Definitely trying not to imagine who I’d want her mother to be.
12
The sun is setting, and the party’s winding down when I persuade Genevieve into slipping away with me. Wanting to show her the ocean, I lead her along the path that passes through the thick trees lining our estate.
“What’s with the dense woods?” Genny asks, as we curve deeper into the trees. “Isn’t the view the reason people buy beachfront property?”
“Huh.” The landscape has essentially been the same my entire life, and until now, her point hasn’t occurred to me. “I guess it is. But the problem with a view out means that there’s also a view in. Too many people walk along the beach, even with the private property signs. Too many boats pass by. Too many passengers with binoculars. My mother prefers our life be kept confidential.”
Genevieve flashes me a teasing grin. “Then she must adore your relationship with the paparazzi.”
I wince at her reference to the frequent media buzz about my social life but ignore addressing it directly. “Let’s get this straight right now,” I say instead, “my mother adores nothing. Even if I were squeaky clean and as reserved as Hudson, I don’t think I’d own any more of her affection than I do now.”
Genny looks sideways at me, her eyes scrutinizing. “Does that bother you?”
“Maybe?” My brows knit as I consider. “I know she has emotions somewhere deep inside her. Just like this property, she hides behind a bristly-needled exterior. I think I’m used to it.”
She scoffs. “I think you convince yourself you’re used to it. I don’t believe that anyone who lacks their mother’s love doesn’t feel its absence.” She sounds like she may have experience with the subject herself, but she doesn’t give me a chance to ask. “Maybe your mother isn’t the only one hiding behind landscaping.”
My steps slow as I take in what she’s said. Am I more like my mom than I’ve realized? I’m not cold and guarded like she is, but that doesn’t mean I don’t wear my own form of armor—my charm. My business-plan approach to relationships. What emotions am I hiding behind those barriers?
Genny purses her lips as though she knows exactly what’s going through my mind. “Shame, really, about all those trees. Because this view is absolutely breathtaking.”
We’ve stepped out from the woods onto the cliffside, the ocean spread across the horizon below us, but she keeps her eyes pinned on me for long seconds before casting her gaze across the panorama.
I happen to think the view I have is breathtaking as well. And I’m not looking at the water. “I had a feeling you’d like it. Away from the sand and once the sun wasn’t so high, that is.”
She squints over at me. “Does this count as having been to the beach? Can I now cross that off my to-do list?”
“Eh,” I shrug. “Real beach enthusiasts would probably say not until you’ve put your feet in the sand. The path continues over there if you’d like to try that out.” I nod in the direction of the wooden staircase that winds down to the shore.
She wrinkles her nose. “I’m fine up here, thank you. I’m enjoying this part of the beach experience. We should quit while I’m still enchanted.” Leisurely, she begins to stroll along the property.
I fall in step, hoping her sentiment applies only to the outdoor scenery. Not that she’s enchanted with anything else at the moment. Not that I want her to be enchanted with anything else.
Yet, I’m so enchanted with her.
And I don’t want to quit her. Not yet.
A cloud pushes in over my mood as I suddenly remember that my time with Genny is very possibly fleeting. That her job might soon take her from me.
I nudge the thought away, and a question that’s been niggling at the back of my consciousness slips into its place. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but there’s something I have to ask.”
Curiosity etches her expression. “Okay. Ask.”
I ignore the connection trying to form between this thought and my last one and put it out there. “If your father is so against you working in this business, why does he let you work for Accelecom?”
“Ah. Good question.” Her features relax. “It’s because it’s the only way I’ll let him help me.”
“What do you mean?” I sort of hate to admit it, but I’d assumed she was a trust fund baby, same as me.
“I had an account for college, but after school, I was determined to make my own way. And I do. I rely on public transport. I have my own apartment—a modest little place in a part of London that is not up to my father’s standards, but I’m quite fond of it. He’s tried over and over to convince me to let him pay for something in a nicer part of town—translation: a snobby part of town. I turned him down. He bought me a car for my birthday, which I refused. He kept sneaking me money. I kept returning it. Finally he offered me a job. A dream job. And I’m embarrassed to admit that I was weak. I accepted in an instant.”
A breeze blows, and she hugs her arms around herself. “But I still have my silly little flat, even though he pays me an exorbitant salary.”
“So what do you do with all your money?” I realize too late that it’s probably an inappropriate question. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that she doesn’t own a car. Had she not mentioned the size of her paycheck, I would have assumed it was decent just based on what she does, and a car would have been the first item on my purchase list.