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“So?” Kane seemed unfazed.
I headed toward the doors, embarrassed and silently lamenting by wringing my hands.
Kane followed. “Scarlett, why are you so worried?”
“I don’t want my stepsiblings to talk about me. A lot of them do. You don’t know what I had to deal with growing up. And Ophelia is going to make up something because no one will ever believe that you like me. They’ll say you’re babysitting me or lost a bet. I don’t know. Just . . . just . . . this was a bad idea.”
“Hey.” He gently tugged on my arm.
I looked at his hand, which was leaving an invisible mark so deep it scared me. Then I looked into his warm, kind eyes. I knew then I was in way over my head. “I need to go.”
“Scarlett.”
“Please,” I begged.
He dropped his hand. “All right. I’ll see you later?” He said it as a question.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” I ran off, clutching my notepad to me.
Scarlett Jane Armstrong, you are a ridiculous girl.
Ten Best Qualities
I drove through the gate of our house in Arden-Habersham, one of the most coveted neighborhoods in Atlanta. It boasted not only beautiful homes but the governor’s mansion. Auggie loved the distinction and prestige. There was no denying how lovely our house and grounds were. It was referred to as a timeless English country estate. The large home had a simple elegance to it, with a steeply pitched roof and overlapping front-faced gables. It had four chimneys to match the several fireplaces throughout the house. The lawns and gardens were well manicured, with clean lines and rows of hedges. The backyard was as pristine as the front, with a crystal-clear pool, lush greenery, and a forest of trees surrounding it, making the home feel more secluded than it truly was.
I believed the women my father married fell more in love with the house than with him. It was probably why they wanted to leave their mark on it. Maybe each wife thought if she could make it a home instead of a trophy for Auggie, he would prize her above all and keep her. Sadly, Auggie didn’t spend much time in the house. To him, it was only a place for sleeping and throwing dinner parties for the Atlanta elite and his business associates. And little did they know, he had bought the house for Naomi.
There were three things in the house that Auggie never allowed anyone to change. My bedroom, the library Naomi had loved so much, and the rose garden Naomi had planted out back. Auggie had hired a special gardener to care for the roses over the years. And when Auggie ever did spend time at the house, he was usually haunting the library.
Naomi loved when I would bring her bouquets from her beloved garden, even though it always brought a tear to her eye. Reminders of what could have been, she would always say.
Before I pulled my car into the vast four-car garage, I noticed Eva had wasted no time; an interior decorating crew was already there. The Asian Zen furniture was being hauled out, and large pieces wrapped in plastic were being brought in. I couldn’t care less what style the new furniture was as long as it was more comfortable than the last go-around.
I walked in through the mudroom that led into the kitchen. There was a set of stairs from there that went straight up to the landing outside my room. There was a lot of noise coming from the main part of the house. Miss Rae, our housekeeper, was in the kitchen rolling her eyes and slicing peaches. If I wasn’t mistaken, she was making peach and prosciutto flatbread—my favorite pizza.
“Hi, Miss Rae,” I called in passing as I headed toward the stairs. I wanted to be alone after the day I’d had. Honestly, I pretty much always wanted to be alone, until the last couple of days. I think that scared me more than anything. To crave someone’s attention. Someone who would probably end up rejecting me, like most people. And I knew if Kane rejected me, it would hurt more acutely than a rejection from anyone else, save my father.
“Dinner is almost done, honey.”
I opened the door leading to the staircase and my solitude. “Sorry, I’m not really hungry. Can you save it for later?”
She dropped the knife onto the granite countertop. “Are you sick?”
I know, it was a big deal when I refused food. “No. Just a rough day.”
She untied her apron. “Come tell me about it. I have cookies,” she sang.
Hmm. Cookies. “What kind?” Not like there were really any bad kinds.
She smiled, making her wrinkles more pronounced on her round face. When I was little, I swore she was Mrs. Claus, with her white hair and penchant for baking.
