But sooner or later, before I return to California, I’ll speak to her about it.
Alone.
The owner, a woman named Tiffany Bernard, who meets us at the first house has a megawatt smile that’s locked into a wrinkle and emotion-free face. She extends her French-manicured hand to Gram the moment we exit the truck.
Mrs. Bernard gets five minutes into her pitch—and it’s a good one because the house is amazing with hardwood floors, a great neighborhood, and is only one story—and then she asks about rental and ownership history.
Ashamed, Gram looks down at a dark spot of tile. “My home was recently foreclosed,” she says in a shaky voice.
Mrs. Bernard’s smile doesn’t change, but I can tell that the pleasant atmosphere has shifted. She speeds through the rest of the showing, giving us barely enough time to look at each room. At the end of the tour, I thank her and ask for a copy of the rental agreement. Despite the owner’s frosty attitude, Gram really seems to like the house and if I have to, I can place the rental contract under my name. The only thing I’ve ever bought using credit was a used ’04 Mercury sedan that I paid off late last year.
Mrs. Bernard gives me her creepy Botox smile. “It’s available on our website, dear,” she says sweetly and I realize that it doesn’t matter if we put the rental contract under the governor’s name—this woman wants nothing to do with us.
Gram thanks her and says we’ll be in touch. On the way to the truck, I lag behind to walk with Seth, hissing, “Did you find that house on a website?”
“Craigslist,” he says in a gravelly house.
The next two rental properties are just as disastrous. One realtor completely overlooks Gram, reaching past her to shake my hand instead and finally looking at her like a nuisance when I point out that I’m not the one looking for a place to live. The final property is an overpriced townhouse that smells so strongly like animal urine, Seth steps in and right back out, shaking his head.
My brother and I pool our resources—well, I offer some money and I guess he donates some of my cash, too, considering he owes me—and take Gram to lunch at a fancy restaurant in Franklin, one of the suburbs a half an hour outside of the city. Gram points out that the last time she came here was before our grandfather passed away two years ago, but she doesn’t so much as smile. Throughout the entire meal, there’s a heavy silence that bears down on all of us.
“John built that house for me as a gift for having”—she swallows, as if it hurts her to say the name that follows—“Rebecca. We had offers from country music stars and celebrities for that house because it was truly his best work, but it was our home. Our life.”
“Gram . . .”
She forces a bright smile and nibbles on an oversized roll. “Now that he’s gone, she’s gone, I’m not sure at all if it even matters anymore.”
But it does. It always will. And I feel miserable that she has to go through this. I feel like I should be doing everything I can to prevent her from having to suffer, just like she’s done so much to protect me.
Upon our return to the cabin and after Seth leaves, Gram claims exhaustion again. My eyes follow her as she disappears upstairs and the door to her bedroom creaks closed. Almost as clear as day, I hear Kylie’s comment to me from yesterday evening echoing in my head.
The deal . . . it has to be worth all this.
Before I can chicken out and change my mind, I fish the sheet of paper Lucas gave me from the bottom of my bag and walk outside. Pacing the driveway, I make the call.
I listen to his pretentious ringback tone—one of Your Toxic Sequel’s dirtier songs—and I hope he doesn’t answer.
Pray he refuses to acknowledge my call.
At least then I’ll be able to say that I gave it my best shot.
But then the song abruptly stops playing and Lucas comes on the line. “You changed your mind,” he says in a gentle voice.
“Ten days?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“How soon do I start?”
He takes a long pause before he answers me, and I almost think that he’s thought better of the whole offer and decided to take it off the table. I’m grinding my teeth together when he responds, “Kylie’s leaving first thing in the morning, so it would probably be best if you come tomorrow. I’ll have my attorney fix up the contract.”
“So you don’t try to f**k me on the house.”
He chuckles, a ferociously sexy sound that caresses my body with heat. I pace faster. “Of course. Bad for business to do it any other way.”
“Right,” I hear myself say.
“Message Kylie your email address so I can send you training instructions tonight—I’m guitar shopping. At Gibson right now.”
As if to prove his location to me or to taunt me because he remembers just how he was able to drive my body, my senses, to a breaking point with only his guitar and voice two years ago, he strums out the opening of—and I kid you not—a Britney Spears song.
It’s the same song that had been playing when I changed the radio in his car the night I went home with him. He’d humored me for a minute or two, and then rolled his eyes, jabbing a button on the steering wheel to switch the station back to rock.
“You into pop?” he’d asked, giving me a sideways glance. When I nodded, he said, “Figures. Come on, I’ll play you all the bubblegum shit you could ever dream of.” And he had—my own private show as we sat on the granite countertops in his spacious kitchen. He only stopped playing every so often to pop a strawberry into my mouth or his or to trail his lips, his teeth, up my thighs.