ChapterThree
Noah
Weddings made me nauseous.Especially when it was some rich old bastard marrying a woman half his age, pretending he firmly believed it was all about love and nothing to do with the size of his bank account.
But hey, if you’re stupid, you suffer.
I unhooked the tailgate of my truck and pulled off the ladder, the grueling California sun pouring its rage down, my skin already feeling the burn. The Whitlock project of giving the cottage a complete overhaul, as well as the pool house, meant I’d be calling the Whitlock estate in Atherton my home for the next six weeks.
I placed the ladder on the ground and unloaded the rest of my tools, glancing at the wedding planner and her crew scurrying around the large garden courtyard, putting everything in place for the Whitlock wedding, aka the event of the year that would take place today. You didn’t have to be a local to know about William Whitlock marrying Elenor Morrison, a thirty-something divorcee whose gold-digging reputation still stirred whispers within the community.
“No, no, no. I said I wanted a blush pink, not a rose pink. These napkins are rose pink.”
I watched as the soon-to-be Mrs. Whitlock threw the napkins on the grass.
“Get the blush pink napkins immediately, or I swear to God...”
The poor wedding planner seemed close to tears while Elenor declared a third world war over fucking napkins. William Whitlock’s future marital happiness sure looked awesome.
“You must be Noah?”
I turned to face one of the Whitlock twins. “Yeah. And you must be…Spencer.”
“How’d you guess?”
“Your dad told me you were the one with the neat haircut.”
We shook hands, and Spencer glanced at the cottage. “I still don’t see what’s wrong with it.”
“Well,” I picked up the ladder and placed it against the wall, “apparently your future stepmom prefers her cottage to have chandeliers, marble countertops instead of oak, and white sage walls. Not light sage.”
Spencer raised a brow. “There’s such a huge difference between the two shades of green.”
“And let’s not forget about the wooden window frames she wants replaced with aluminum.”
He placed his hands in his pants pockets. “It’s probably just a matter of time before she starts remodeling the main house too.”
I wiped my palms down my cargo shorts. “My bet is on a house revamp being a one-year wedding anniversary.”
“Two. Hundred bucks?” Spencer held out his hand.
“Double or nothing,” I countered.
“You’re on.” We shook hands on our bet, and both of us snickered. Spencer looked like your basic stereotyped overachiever. The kind of guy who collected accolades and accomplishments to bury his grief under, and of course, with the hope of getting Daddy’s attention. His twin brother, on the other hand, used the exact opposite strategy, using his underlying issues as excuses for acting out and stirring trouble. It was also a fail-proof tactic for attention. One didn’t need a degree in psychology to figure them out. At least, I didn’t. Reading people and knowing how their minds worked before exchanging a single word of conversation was a skill I learned a long time ago.
“Listen, man,” Spencer started, “if you need anything, give me a shout. I’ll be around while the love birds are on their trip to France. Make sure my siblings don’t burn down the house.”
I nodded. “Thanks, man.”
“Sure thing. Oh, and I have a sneaky suspicion my little sister doesn’t know about Elenor’s new,” he gestured toward the cottage, “project. She might be bitching once she finds out.”
Sienna.
“I’ll be on the lookout. Enjoy the wedding.”
“Not likely.”
Spencer turned and walked off; his shoulders squared as he strolled up the walkway toward the house. The double-story Whitlock mansion painted a clear picture of their wealth, and the Victorian-style house on the four-hundred-acre estate showcased the oil magnate’s worth. Judging by the Audi cabriolet, Hummer and Aston Martin parked out front I’d guess the Whitlock siblings were walking, breathing proof of how large their bank accounts were.