“Hilliard.” My mother gave me her last name on account of my father abandoning us early into her pregnancy. I never knew his name. Never saw a picture. Only heard a few details, like he was smart and charismatic and successful, but also self-centered and narcissistic. “So obviously there can’t be two Hilliard Cottages.”
“All right. Then we’ll just call it The Lila Cottage.”
I snicker. “That doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as The Ainsworth or The Caldecott.”
“You think?” he asks. “Nah. It sounds fine to me.”
“Would your grandfather be okay with you naming this place without his permission? I’m getting major control-freak vibes from him.”
Shit.
I need to shut my mouth before I get myself in trouble.
Sure, Thayer’s easy to talk to and he seems like a reasonable person, but I literally just insulted his grandfather—my boss.
My cheeks flush with a burning warmth and I glance down for a moment.
“He is absolutely a control freak, and we don’t have to tell him. It can just be our thing.”
Our thing.
So now we have a thing.
“I used to hide out in here when I was a kid,” he says, looking around. “Westley was always so clingy. Like a shadow. And Whitley was always whining about this or that. And sometimes I just needed space.”
“This is quite the hideaway for a kid. A whole house.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Anyway, if you need a hideaway of your own, you’ve found a good one. But I can’t say I won’t be using it too.”
“We should probably come up with a custody agreement of some kind.” I’m flirting. Again. But I can’t help myself. He’s so damn cute. “Maybe I get weekends? You can have holidays because I’ll likely be working those, so …”
He laughs at me and our gazes lock until our respective smiles fade. There’s a glimmer of something in his eyes … fascination maybe? Curiosity? I don’t know him well enough to tell, but he looks at me in a way that no one else ever has before.
Perhaps I’m a novelty to him.
Or maybe this is what he does. Charms you. Works you until you’re putty in his hands so he can use you until you’re all used up, and then he moves on to the next girl.
“I should probably get back to The Bertram,” I say. “I’m sure Grandma’s wondering where I am.”
“We’re going to watch a movie tonight,” he says. “At Westley and Whitley’s.”
AKA The Caldecott.
“You should come by,” he says.
Yesterday it was the bonfire.
Tonight it’s a movie.
I head to the door, the wood floorboards creaking beneath my quick, soft steps, but before I leave, I turn back to him. “You should probably stop inviting me to hang out.”
I don’t wait for him to respond … I just go, heading back to the main house where my grandma is waiting for me with a five-pound bag of potatoes and a peeler.
She doesn’t ask where I’ve been and I don’t volunteer it.
Getting to work, I promise myself I won’t think about him. I convince myself I don’t like bonfires or movies or hanging out with people my own age. And I assure myself that no good can come out of flirting with Bertram’s favorite grandson.
Chapter 5
Thayer
Lila makes her way around the dining room table, dishing out tongs of corn on the cob and boiled crab, her chin tucked low and eyes averted.
I’ve attempted to make eye contact with her every chance I get, but she refuses to reciprocate.
I’m not sure what happened. I thought we were having a nice talk in the abandoned cottage and I felt like I was getting to know her in snippets, like she might have been letting her guard down and opening up the tiniest bit. Pretty sure she was flirting with me too. And then the second I invited her to hang out tonight, she bolted like Cinderella at the stroke of twelve.
Despite the fact that Granddad had made his expectations clear, I see no harm in asking her to hang out. She’s just suffered an incredible loss, and the last thing she needs is to feel even more alone.
Lila disappears into the kitchen, and I glance at my plate to find that she’s given me an overly generous serving. I’m not sure if that’s her way of apologizing or if she was trying to be funny—I can’t quite put my finger on her and honestly, it’s beginning to drive me wild.
I reach for my claw cracker when I feel the sharp jab of an elbow against my ribs.
“Dude,” Westley whispers, leaning close. “Can you make it any more obvious?”
“What?” I play dumb, glancing up to ensure Granddad isn’t tuned into what’s going on at our end of the table.
“You won’t stop staring.” He grabs his crab mallet. “Honestly, you’re just torturing yourself. You can’t have her. And let’s be real, she probably doesn’t want you.”