No way in hell would she confirm or deny her interaction with Jameson. After sharing dinner last night and nearly confessing her twisted love for him, she woke this morning with a renewed zest for revenge.
And a timely visit to Riverhead would stoke that fire nicely.
“You closed that door already, Chloe. Don’t open it again. It can only lead to heartache.”
“Got it. Keep the door closed,” she said as if she’d forgotten the sins committed against her. “And I gotta run too, okay? It was good to see you, though.”
Air kissing, Chloe inhaled her mother’s perfume, the designer fragrance reminiscent of a lonely childhood. Surprisingly, Genevieve pulled her in for a hug, her arms a sweet haven to her adult daughter.
“I’m proud of you,” she whispered. “You made the right choice.”
Her breath stalling, Chloe nodded and stepped back, dabbing her eyes before her mascara ran, and organizing her already tidy desk. Avoiding Wendy’s gaze.
“My allergies are terrible today,” she said instead. Because Genevieve wasn’t talking about her choice to purchase Maine Lane.
Not even close.
“How about dinner?” Awkwardly pushing a loose strand of hair away from Chloe’s face, Genevieve took another step into maternal territory. “Afterward, we can rent The Sound of Music and sing our way through the soundtrack. Oreos on me.”
The offer was scarily tempting. It also felt like a trap.
“I can’t. I have a commitment tonight.”
“With whom?”
“It’s a work thing,” she lied, then walking toward the door, spoke to Wendy regarding the pending items needing resolution by the end of the day.
“Will you at least tell me where it’s at?” Genevieve said, following her. “This commitment?”
“In Riverhead.” The information was out before she thought better of it.
“I could go with you,” she suggested. “Ride along and live a day in the life of my daughter. Show me what you . . . do, exactly.”
“I don’t think so. You’d hate it.”
“How would I know since you’re so secretive about it?” She looked at Wendy. “Do you ever go with her on these appointments?”
“Uh, not to the standing appointment in Riverhead.” And it was a good thing Wendy was cooking an embryo right now. Otherwise, Chloe might’ve kicked her in the shin.
“A standing appointment? Are you sure it’s business? Or is it pleasure?” Genevieve raised an overly waxed brow. “Are you meeting a man? Waylon? He lives there, if I recall.”
“Wyatt,” she corrected. “And no.”
But really, yes. Wyatt lived in Riverhead.
“Okay,” her mother said, slipping on her sunglasses. “Keep your little secrets for now, but one day, we’ll be planning your wedding, and it’d be nice if it happened before I need a walker. I can already picture it. Your father in a custom tuxedo, me in a Valentino gown.”
“And Soraya stealing the show in something vintage she picked up at a thrift shop?” Chloe smiled because while her mother might be classically beautiful, her stepmom was cool and edgy on top of beautiful. And the winner of her father’s heart. “That fantasy you have will never happen. Wyatt and I are not involved.”
That sounded convincing, right?
Unsatisfied with her daughter—as usual—Genevieve finally left, the scent of her high-dollar perfume still wafting.
Holding up a finger, a suddenly green-gilled Wendy ran into the bathroom while Chloe waited with patient empathy for her morning sickness in the afternoon to pass.
“I think she’s changing,” Wendy said, walking back out two minutes later as if nothing was amiss.
She was a pro at pregnancy puking.
“Really starting to find her sensitive side,” she added. “Can’t believe she actually hugged you today. Don’t be surprised if those air kisses make contact next time.”
Handing her a cold bottle of water, Chloe was amazed at her quick recovery.
“Do you want some crackers? Let me run to the diner next door and grab you a cup of soup. Toast, maybe?”
Chloe watched her pop a breath mint, no worse for the wear.
“Nah, I’m good. I’ll make Doug do it.” She grabbed her phone and tapped out a quick text. “I’m milking this for all it’s worth. You go. Take care of what you need to. I’ll be fine here.”
When Chloe hesitated, Wendy laughed.
“Really, Chlo. I’m good. Just me and Chuck here.” She cupped her small baby bump, past the twelve-week milestone mark. “Going over bridezilla’s list of wedding necessities, down to how many petals Eliza wants each lavender rose to have. Good times.”
“Chuck,” she mused, smiling sweetly—and sadly, too—at the cute nickname. “As in upchuck?”
Wendy nodded. “My guts may never be the same after this one.”
Shaking off the sudden melancholy, Chloe looked at her watch, realizing how short on time she was.
Running behind for her cake tasting meant arriving late to Riverhead.
And Chuck.
The town of East Hampton wasn’t merely a destination. It was a lifestyle. A status symbol. A sign of arrival. Land of the rich and famous.
Privilege, yes. Power, of course. Pride, you bet.
All qualities of high-net-worth people.
And while Jameson made a cushy, six-figure living thanks to years of hazard pay, the Maines had never been high-net-worth people.
Some of those high net worth people—for instance, Genevieve Moreau, Chloe’s mother—took immense pleasure in reminding him of that.
Reminding him with words. Actions. Acts of despicable cruelty.
Her daughter had learned from the master.
Something he needed to remember, the next time he was tempted to take her a lobster roll. Or the double cheeseburger she requested last night as he walked away, barely able to walk away.
It was nearly as hard as walking away ten years ago.
Her charm still had the power to make him go deaf, dumb, and blind. Make him forget the real world turning around them, hers far more privileged than his.
Currently, his world was centered around Maine Hardware and how quickly he could unload it and get the hell out of town.
The bell over the door rang again, for about the twentieth time today, people unable to take a hint from the Closed sign in the window. They saw the lights on and him and Cade inside, and assumed the store was open for business.
“Sorry, we’re closed,” Jameson said, not lifting his head from the POS system in front of him.
He arrived at eight this morning, strategically avoiding Chloe during his pre-dawn, hour-long swim, though he spotted her sitting in the carriage house’s porch swing, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand, as the sun rose. Not sleeping any better than he, it seemed.
If she noticed him, she gave no indication.
When he left the house an hour later, she was gone from the swing but still home, her modest sedan in the driveway.
Questioning his better judgment and needing a distraction, Jameson pulled up to the hardware store, Cade right on his tail, a full thirty minutes earlier than their predetermined time.
“It’s no problem, boss,” Cade said now, responding to the bell signaling the customer, sliding his pen behind his ear and his clipboard under his arm. “I got ’em.”