Accidental Tryst (Charleston #1)(25)

An email from Mr. Ravenel says the meeting at the law offices is confirmed for ten a.m. I don't like this pulling of the strings my grandfather is doing. It's dramatic and ridiculous. An email from Dorothy has an attachment. Here's all the public information I could find about Montgomery Homes & Facilities and an estimated valuation. I open the document and scan through until I reach the bottom line of the net profits and do a double take. Holy shit, the old man had been busy. I'm surprised Isabel hasn't tried to see me already. Then I see an email from her.

To: Tmontgomery

From: Imont@monthomesandfacdotcom

Subject: Your grandfather

Trystan

I apologize for my less than warm reception yesterday. It was an emotional day and a shock to see you. You have your mother's eyes, you know. I was wondering if there'd be a chance to pop by and see you, say for breakfast? Beau told me you are staying at the Planter's. I'll meet you in the salon at eight am.

Until then,

Isabel Montgomery

I check my watch. It's seven. No way in hell I'm seeing her. This isn't running away, I'm simply not ready. I take a shower, throw on my jeans, a button-down, and my brown boots, grab my phone and laptop, and I'm out the door in fifteen minutes and out the hotel a minute after that.





13





Trystan





I leave the hotel and before I realize it, find myself following Emmy's instructions. Charleston has barely woken up, and the humidity has yet to rise. Before long I'm entering what I hope is the small cobblestone alleyway Emmy mentioned in her email. Instinct tells me these were the streets between the main fancy houses and where the horses were kept, similar to the mews houses in London.

Every ten meters or so there's a gate into a courtyard where a small carriage house or old stable can be found. Many of them have been clearly turned into residences, albeit tiny, some galleries and the like. I notice the blue awning not too far ahead, but my surroundings have me captivated. I don't miss London, I never have. It's not that it's so reminiscent of a place I don't miss. And it's eons away from even the most charming parts of the Village in New York, but something about this place feels . . . right.

I shrug off the feeling and head inside the breakfast shop, breathing in the scent of freshly baked bread. It's small, every square inch has been properly utilized. There are barn wood floors and corrugated tin. It's industrial in a rustic way. There are only seven tables inside, most can only fit two people. A man with slicked back dark hair with a white apron wrapped around his wiry frame is taking an order from a hipster couple in the corner. Other than them, I have my pick of tables. I choose a small table in the far right corner. The menu is a card presented on a small chopping board held in place by an elastic band, and there are only five breakfast items available.

"You must be Trystan," an accented voice says to me.

I look up, startled. "Armand, I presume?" He's of indeterminate age. His dark hair has some gray threading through it. His skin is olive, his descent of unknown origin. To me he could just as easily be Native-American as he could be Middle-Eastern or Greek. He's good-looking though, and something about that annoys me.

He grins and gives me a slow perusal from my messy post-shower hair, down to my beaten-in chukka boots that cost four hundred dollars to make them look old. "Well," he says.

"Well, what?" I counter.

He makes a tsk sound.

I lift an eyebrow in return.

"Hmm," he says. "Bien. Now, what can I get you?"

Weird.

After my rich dinner last night, I feel I should go little on the lighter side for breakfast. I order homemade gluten-free granola (nod to Emmy) with Greek yoghurt, local honey, bananas and blueberries, fresh orange juice, and an espresso. Armand hums with what I hope is approval then walks back behind the counter.

I wonder if there's a place like this near me in New York—simple, stylish, cozy—that I simply haven't ever bothered to notice, and I resolve to find one. The closest I can think of is perhaps something in Chelsea Market.

When my food comes I take out Emmy's phone and snap a picture. I'm not sure why I do it, and I definitely don't send it to her. Maybe just proof I took her advice.

I open my laptop and spend the next hour making sure I'm as knowledgeable as possible about Montgomery Homes & Facilities before Isabel Montgomery tries to argue I'm unable to run it.



* * *



With about forty-five more minutes to kill before the meeting at Mr. Ravenel's office, I pay my check, wave at Armand, and decide to walk around the city. Some of the first horse-drawn carriage tours of the day have started up, and on almost every street corner I hear snippets of Charleston history. This famous person lived here, slaves were traded there, this used to be a church and now it's a restaurant, this pink house is four hundred years old, Blackbeard used to frequent that pub. If I ever come back to this place, I know I'd be fascinated by some of the stories. I almost studied history at university, but at the last minute chose economics. I'd loved these stories as a child the few years my mother tried to come home to the family. Right now, though, it does something to me inside, like opening up an emotional trash can lid that really should stay closed.

I grab the earbuds I keep in the outside pocket of my laptop bag, and I wonder what kind of music Emmy has on her phone. She has Spotify, but I'm disappointed to see it's the free version that needs Wi-Fi. I go over to her purchased music selection and scan it with a sinking stomach. It's a potpourri of girl power: Taylor Swift, P!nk, Katy Perry. I sigh and hit shuffle, making sure to turn it down more than usual so no one can overhear. By the time I take the last few steps to Mr. Ravenel's office, timed to be one minute late in order to avoid any small talk, I'm ready to take on the world and think most men suck. It makes me think of my reaction to the messages Emmy received from that dating app. No wonder the women are so pissed off in these songs. I resolve to make sure Dorothy knows she can wear trousers to work if she feels like it. In all the time she's worked for me she's come to work in a knee-length skirt, hose, and low sensible heels. She reminded me of one of my school teachers back in England, which was exactly why I'd hired her.