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Uncharted Territory
He popsthe trunk of the car and reaches in for his duffle bag, then grabs the handle of mine. “I’ll get it,” I say, sidling up to him.
He hauls it out anyway and extends the handle, so he can roll it to the door. Slings his bag over his shoulder. “I’ve got it,” he replies.
“No, really,” I say, grasping for the handle.
He tugs it away, eyes glinting with amusement. “No, really.” His eyebrows spring upward for emphasis. “I appreciate an independent woman, but it’s either me or one of Mom’s Chippendale guys.”
The odd reference is enough to derail my mission.
He chuckles at my confusion. Motions toward the door with a jerk of his head. “After you.”
I begrudgingly comply.
Before we reach the door, it swings wide, and a shirtless, oiled up man greets us there. The guyliner is the first thing I notice, followed by how well it plays with his slick dark hair, bowtie, and black pants.
Huh. And bare feet.
I try especially hard not to make a pitstop at his exposed abs when my eyes travel back up to his face, but seriously, how can I not?
Jake watches me with an I told you so look.
“Mr. Mitchell,” the greased-up butler says with no emotion whatsoever, which makes the next part fall flat: “Nice to see that you’re home.” He reaches for the handle of my luggage to be hospitable, but Jake ignores him, shouldering past and onto the hardwood. If the butler is offended by Jake’s rudeness, it doesn’t show.
I follow after.
“Mom here?” Jake asks, scanning the foyer and sprawling living room to our left. A fire crackles in the hearth, despite it being a warm February day. Not quite ready to let the idea of winter go. Not that Georgia gets much of one.
“She’s out at the stables, sir.”
Jake thinks a moment and turns to face him. “We’re only here for a night. Is the guest house taken?”
“Mr. Preston is currently occupying it.”
Jake doesn’t seem surprised, though a tad disappointed. “Then Scarlett and I will find a room here.”
“Of course.” He nods toward the hallway to our right.
When Jake turns in its direction, a voice echoes from somewhere in the back of the house. “Jacob? Is that you?”
Hurried footsteps clack against the floor in our direction, and judging that it sounds like a middle-aged woman, it must be Magnolia…who’s supposed to be at the stables.
I immediately go rigid, then force my posture into something more relaxed. Open.
Looking just as conflicted, Jake drops the duffle bag by his feet, but a tight smile eventually plasters itself across his face before she rounds the corner. It’s so fake it’s unnerving. I’ve yet to see him wear that.
As she approaches, the butler steps out of the way and into the shadows of the living room, probably to make himself scarce until his services are needed, and her eyes rake over me quickly, succinctly. She then diverts her attention to her Jacob as though I’m not standing here at all. “My boy,” she says, rushing him into a hug, but her words lack a mother’s warmth.
She also goes to great lengths to make sure the embrace doesn’t rumple her hair or silk scarf.
He pulls away before she’s ready to part, and her fingers feel along the length of her French twist to make sure everything’s still in place.
“You’re home,” she says. Assesses him. Confusion settles into the lines of her face. “Were you not supposed to be on a flight this afternoon?”
Hesitating, he clears his throat—a stark contrast with the way he handled his manager. It’s not so easy for him to face his mom. “Yeah,” he says.
Her eyebrows scrunch.
