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Reid.
My questions rush out without a pause. “How is he? Does he like the same things? Is he still funny and playful?”
She sniffs, pride covering her face as she says, “My son has matured.”
As we leave the Hartford area for Fairfield, traces of the city fade behind, and memories fall into place. I marvel at the familiar lush expanse of trees, all the large homes, country clubs, and luxury shopping areas.
It’s not long until we reach the upscale community. And in no time, Wren is turning down the lengthy asphalt entrance adorned with flourishing eastern redbud and oak trees on either side.
My heart increases speed.
Butterflies swarm my stomach.
Like an eager child, I peer around the front seat at the familiar solid black wrought iron gates. As they open for Wren to drive inside, indescribable extravagance fills my view and leaves me speechless.
Holy shit.
The beige stone mansion is much larger than I recall, stretching across the property with a three-car garage on the left and a greenhouse amid the trees. It wouldn’t be a surprise if Aunt Helena landed a feature in Architectural Digest. Such a feat would be well-deserved.
Lips parted, I stare wide-eyed at the gorgeous residence like it’s my first time visiting.
As a child, I was aware of the Radcliff wealth, but my young and innocent mind never fully understood its extent.
Everything is spectacular, parallel to a charming storybook residence in the countryside. Only this is in real life.
Wren veers around the fountain in the vast stone-covered entrance and stops near the front steps. He hurries to open Aunt Helena’s door.
I let myself out, admiring my surroundings more, from the creamy trim details, arched windows, shaved shrubs, and rose bushes. It all looks so well-maintained that it could pass as unnatural. Even the air smells and feels clean of impurities like all the chaos is kept out by the gates.
At the sound of the trunk opening, I hasten to the back to retrieve my suitcase as the diligent driver hauls it out for me.
“Thank you, Mr. Phillips,” I say politely and wave him off when he motions to bring the suitcase inside.
“Wren’s fine, Cassandra,” he says with a smile. “And you’re welcome.”
“Call me Cassie.”
His response is a nod, and he waits at the car as I trail Aunt Helena up the steps through the gorgeous dark wood front door.
The sophisticated lady struts ahead, her red bottom heels making a ruckus on the shiny off-white marble tile.
My intrigue slows me down. It’s still so dramatic, with the dazzling chandelier hanging from the high ceiling and the spiral staircase that seems to go on forever. Unfamiliar fancy sculptors and artwork beautify the white walls. The interior looks more contemporary than the traditional style I left behind seven years ago.
Aunt Helena stalls in the archway of what I remember is the living room, saying, “She’s here.”
No one responds.
She glances over at me. “Come greet your cousin.”
The organ in my chest starts to gallop like a racehorse in the Kentucky Derby.
Leaving my suitcase in the passage, I draw a deep breath and wander into the living room.
A gasp escapes at the towering guy with wavy gilded hair, tanned skin, pensive hazel eyes, a chiseled jawline, and fresh stubble.
This is my cousin? Well, duh, he’s not a little boy anymore. He’s eighteen now.
“Reid,” comes out in a whisper. “Hey.”
