In the privacy of the truck, LeAnne kicks off her heels and says, “Wow, Mr. Jameson is truly the most annoying person I ever interact with on Sundays. Blake, remind me next week to avoid him.”
I fiddle with my hands in my lap, trying to ignore that pressing feeling of being intrusive simply by being present. I’m, at best, a stranger to the Averys, but LeAnne clearly has no issue with letting her facade slip in front of me. I stare out of the window, pretending I’m not listening. Maybe she’s forgotten that I’m in the backseat.
Only, she hasn’t.
She cranes her neck to look at me, inquisitive. “So, you’re Everett’s daughter,” she says. It isn’t a question. Everyone knows.
Blake draws in a breath. “Careful, Mom,” he warns. He catches my eye in the rearview mirror, the same way he had the first night I met him. “Mila doesn’t like to talk about her dad.”
“Oh,” LeAnne says, her perfectly painted lips forming a literal “O”. “I’m sorry, Mila. I didn’t realize there were issues there.”
“No, no,” I say quickly, sitting up straight. The last thing I want is for the mayor to get ideas in her head about the Harding family being a broken one, so I quickly correct her. “Blake just means I don’t like bringing up the subject of my dad around people. I don’t want everyone to. . . I don’t want to draw attention to who he is.”
Something like understanding flashes across LeAnne’s face. She settles back into her seat and gets comfortable, watching the road unravel before us. “That makes sense,” she says, then gives her son a sidelong glance. “Blake denies I exist half the time. Don’t you, Blakey?” She pats his leg and he irritably swats her away.
“I don’t deny anything.”
She rolls her eyes as though this is a topic they often clash over, then to Blake’s evident fury she turns off his music and switches over to radio. “Enough of those soppy lyrics, don’t you think, Mila? Time for a change of tune. . .”
Blake looks at me in the rearview again. His jaw is clenched, his expression hard, and his eyes carry an apology. For what, I don’t know. Sorry for inviting me? Sorry for his mom’s not-so-perfect-mayor behavior?
We listen in silence to a talk show for the rest of the journey. It crosses my mind at one point that I have no idea where Blake lives – is he a ranch kid like his cousins? – and I spend most of the fifteen-minute ride surveying the surroundings and wondering what kind of house the Mayor of Nashville would live in. A mansion? A cute little bungalow? A ranch on the outskirts of town with security gates just like the Hardings?
“I would have thought you lived in the city,” I try by way of conversation.
“I do,” LeAnne says, but doesn’t offer anything more than that.
“Mom has an apartment in Nashville,” Blake explains. “But our family home is here.”
I don’t recognize the area of Fairview that we’re in, but it’s definitely not the north side of town where the Harding Estate is, and it isn’t downtown, either. We’re somewhere on the outskirts, maybe on the south side, passing a wide street of large houses, all of them spaced generously apart from each other. The truck slows and pulls into one of the driveways, coming to a stop behind a sparkling new Tesla.
So, the Mayor of Nashville lives in. . . a relatively normal home. Which is exactly what Savannah and Tori probably thought when they walked through our gates and saw the old ranch that Everett Harding once lived in.
I peer out of the window. The house may not be some exclusive mansion, but it’s big and well-maintained. The grass around the property is freshly mowed and colorful flowers spring up from the soil. There’s an American flag on a pole in the corner of the front lawn, swaying in the soft breeze.
“I’ll start preparing lunch,” LeAnne says as she slips her heels back on and steps out of the truck. Before she closes the door behind her, she leans back in and asks, “Mila, you aren’t on any of those Hollywood plant-based diets, are you? You’re good with meat?”
“Meat is fine,” I say. “Thank you,” I hastily add, letting her remark slide, even though I’m growing sick of people around here assuming that everything about me isHollywood. Sure, I live in a seven-bedroom house within the gated community of Thousand Oaks, andsure, my dad is a movie star, but that doesn’t mean I’ll turn my nose up at honky tonks, or that I’m automatically on some strict celebrity diet (I absolutely refuse to be part of Mom and Dad’s ridiculous protein-only one), or that I’m anything more than just Mila Harding.
Blake rests his hands on the top of the steering wheel, his eyes following his mom as she struts toward the house, waving cheerfully to the neighbor across the street, then lets herself in the front door. I’m not sure why we aren’t going with her. Blake and I remain in the truck together, quiet and still.
“So. . .are we getting out?” I ask, releasing my seatbelt and placing a hand on the door.
“Holy crap,” Blake mutters. “Shereallypisses me off.” His eyes are still locked on the front door of his home, where his mom has just disappeared out of sight, and I notice he’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white.
Oh, so he wants to talk about his mom. I scoot over into the middle seat so that I can lean forward to get a better look of him. “Yeah, I kind of picked up on that. I’m sorry she insulted your music taste.”
Blake laughs, but there’s no humor in the sound. “In more ways than one.”
“I get that she’s the mayor and that means having a public face and a private face, but I didn’t think she would be so – relaxed? – in front of me,” I admit. After all, she doesn’t even know me, so how can she trust me?
“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t think so either,” Blake says with a sigh. He lets go of the wheel, flexes out his fingers, then releases his seatbelt. He turns to look at me in the eye. “But I guess she sees you the same way I do.”
“What – like someone you can taunt?” I half-joke.
Blake’s expression falters. He presses his lips together, trying not to smile. “Like someone who understands how it feels to be under a microscope.” He pushes open the car door. “Nowwe can get out.”
We climb out of the truck and into the humid air. Blake heads up the driveway and I follow, but we don’t make for the front door. Instead, he leads me around the back of the house and into a huge yard. It’s fenced off and private from the neighboring properties. Wooden decking curves around the house where big bi-folding doors lead inside, and wicker furniture decorates most of the space. For some reason, I can’t really imagine Mayor Avery sunbathing out here with a margarita in her manicured hand.
