it’s mine.”
We pass under a large archway. Sure enough, Easton stands at the kitchen island eating a sandwich. Detective Pickles’s cage is by his glass of tea.
Everleigh sends me a knowing smirk. “The Livingston boys are always hungry.”
Is that why he was grouchy and got quiet in the car? He was hungry?
“I hope this wasn’t Daire’s sandwich?” He finishes the last bite.
“Nope. I made that for you.” She takes the plate, rinses it in the sink, and puts it in the dishwasher.
“I made us quinoa salads with cranberries,” she says to me. “Are you hungry?”
“A little. Are you?” I don’t know how often pregnant women eat.
“The answer to that is yes,” Easton says. “I’ve never seen her eat so much, but then, I barely saw her eat before.”
“I’ll get us some,” she says.
“Thanks for watching him,” I say to Easton and move Detective Pickles’s cage to the side of the island with bar stools.
“He’s a wild one, you should try to tame him.” He gestures to the sleeping ball of fur, eating pellets from his small bowl.
I laugh and excuse myself to use the bathroom, happy Easton is joking again.
