“I’m not in a—” He takes a breath. “Okay. You want the truth? My family’s business is … very well-off. Let’s put it that way. And I’m the heir. Like, to a large local business.”
He doesn’t say it proudly or egotistically. It sounds more like a burden to him. I’m surprised by his confession. I just thought him a small-town guy with small-town dreams, a lot like I was growing up in the suburbs outside of Dallas. Does he even know that about me? I was likely afraid to share too many details, fearing the dots could be connected someday, considering how dang smart he is.
We’ve both been holding back.
“Whatever you want to share about yourself and your family,” I tell him, “I’m all—” There’s a werewolf howl in the hall followed by a laugh and something—or someone—slamming heavily on the floor. “—ears,” I finish with a wince.
“Sounds like a party over there.”
“It is. In the hotel. We’ll probably get kicked out. I don’t envy the floor below us. Think your favorite band Soul Biter is involved. Is it a full moon tonight, by chance?”
“They’re not my—” TJ scoffs into the phone. I chuckle. “It wasMiranda’sfault I was wearing a Soul Biter shirt. She’s convinced Skeleton or whoever is into her.”
“Oh, the guitarist? I know him. Odd guy, keeps to himself.”
“I’m not getting involved.”
“Why not? Can’t we play matchmaker? Hey, you mentioned a thing between the merch vendors, too.” I slide my legs off the bed and toss myself on it instead, right next to Glorious and an empty plate that once had a full-ass serving of loaded nachos I devoured an hour ago. I stare up at the ceiling. “Is this your secret thing, TJ? Shootin’ Cupid’s arrows at everyone around you?”
“Apparently.” He pauses. “Hopefully the first one I fired is still working a miracle.”
“You mean with your college buddy and his city in France?”
He chuckles. “That’s one thing I really appreciate about you. I only ever have to say something once, and you remember.”
“Only if it’s somethin’ to do with you. Or lyrics.”
I hear him shift around, perhaps lying on a bed, too, before he takes a breath and says, “I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.”
I tuck the phone between my neck and shoulder and rest my hands on my chest. “I’m curious to see the real TJ. The full picture. Are you … ready for me to see it?”
He takes a shaky breath. Huh, this is a bigger deal to him than I realized. “Yes,” he finally answers. “I am. The real, full thing.”
“I think your first arrow went into me, by the way.”
He goes silent. Then: “Hope that one works a miracle, too.”
I grin—then lift up my head at the sound of someone shouting and running past my door. You’d think we hired kids losing their minds over getting to stay up past their bedtimes. “Can’t wait for tomorrow either,” I say back, gazing at the hallway, just before something crashes loudly followed by exploding laughter.
I don’t bother investigating what it is.
It’s in the morning that I get a text from TJ with directions. I leave a note for Ian he’s not likely to get for another hour—hey, hedidtell me to let him know next time I take a fieldtrip—then sneak past the crew eating breakfast in the lobby, snatch a car from the rental place next door, and make my way off to Spruce under the golden midmorning sun.
It’s the longest slightly-less-than-an-hour drive I’ve ever had.
TJ implied he more or less comes from money. Big local family business and all that.
But I don’t think I quite imagined just how “big” that meant.
I end up parking halfway down the long-ass driveway like I’m scared to get too close. The enormous house rises up in front of me like a damned mountain. It isn’t just big; it’sestate-big, the kind of residence that makes you feel embarrassingly underdressed the second it hits your eyes.
From here, I see so much, and I already know it’s just the tip of the iceberg: a huge, distant pavilion tucked behind tall white ironwork, breathtaking hedges trimmed perfectly into lines and arches, flowerbeds exploding with color, trees framing the whole place like it’s posing for the cover of some ritzy home-and-garden magazine. There’s even a shimmering, peanut-shaped pond out front, complete with a fountainhead scattering diamonds of water into the air, because of course there is.
I’m damned near ready to call this place a palace. I’ve got to catch my breath as I stand here next to my cheap-ass rental.
Who in the hell is this TJ? Theprinceof Spruce?
I guess he saw me pull in (or partway in, rather) because I find him standing out front. He is such a vision of gentlemanliness, the way he awaits me, hands hooked behind his back, dressed in a loose short-sleeved button-up shirt and shorts, looking like a doll. Despite the intimidating exterior of his house, I’m still resisting the urge to race up to him, pick him up, tackle him down onto the first soft surface I find, and dive into his face.