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“Hi, Matthew,” she says. “Do you remember me?”
“Of course!” Matty says and hugs her. “You’re Bjork’s doctor. Call me Matty.”
I notice she’s wearing her own necklace, but there’s no sign of my gold chain.
“Wine?” I offer.
“Sure.”
“White or red?”
“White, please.”
I grab the wine, and Matty glares at me when I give him a glass of orange juice. “It’s not fair. You two get to drink wine.”
“You need to grow up first, pal,” I tell him, and turn back to Amber-Rose. “Here we go.”
“Thanks.” Her dainty fingers wrap around the stem of the glass. “By the way, the heating at the shop works great. The room is so comfortable now.”
“Good to hear.” I lead Amber-Rose to the left wing of the house. She turns her head, admiring the sitting rooms and libraries we pass along the way.
She slows down to look at our family photo hanging on the wall inside the main library. I stop, letting her wander over to it. “It was taken two years ago,” I fill her in as she studies the photo. “Look how little Matty was.”
“I’m not that little,” Matty protests.
“Come on, admit it, pal.” I pat his shoulder. “But you are cute in that mini tux.”
Amber-Rose smiles, almost to herself. “Your mom was clearly outnumbered, huh?”
“Yeah. We liked to give her a hard time.”
“That’s what mothers do best.”
I nod, following her admiring gaze to Chloe Hartley—dressed in a midnight blue gown, holding on to the love of her life, Graeme Hartley. I curse the irony, and to this day I still question what the universe was playing at the day I lost my parents.
Amber-Rose seems to notice my reluctance to linger here. She ambles away from the library, giving me a glance that says where-to-now.
“Please,” I say, escorting her to a door that leads to the rose garden. The garden is sheltered, so hopefully the wind doesn’t ruin it for us.
My guest’s jaw drops, rejoicing at the sight of the colorful blooms. “May I?” Her lovely face tells me she can’t let the opportunity to smell the roses pass by.
“Of course.”
Wending her way along the garden path, she apparently immerses herself in the scents and colors—from the native California varieties to the ones coming from Asia and Europe. Her graceful fingers touch the plants delicately. If flowers could smile, I’m sure they would be now.
“I like her,” Matty whispers.
I like her, too. In fact, more than that. I’m desperate for her to like me back, to initiate a channel where we can open up to each other. She’s not the type who would writeMarry Me Rob Hartleyon her belly, but some subtle clues that she’s interested in me would be nice.
“They’re wonderful,” she gushes, and then has a sip of the wine while circling through the garden one more time. Her hips sway, hugged by her tight white pants, and my gaze glides up to her silver top, the low neckline fluttering in the breeze. She’s the goddamn sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in this garden—or anywhere.
Matty tugs at my shirt. “We should take Amber to the workshop.”
“Alright.”
“Amber, Amber, come on!” Matty takes Amber-Rose by the hand. The workshop is only a few strides away from the rose garden. I open the door.
“This is wicked!” she says, taking in Matty’s finger paintings and paper boats scattered around the workbench. “So, you do some crafts here?”
