The Last Eligible Billionaire(10)

Chad was a financial advisor with one of the big firms in Richmond, always up before the sun checking the markets, falling asleep listening to financial podcasts every night, while I’m just a high school art teacher who doesn’t get to do art for fun nearly as often as you’d think I would, and who sometimes gets her head stuck in the clouds. I make the money, you do the dishes. I make the money, you do the laundry. I make the money…

You get the idea.

So, yes, I left my dirty dishes all over the kitchen yesterday.

And yes, Hayes is sliding me a death glare that suggests he, too, prefers life neat and orderly. And that’s before Marshmallow trots into the kitchen, flips the lights off with his snout, and opens the dishwasher.

Hayes slides a look at me, then at the fridge, which is also gaping wide open.

Dammit.

How long has that been open?

Oh, no.

Is my cheesecake ruined?

Here I go, wincing again. “He was raised from birth to be a service dog, but he flunked out of the program when he started doing all the things he’d learned because he wanted to, instead of only on command. I have things Marshmallow-proofed at home. We have a good system. He’s out of his element here.”

“Your dog called my mother.”

I don’t know what precisely that means to Hayes Rutherford, but I have a terrible feeling it’s not good, and that it’s making every bit of me being here even worse.





5





Hayes



This woman cannot stand still, and neither can her face. She’s had approximately a dozen shifts in expression as she’s absorbed the news that she can’t possibly understand about her dog calling my mother. It’s actually strange to see her skin moving, white and smooth, rather than green and flaky and crumbling every time her lips twitch one way or her forehead wrinkles another way.

She’s fully clothed now, in tattered jeans that hug her hips and a pink crop top hoodie, but her feet are still bare, showing off toenails painted all random colors, no rhyme or reason. And her hair—I’m not entirely certain what color she was going for, but it’s somewhere between burgundy and purple, and it’s giving off a fluorescent shine, as though it could double as a beacon were we to get stranded here and need to signal for help.

It’s quite bright. Impossible to miss.

“Well, I hope Marshmallow was polite and didn’t bark your mother’s ear off,” she finally says. She flits to the fridge, glances inside, grimaces, closes the doors, and then heads to the island, where she piles plates and bowls and utensils. She carries them to the sink, smiling indulgently at her dog, who’s now gazing at me like I’m some kind of dog god. “Good boy, helping Mommy with the dishes.”

“The contract, Ms. Fairchild.” I don’t tell her my mother’s left me six voice messages and is now not answering my return call, which means there’s zero doubt in my mind that she’s taxiing down a runway right now.

Did they track my phone?

Did they know last night that I was leaving?

Was I followed?

I was certain I wasn’t followed.

Begonia pulls her phone out of her back pocket. “Of course. Sorry. Nervous habit. Not that I like cleaning, but I—never mind. The contract. It’s right here in my email…” She swipes her finger over the screen, and after a moment, she bites her lip.

I cross my arms.

She hits the screen harder.

“Is there a problem?”

“No, no. It’s just thinking. I like your pajama pants. One of my students found that old video of the dancing hamsters late last year, so we did a unit on the art of the early internet memes.”

I frown at her.

She gestures to my crotch. “The dancing hamsters on your pants. I assume you’re a fan? Or were those a gift?”

“Hamsters have nothing to do with your contract.”

“I have the contract. I do. But my email program seems to have had a little glitch and emptied all the emails that were in my inbox, and I don’t get service here, and there’s no wifi, and…and that was supposed to be exactly what I wanted, but it’s a little inconvenient right now that I need to download my inbox again and I…can’t.”

“Inconvenient,” I repeat.

She tosses the phone on the counter. “I paid for this house! And Mr. Ferguson sent me instructions on how to get to the island and which golf cart company to use to get to the gate with my luggage, and to play a game where I said I was Marilyn Monroe, which makes so much more sense now, for the record, and he sent the code, and I wouldn’t know any of that if I wasn’t authorized somehow to be here, even by someone who shouldn’t have authorized me. I’m not a thief. I’m not a trespasser. Do you believe in fate, Hayes? Because I saw this house come up on the vacation rental site—one minute it wasn’t there, and I got lost in my search and started it over, and then poof, here was this house, and it was fate’s way of saying I’m sorry you married the wrong person and took too many years to realize it, here, go enjoy coastal Maine for a couple weeks, and gah, that sounds like I’m trying to sob-story you into letting me stay, but I’m not. I’m just telling you what happened, and you don’t need to feel sorry for me. I just want you to know I honestly thought I was supposed to be here.”