Jace’s smile deepened and his eyes twinkled as he replied, “You’re welcome, Mrs. Alberton.”
Rearing back in disgust, I blurted, “I’m a miss! I’m not married. The judge isnotmy husband!” Revulsion slid down my spine at the thought.
Jace held up his hands quickly, eyebrows high on his forehead. “My mistake. I’m just used to the women here being a missus. I’m not sure what judge you’re talking about.”
Thoroughly mortified, I could only nod lamely in response, wishing for an eject button that shot me directly into space. As he closed the car door and gave me a thumb-up, I realized I hadn’t given him my customary tip. Holding up a pathetic finger, I rolled the window down a crack and inched the twenty-dollar bill out the window.
Jace took it, then even used it to give me a little faux hat raise. Flustered, I raised my hands in a weird hand-flapping gesture, then got the hell out of there.
Once out of sight, I pulled over and laid my head on the steering wheel dejectedly. I forced slow, deep breaths in and out of my lungs. Unfortunately, this only made me notice the lingering scent I’d come to recognize as Jace’s: fresh and clean, yet with subtle hints of sandalwood and warm vanilla. It made my mouth water. And as I did most of my book listening in the car, I may have . . . ok, very definitely have . . . pictured Jace as the hero in my books, each version of Jace having the same delicious smell.
I groaned. Something was very wrong with me. What I mistook for flirting today was probably mere kindness, or more likely, professionalism. Jace was only doing his job. He called me ma’am, for Pete’s sake! I might as well be a hundred years old to someone his age.
I finally sat back and turned on the stereo, waiting for my phone to connect. I was listening toThe Seduction of the Shiftby Angel Marie. It was the first in a shifter romantic fantasy series and I’d had a hard time putting it down. As it came on, I rewound it a minute to get me back to where I’d left off, then shifted into drive, escaping from all the chaos in my life as I began my drive home.
* * *
An hour later I felt marginally better as I sat at my childhood home’s kitchen table—probably because I was inhaling a scone Mrs. Simon had “whipped up” while I was at brunch. It was smothered in her homemade apple butter, which she’d made that weekend and brought over so we could “put a few jars in the pantry for a rainy day.”
And did I mention there was sweet tea?
One glass of sweet tea and one and a half scones later, I was approaching something that felt like contentment. Mrs. Simon was literally humming while wiping down the kitchen island, the birds were chirping outside, and I was listening to Ryla’s happy chatter from the other room as she played with her stuffed animals.
“Can I have a word, hun?”
I paused mid-bite. Mrs. Simon’s anxious expression contrasted with the cheerful afternoon sunlight filtering through the glass patio doors behind me. Unease filled me as I nodded, then roughly swallowed.
“Well, it’s the darndest thing, really,” she started, making her way around the island to sit beside me. “But every Wednesday when I’m at the Piggly Wiggly, I pick up a ticket to play the Powerball. I’ve been playin’ it for years. It’s become a regular joke between my Bob and me, you see, but then a few weeks ago, I played and wouldn’t you know it, but I won. First time in thirty years.”
The sounds of my daughter’s playing from the living room were suddenly drowned out by the pounding of my heart.
“That’s . . . great, Mrs. Simon. How much did you win?”
“Well,” Mrs. Simon tilted her head side to side, her eyes flitting around the room. “With the total winnings being about twenty-five, my sister’s accountant tells us that we should expect about half that.”
“Twelve and a halfthousand?” I hedged.
“Million.”
Inhaling sharply, I choked on a few crumbs and coughed violently. Mrs. Simon patted me on the back firmly, as if she didn’t just calmly tell me she’d won twelve and a half million dollars.
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry, I should’ve warned you. Bob did the same thing when I told him—practically choked on the peach cobbler I’d made that night.”
Wait. Mrs. Simon had brought us a peach cobbler at least two weeks ago. It’d been the best I’d ever eaten. Did that mean she’d known she was a millionaire for two weeks and was only telling me now?
I struggled to find words. “That’s, well. It’s a lot of.” I paused, collecting my thoughts. “What does this mean?”
“See, that’s the thing.” Mrs. Simon covered my hand. “With that kind of money, my Bob and I could actually afford to retire down in Arizona and care for my momma. She has the dementia.”
The selfish, exhausted, I-just-can’t-do-this-anymore part of my brain wanted to shout,To hell with your momma! I need you!
Thankfully, the mature part of my brain won and asked, “When do you think you’re going to move?”
Mrs. Simon bit her lip, regret in her eyes. “Well, seeing as my momma just broke her hip and is in a state-run nursing home, I’m afraid we’d like to leave as soon as possible.”
I wanted to scream and cry. I wanted to get down on my knees and beg her to stay. I wanted to pack our bags and move down to Arizona with her and her Bob, offering myself as the in-home concierge doctor for her mother.
Of course, I did none of those things. I answered exactly as expected, perfect Polly mask in place despite my hopes and dreams plummeting from the side of a cliff now that my frayed rope had finally snapped.
