The wide streets were an unexpected patchwork of architecture dating back to the early 1800s. Victorian structures with inviting round towers flanked quaint storefronts—their flat facades holdovers from the Greek and Gothic Revival–favored palates of the Antebellum South—painted in cheery shades of blue, green, and white.
Shops boasted wholesome names like Sweet B’s Bakery and Miller’s Hardware. Lou Lou’s, a ’50s-inspired diner bathed in orange neon light, advertised homemade strawberry pie;$1-a-slicewas scrawled in flourished cursive on its large bay windows.
An all-brick Baptist church with a steeple that pierced the cloudless blue sky presided over the town square. Iris was like a living soundstage for a ’90s coming-of-age TV drama about a painfully aloof teenage boy and a creek, complete with astonishingly attractive locals in T-shirts and cut-offs, milling casually down pin oak–lined sidewalks.
Soon, the SUV idled before an imposing brick-and-iron gate emblazoned with an intricate crest that formed the lettersCR. Brinton’s heart faltered, but there was no turningback. The gates opened, and the SUV slowly crunched down the gravel driveway.
“Figured you’d wanna take in the view,” Michael said. “Heck, I’ve been with the Crawfords for thirty years, and it never gets old.”
She nodded at him, aiming to appear nonchalant, then gasped as the rural wonderland unfolded from every angle. They carved around the first turn, approaching the far edge of a shimmering lake, complete with an expensive-looking dock and a pair of gleaming white pontoon boats; wispy, pea tendril–green fields and shady trees; a horse stable; a pristine Padel ball court; and finally, the white stone–faced, two-story home. On either side, the main house was flanked by what looked like a smaller guest house and another structure. Probably a garage packed with rows of foreign cars, or a secret lair typical of the super-wealthy.
The SUV grounded to a stop in front of the main house. Before Brinton could protest, Michael opened her door and outstretched his hand to help her down.
“Oh—I can get my own door,” she squeaked, more nervous than she expected.
He beamed up at her. “I know it, but that’s not how we do things ’round here.”
This would take some getting used to. Brinton half smirked as he deployed a roaring chuckle. “You’re welcome.”
The second her combat boots hit the glittering pavement, the door to the main house swung open. Sammi, the brunette on Jamie’s team at the Grammys, fluttered over to the SUV, a vision in yellow and sky-high cork platform heels, glossy, expensive-looking waves fanning around her face. As Jamie’s publicist, she had arranged Brinton’s itinerary, and they spoke almost every day leading up to her arrival.
“Good to see you again,” Brinton said, eyes wide and genuinely transfixed by her beauty. She couldn’t do too muchif she tried. That was rare in a world obsessed with filters and fillers. “Thank you for setting this all up.” She outstretched her hand, but Sammi immediately slapped it away.
“Not how we do things ’round here,” she said through snow-white teeth. She wrapped Brinton in a tight hug that left her unsteady.
This wasa lot. This was alsoday one.Brinton tried not to bristle as her voice jumped two octaves. “Erm—I’m not really a hugger.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll fix that,” Sammi said, winking at her with glimmering emerald eyes.
Michael passed her luggage to a younger blond man, likely among the hundreds of staffers who maintained this palace.
“We have a lot to get to—Oh, honey…” Sammi’s luminous smile dimmed as she eyed Brinton politely. “You wanna get changed?”
She used a cherry red–manicured nail to hone in on Brinton’s all-black ensemble: cropped jeans, matching silk button-down, and her favorite heeled boots. Apparently, the look wasn’t as chic as she initially imagined.
“Ah, no. My clothes are fine,” Brinton said through a tight, forced smile.
“And you have more of…this in that suitcase?” Sammi nodded upward to the now red-faced guy dragging it up the flagstone steps.
“Yes.”
“I see.”
Looping her arm into Brinton’s, Sammi guided them toward the main house and through the massive wood-and-etched-glass double doors. “I don’t mean any harm. You look great—stunning even. It’s only that, on a good day, it’s gonna be a hundred degrees and steamier than a bayoubrothel. I can carry you to a boutique or have some options sent over.”
“I think I’ll manage.”
Sammi beamed, a true master of Southern passive-aggression. “No problem. If you change your mind, just holler. We’ll get you set up at the guest house before the welcome party tonight. But for now, how about a tour?”
CHAPTER SIX
After pleasantly roasting on a linen lounge chair by the pool, Jamie roughly ran a hand through his sopping wet hair and padded to the French doors leading into the kitchen. The space was bright and airy, with luscious white marble countertops, chocolatey hardwood floors, and a long bank of windows overlooking the glimmering pool.
It was usually quiet—his father took most meals in his office or the billiards room—but today, the kitchen hummed with staff tending to platters of sticky spare ribs, tangy collard greens, smoked chicken, baked macaroni and cheese, red rice, gooey butter cake, and whipped banana pudding for the cookout that night.
Liza, the family’s head chef for the past twenty years, directed the troops like the pint-sized general she was. Pointing here and there, tasting a rotation of sauces on tiny spoons, and calling out intermittently “Needs more pepper, baby.”
She did it all without getting a single drop on her crisp, white button-down. Liza was in her 60s, with a smooth, nutmeg complexion and a soul-soothing smile. Equal partsOprah Winfrey and Martha Stewart—wisdom, beauty, and grace. But don’t dare trifle with her shit.
