Page 17 of Just for Tonight

“Neither are big enough, I’ve been told.” I nod then take a sip of wine. “And this parade of service providers made me wonder about the household burn rate, since I am executor of my father’s estate and the one who has to sort out the dollars and cents. And that sent me into a deep dive of credit card bills that nearly stopped my heart, because every time I thought I had them all, I found another account. All of this, I realize, is why I don’t like Candace.”

“I don’t understand. Give me the executive summary.”

“She has no respect for money. She spends it like it’s water coming out of the tap, with no consideration of how much she’s spending, what she’s spending it on, or how much more there might or might not be. I don’t think this is new, which means she’s been doing this for about thirty years, which means tomorrow could be very scary.”

Mackenzie is serious. “Tomorrow?”

“Richard Bradshaw was notifying my father’s business contacts about his passing and about the power of attorney. He estimated that I’d be able to start accessing financial records tomorrow.”

“You’re worried.”

“I thought I had an idea of my father’s net worth. I thought it was a lot. Now I’m wondering if there’s enough to make everyone happy with the dispersion of funds.”

“Worried about your inheritance?”

“No, I halfway expected him to write me out of his will and maybe he did. I have no expectations.” I grimace. “But the others probably do.”

“And you’ll be the one who gets to tell them.”

“Yes.” I wasn’t planning to tell anybody that, certainly not tonight, but having Mackenzie’s undivided attention is apparently enough to get me blabbing.

I’m off my game, but strangely, I don’t feel as vulnerable as I might expect.

I’m really off my game.

She’s watching me and I wonder how much more she sees.

“But then, I’m probably worrying about eventualities that aren’t going to manifest.” I smile and reach for my wine again. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to dump that on you, especially not tonight.”

“No, it’s fine,” she says. “It explains this tightness in your shoulders.” She catches my hand and gives me a little tug toward the living room. “Come on. I used to give a good massage.”

“Go on.” Can this woman have any more hidden skills?

“No, it’s true.”

I lift an eyebrow, inviting more.

She smiles. “Picking grapes is hard work. When I did my post-grad co-op in France, the vintner was merciless.” She changes to a French accent, but it’s gruff this time. “Eh bien, you must learn the feel of the grapes with your hands. You must feel the soil beneath your fingers. You must learn the merit of the work with your whole body. Only then will the vines take root within you.”

“Not literally.”

She shakes her head. “There were four of us and we commiserated at night afterward. I found a book on therapeutic massage and we self-taught, working on each other.” Her smile turns impish. “It was fun. And useful.”

She is a multitude of women, and I know there are plenty more facets to Mackenzie Rhodes. I have to make a joke of it so I can (maybe) seem less fascinated than I am. “So, you’re going to be a Swedish masseuse fantasy, as well as an evening gown fantasy, as well as a girl-next-door fantasy.”

She laughs. “Three fantasy identities? Already?”

“I always remember you being an over-achiever,” I tease.

“That’s me,” she says. “But you know Opa is German not Swedish.”

“Does anybody fantasize about German masseuses?”

That devilish glint is back in her eyes. “Maybe they should.” She points at me. “Shirt off. Flat on the floor.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say with an elaborate shiver and she laughs again. I stretch out and close my eyes, unable to remember when I last had a massage. Just being horizontal feels really good.

Have I ever been more exhausted?