would probably want to jump straight on my dick when they realize just how loaded I am, but Sugar? She may decide we should go back and stay in that shitty motel off route 64 instead of accepting the reality of my family’s wealth.
I’m already anticipating some pushback about the Mustang. Probably a lot of pushback. Maybe even more of like a shoveback. I’d planned for it to be done by now, and it mostly is. Mechanically, it’s completely solid, all rebuilt. I even took a chance and replaced the sound system, all by myself—new wiring and all. I sent the dash façade off to a guy in Nebraska, the best of the best for restoring those things, and paid someone from out in Thistle Cove to re-do all the flooring. But this cold weather has made painting the exterior impossible. I just need a few warmer days and I’ll have that Mustang looking shiny and new again. I’ve been excited about it for days now, having gotten the seats back from the upholsterer yesterday. My grand plan is that it’ll look so perfect, so fucking amazing, that maybe my girl will only be a little bit pissed when she finally finds out I’m the one who restored it.
Hey, a guy can dream, can't he?
I pass the old course greens and the little entry gate, seeing her look out at the various buildings we pass. Most of them are guest quarters. My dad likes to entertain here on a regular basis. There’s a cottage tucked against the tree line behind the house he just refurbished and expanded last year. For all that my dad is gone most of the time, he fucking loves this place, dolls it up whenever he gets the chance, like the biggest jewel in his crown.
I feel her go very still next to me when the main house comes into view. I risk taking her hand to squeeze it, wanting to remind her that she’s here with me—and that one simple fact means she belongs.
I pull the car around the looping drive and stop right in front of the house. I peer up at it through the window. “Home sweet home.”
“This is your house.” Her hand clutches the handle on the top of the crate. “Not one of the ones back there?” She looks over her shoulder, back at the buildings we passed on the way up. When she meets my gaze again, seeing the look on my face, she pales. “No. You’re kidding me.”
I sigh. “There are eight buildings on the property—although I suspect my dad is planning to build again. Some people buy a car when they get a mid-life crisis, but my dad calls a contractor.”
She gapes back at me. “I thought you lived in a gated community with a country club or something. I didn’t realize the country club is the house.”
“Used to be, anyway.” I lean over and capture her lips in what I hope is a reassuring kiss. She still looks gobsmacked when I pull back. “Fair warning; it comes with all the trappings. Gourmet kitchens, a theater, three pools, luxurious bathrooms with double-headed showers, my troubled mother, and a cranky German head of staff who keeps the whole place afloat.”
She looks at the house again, then back at me. “What about your dad?”
I wave a hand dismissively. “Nah, it’s a weekday, which means he’s up in New York, slaying dragons and stealing gold on Wallstreet or whatever the fuck he does up there. He only really stays here on the weekend.” I don’t mention that Heston is back at school, and thank fucking god, because if he weren’t, we would be staying at that shitty motel on the highway. She still looks at the house and me uneasily, like the second we step inside, everything changes. I reach out to give her dog tags a gentle tug, showing her that we’re still us. “It’s just a house, Sugar. It may be all pretty and intimidating on the outside, but the inside is nothing to be afraid of. Just like me.” I wink and she pulls a face.
“Gross. You never stop, do you?”
“Nope. Never.”
I hop out of the car, slip-sliding on the icy driveway, running around to open the door and take the crate from her. While ice spits on our face, I carry the crate in one hand and take Sugar’s hand in the other, carefully guiding her up the front steps, already sprinkled with salt.
Liesel has the door