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So, Mr. Scott Filmore is a snitch. Strike one. Although who can blame him for saving his own ass?
“I’ve been intending to, Grandfather.”
“Please do so. Soon,” he urges. “Two dinners. That’s all. You might not be able to keep the Carver name alive in the political scene, but you’re so bright. Should have gone to law school, but regardless, you have a voice.”
The should’ve-gone-to-law-school bit has been the chorus for the past two years of my life. A familiar refrain since before I even received my undergrad degree.
I wind a heated round brush through my thick locks as he elaborates on my Carver duties.
“Marrying into a political family affords us the opportunity to carry on our influence. It’s in your blood, Cee. I’m so proud.” After a beat of heavy silence, he adds, “You’re all we have.”
He knows how to twist the dagger—that’s for sure. It always comes back to the ache.
Always.
“Of course. I’ll do what I can to make the time.” Noncommittal, but hopefully appeasing.
“That’s my girl.” The lump in his throat is audible, which is why I can’t fight him. After all this time, everything is still so raw. “Your father may have sidestepped his Carver legacy, but he gave me … you.”
So much more was said in that pause than his words. My grandfather’s hopes and dreams were pinned to my uncle and brother, two men who exemplified Carver genes. Two men who met their demise before fulfilling their legacy, leaving the responsibility to my father and me. Neither of us has performed accordingly.
My temples throb. It’s too early to bear the all-too-familiar heartbreak. “I have an appointment, so I’d better run.”
“Certainly.” He clears his throat, and the polished senator reemerges. “Please return the gentlemen’s calls promptly and keep me abreast on how the meetings go.”
“Yes, sir. And give Grandmother my love.”
“Will do, dear. I assure you, it is very much returned.”
The rich are often depicted as having no decency or love when it comes to family. It makes sense. To hold on to wealth, ambition must take center stage. But lack of connection isn’t the issue with my family.
The Carvers heap love in plenty. It’s just accompanied by ladder-climbing deals and guilt. And somehow, I seem to always be entwined in those manipulative escorts.
As I’m applying my matte smoky-mauve lipstick, Ivy knocks softly before peeking her head into my room. “Ready?”
“Yes.” I spritz my Creed Wind Flowers perfume in a last-minute flurry. “Let me grab my purse and camera bag so I don’t have to come back up,” I tell her. She steps all the way into the room, so when I glance up, I’m taken aback. She’s all business in a knit navy dress, blue eyes sparkling. “Ivy, you really own being pregnant, don’t you? You’re absolutely glowing.”
She laughs—her ebullient, sunny warble—while rubbing her palm over her belly. “Thanks. I feel like a whale. And I was just thinking how gorgeous you are. Seriously, Lettie, you grow more stunning every year.”
“Maybe it’s the time apart.” My lungs crash with a blistering pang. We used to overlook changes because we were there for them all.
“Yeah,” she whispers with a hint of melancholy.
I don’t want her carrying anything other than that bundle of joy, so I smile big and tow her, my bags, and my riding boots toward the stairs.
“I hope you’re hungry,” she sings.
“Famished,” I say even though I find meals here rather stressful—like I’m in the midst of an identity crisis among Ivy and her men. I don’t know them well enough to let loose like I do with her, but not being myself makes me feel light-years away from her. And they don’t seem interested in knowing me at all. Every interaction with the four men in this house feels forced and unnatural. Not that it matters; I’m here for Ivy and her baby.
Natasha was a good buffer yesterday since she treats me as a daughter. It felt like I had another ally, which is a bizarre viewpoint, but I’m flailing here. Unfortunately, she ran out to meet a friend early this morning, so I’m on my own.
The back staircase dips into the edge of the kitchen, and the smells of bacon, cinnamon, yeast, and butter smack into us before we reach the biscotti-tan ceramic tile.
Gage and Ivy prepared quite the spread together, which I’m informed is fairly normal. Wells is flipping protein pancakes and droning on about how he’s the only one paying attention to nutrition because everything else, other than the eggs and fruit, is garbage. He’s not wrong. There are four variations of pastries, biscuits, gravy, bacon, and sausage. It’s a feast, but seeing as I’m not knitting a human or training to be an assassin for the underworld, I bite a piece of greasy bacon with a goading moan and plate up.
Liam snickers on the other side of the island, seizing his fill along with me. At least we agree on something. And I can’t deny the jolt zipping up my spine, having produced that subtle smile climbing his cheeks. As usual, he’s clad in his casual attire—jeans and a muscle-hugging forest-green T-shirt, which makes his eyes glow like glimmering sea glass, the gold flecks dancing. So, I avert my gaze as much as possible. I’d prefer to rove them over his trim swimmer’s physique, noting every dip and bulge and sculpted edge, much like he did to me the first night, but that seems dangerous.
Liam Graves is a faulty spark plug, ready to throw me off course by blowing up my whole damn life.
