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Mom glances at me. “Please behave.”
I give her a bright grin. “Cross my heart.”
“And you,” she says, turning to Dad, “are to benice. I want this to go smoothly. It’s important to Celine and that makes it important to me, too.”
“Mom, we all love Cee,” I chime in. “Even if I hate the guy, I’m gonna pretend otherwise.”
She sighs. “Couldn’t you just like him right off the bat?”
I loft a brow. “Seems unreasonable to me.”
“Me, too,” Dad mutters under his breath.
For once, he and I are on the same page.
14
TAYLOR
We’re saved another lecture when the gates part before we’ve even reached them.
I’m having a hard time containing my natural inclination to project vibes of “IDGAF.” It’s like we’ve entered a whole other world.
The property is nothing short of sprawling. A band of ancient trees, at least an acre thick, separates the road from the home. A paved driveway unfurls like a red carpet up to the marble front staircase of the house—although the word “house” feels woefully inadequate to describe the huge, ornate palace that rises from the earth at the top of the hill.
Dad slows down unconsciously as we approach. It feels like the kind of place you can’t just run up to. You need to take your time, be respectful, soak it all in.
A stone fountain dots the middle of the circular courtyard. Water sprays from it in a graceful arc, shooting high in the air before coming down around the head of the statue. Water lilies bob on the surface of the pool.
When we come to a stop, my door is pulled open. I look up to see a wiry older gentleman in a suit.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. Welcome to Zakharov House.”
What I mean to say is,Thank you. What actually comes out is, “Hot damn.”
“Taylor!” Mom snaps as she’s helped out of the car by another valet. This one is a little shorter and a lot younger. He gives me a cheesy smile that’s not in the least bit professional, and I find myself pulling down the hem of my skirt.
Mom wobbles around the front of the car. I take one elbow, Dad takes the other, and the three of us begin to mount the stairs.
The double doors at the top have been thrown open. It isn’t until we reach the landing that I can see through them and into the belly of the house beyond.
“This is batshit,” I breathe. The foyer stretches on forever before it reaches an indoor koi pond. Flashes of silver and orange nip at the surface before disappearing again.
I’m not sure Mom even hears me. She’s too busy admiring the crystal chandelier hanging over our heads. “You’ve got to hand it to him: he’s got exquisite taste.”
“Or his interior designer does, anyway,” I mumble.
Beyond the koi pond is a perfectly manicured lawn that seems to stretch on for miles. The perimeter is ringed with flowering hedges bursting in every color known to man. Reds, blues, and, likeIl-ar-i-onsomehow knew Mom loved them, one yellow bloom after another after the next.
At the far side of the garden, I see a cluster of people standing together and talking. A dark-haired head rises from the crowd, looming over the others in a way that draws my eye, but it’s too far away for me to tell who anyone is.
“Mr. and Mrs. Theron. Miss Theron.” I turn toward a tall gentleman in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit. “I’m Semyon, the housekeeper. I’m delighted to welcome you all to Zakharov House.”
“I’m Taylor. The bride-to-be’s sister. Nice to meet you, Semyon.”
“Of course.” He gives me a thin, knowing smile. “Your sister is in the east gardens, ma’am. Please allow me to escort you there.”
I nudge Mom forward and the two of us follow Semyon down a broad corridor drowning in sunlight. I’m aware of Dad lurking just behind us, but I’m too distracted by this house to concentrate on how he’s handling all the wealth and splendor.
