Page 41 of The Match

Wait a second. I pause mid-handshake. Harold Jones? As in, the Harold Jones from the long line of Joneses that have made up the majority of our city’s wealth for generations? I knew Evie’s last name was Jones, but I guess I never thought to ask her if there was any connection because she just seems so . . . normal.

I slide my wide eyes to Mrs. Jones, and she rolls her eyes at Evie.

“I can see you haven’t told him who your relatives are.” The woman sounds like she’s never been more bored in her life. She looks at me again but doesn’t even offer me her hand. “Melony Jones.”

Oh yeah. I know who she is. Everyone in Charleston knows who this woman is. And she’s just as off-putting as I had imagined.

Suddenly, I feel like laughing. Here I was, thinking that Evie would be impressed with my little architectural firm and two-thousand-square-foot house, when she grew up with the leading socialites of Charleston in a twelve-million-dollar home. I know this because I read the magazine article about it last month. I feel embarrassingly ignorant.

She gave up all that to live in this shoebox? I have a whole new appreciation for Evie. Not because she came from money but because she turned out so down-to-earth despite her entitled upbringing.

Mrs. Jones turns her sharp eyes to Evie; apparently, she’s done with me. I’m just a small fly, and I’ve been swatted away. “Evelyn Grace, are you going to make us stand out here all night?”

“I’m entertaining a guest right now,” Evie says through her teeth. I’m impressed by her backbone. She’s not cowering under this woman’s haughty glare—and believe me, it’s more than a little intimidating.

“Clearly,” Mrs. Jones says with another accusatory glance at Evie’s bare legs.

I take one more look too, because goodness she has amazing-looking legs.

“But you’ve been taught better than to leave your parents standing out in the heat like this.” Mrs. Jones pushes past both of us and steps into Evie’s place uninvited. It’s shocking. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone do that before.

Mr. Jones pulls out his phone and frowns down at it. He answers it, turns around, and walks back out without so much as a glance to the rest of us. These people are something.

“I can’t do this right now, Mom. I don’t want to inflict our drama on an innocent bystander.” Evie gestures toward me.

I have no idea what to do right now. Do I jump to her aid? Do I act as her bouncer and throw these people out? I’m not prepared for this, but I want to help somehow.

Mrs. Jones acts as if she doesn’t hear Evie’s comment. “We won’t be long.” She runs her finger across the small entry table and then examines it for dust. “Honestly, Evelyn, what has happened to you? This place looks like a pigsty.”

I expect Evie to take offense to this, but instead, when I look at her, I notice that she’s looking at me—and she’s amused. No, not amused. She looks like she’s about to crack up laughing. And then I realize she’s looking at my hair.

I glance in the mirror on the wall and find that it’s sticking up in all directions. Possibly from where I ran my hands through it while Evie was getting the door. Possibly from where Evie ran her hands through it while I was licking her neck. Who’s to say. But this, coupled with Evie’s outfit, looks more than incriminating. I quickly smooth it down, trying to hide my own laugh now.

“If you’re just here to comment on my cleanliness, Mom, you can walk right back out. I’m happy with the way I live.”

“That’s not why I’m here. Although I do feel compelled to mention that if you would stop being foolish and accept Tyler, you would be able to move out of this cardboard box.”

Wait a minute. Who’s Tyler?

“I don’t live in the 1800s, Mom. I’m not going to accept a man’s proposal just because he has a big estate. Am I the only one who thinks this idea is ludicrous?”

Proposal? Apparently, Evie’s not as unattached as I thought. . . .

Mrs. Jones’s eyes suddenly shift to me, and I can see her sizing me up. “Is he the reason you’re not accepting Tyler?” She’s looking at me, but it’s clear that she’s not talking to me.

“Okay, this conversation is over.” Evie walks back to her door and opens it. “Time to go, Mom.”

Mrs. Jones turns a smirk to me. “If my daughter won’t answer me, I’ll ask you. Exactly who are you to Evelyn?”

“He’s a friend,” says Evie before I have a chance to open my mouth.

Mrs. Jones makes a guttural noise and then starts to stroll toward the door at a leisurely pace. “I only came by to inform you that your cellphone bill is overdue. If I don’t see your payment in our account by the end of the week, I’ll be forced to have your phone turned off.”

Turned off? Is this woman high on something? She sounds more like a villain in a movie, threatening to bash Evie’s kneecaps in if that AT&T money doesn’t show up soon.

This reminds me of something Evie said the first time we had coffee, about her bank account balance matching her age. At the time I thought she was kidding. But now I’m genuinely concerned.

“Of course,” her mother continues, “if you decide to have a relationship with Tyler, all of those ugly bills will go away. And you are welcome to come live in the guest house for free until you and Tyler marry.”

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