Or not. “You seriously need to work on your pickup lines.”
His thumbs brush my stomach a second before his hands drop from my waist. “You don’t like being compared to a catfish?”
“No.”
He chuckles, and we walk toward the door. “You’re the expert.”
“I suppose it’s better than swamp rat, though.”
“Who called you a swamp rat?”
“You.” He moves behind the carriage first and reaches for my hand. “The first day we arrived.”
“How do you remember that?” He pauses at the back door and turns to me.
“It was memorable.”
“Mais, I must have meant it as a compliment.”
“Uh-huh. You totally blew my image of a Southern gentleman.”
He raises my hand to his mouth and kisses the back of my knuckles. “Swamp rat est belle, yes?”
I look up at him, his eyes staring into mine, waiting for an answer. Maybe I make him wait for a few heartbeats longer than necessary. “No.”
He laughs and lets go of my hand. “You’re the expert.”
I follow him out the door and raise a hand to shade my eyes against the sun. “I’m too tired to be an expert on anything these days.”
“Even more reason for you to get away and relax.”
The knots of tension have eased from my muscles, and my ears no longer ring. “I’ll work on it,” I say as I head up the steps.
He stops at the bottom and looks up at me. “You should probably work on it before you get riled and holler ‘squirrel-dick shit taco’ again.”
I pause with my hand on the doorknob. “You remember that?”
“It was memorable,” he says as he turns on his heels and walks toward his truck.
I might be tired these days, but I still recognize the dangers of men like Simon: a smooth operator, charming and handsome, with a really nice butt. Okay, maybe I just added that last part. I turn the doorknob and walk inside.
The kitchen is empty, and I move to the equally empty hall. The temporary railing is finally up, and all the workers are gone. It took a day to put it up, but considerably more time before the old one came down. Simon’s men photographed and labeled each piece, cataloging even the smallest splinters before it was taken away.
There’s a settling calm after workers and guests leave Sutton Hall. The house feels languid and relaxed, practically begging me to slide into a rocking chair on the squeaky porch and sip a cold mint julep. I have a new appreciation for the evening slowdown, especially when Mom has spent most of the day shattering calm like a hammer through glass.
I hear Mom and Lindsey in the front parlor. I’m tempted to hide in the attic, but I force myself to join them. Mom is just going to have to get over her anger. I’m not going to apologize for not agreeing to kill her.
The two sit on the chesterfield looking at pictures like many times before. They smile and laugh, and I feel like the odd man out.
“Has anyone seen Raphael?” I point to his empty cage.
“I haven’t seen the demon since you fed him last night.”
Which means he could be swinging from chandeliers or taking apart chairs or hiding out until poor unsuspecting Lindsey walks by.
“Maybe he’s gone for good,” Lindsey adds hopefully.
“You’re not that lucky.” I laugh.