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Well, no one will ever guess that date, will they, my darling? It’s too morbid, so it’s the last thing anyone would think I’d use.
Sitting at her dressing table in her room, slathering her hands with some fancy cream that arrived by courier every six weeks from France. I’ve never smelled it before or since, but I bet it still lingers in the rooms of Ashby House. Sharp lavender, so astringent it almost made your eyes water, and some other scent underneath, woodsy and rich.
I’d been ten, maybe? Something like that. Too young to point out the obvious alternatives.
No one would guess random numbers, either. Or digits from a phone number you barely use. Or my real birthday since you just told everyone it was the same day as yours so we could celebrate at the same time. So why thefuckis it this day? Why do you want to remember that date every time you go in and out of those gates? Why––
“Cam?”
I blink, and realize Jules is looking at me, her hand on my arm. I’ve stopped the car without realizing it, and the gates to Ashby House rise up before us.
There’s a wrought iron fence running out in either direction from the granite columns, but—family secret here—it doesn’tenclose the whole property. A section fell down about twenty years ago, and Ruby never bothered to get it fixed.
If I got out of the car right now, I could walk along this fence with my eyes closed, and I’d know exactly where that hole was, and I fucking hate that.
I hate that this place still lives inside of me.
“Sorry,” I tell Jules now. “Zoned out trying to remember the code.”
Her eyebrows draw together, concern puckering her lips. “The code?”
“To open the gate.”
Now she’s openly frowning. “Camden,” she says slowly. “It’s… it’s already open, babe. See?”
In my mind, the gate loomed up to the sky, bars thick and black, locking McTavishes inside, locking anyone else out.
But now I see that if you were in decent shape and had stretched first, you could probably climb the gate with no problem. And the bars are thinner than I remembered, flecked with rust now, some of the filigree details almost eaten through with it.
And Jules is right—one side of the gate hangs half open.
Stepping out of the car, I get my first deep breath of that North Carolina mountain air, feeling my chest expand with it. Pine, the loamy smell of damp earth, the slight chemical tang of a thunderstorm not too far away.
It smells like home.
Because, like it or not, that’s what this place is.
I push the gate all the way open and get back into the car.
Next to me, Jules is still looking a little worried, so I throw her a quick smile and make my voice as cheerful as I can. “You ready for this?”
“Are you?” she counters, and I laugh, but it’s a weak sound, more like a huff of air than an actual chuckle.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
And then I put the car in drive, and let Ashby House pull me back in.
CHAPTER FIVEJules
Before Cam, I’d never been in love before. And before you’re like, “Well, that’s sad,” let me remind you that we met when I was all of twenty-one years old, so pump the brakes on throwing me a Sad Spinster Shower, okay?
And naturally, given that I’d married the love of my life, I assumed I’d never fall in love again. One and done.
That wasbeforeI saw Ashby House.
I could tell as we drove up the mountain that Cam was tense, his jaw clenched, his fingers doing that nervous drumming thing. It made me feel shitty, sitting there with champagne bubbles in my veins while he seemed to sink further and further into misery, but I couldn’t help it. We were so close, and I knew that once we were there, once Cam hadmein Ashby House, he’d understand that it wasn’t the place. It was the people.
The place could be amazing. The place could beours.
