Page 12 of Married With Lies

I didn’t dare to ask anyone if the Gallants had been invited to the Christmas Eve party this year. The topic raises some sticky issues and I’m not in a position to remind anyone of sticky issues.

“Haven’t you seen him?” she presses.

“Not yet,” I mutter, peering into the thicket of holiday revelers with new wariness.

None of the faces belong to my despicable ex. This is hardly a comfort. It’s sort of like hearing the hiss of a venomous snake under your bed. You can’t see it right now but you know it’s there, waiting to strike.

Jessica Gallant is unaware of my silent panic attack. She toys with the pearl choker at her neck. “Of course Francesca with him. They are getting quite serious.”

I have no clue who Francesca is. Grant’s personal life is not a subject I’m obligated to care about anymore. But I just want this conversation to end so I say, “Great.”

“And I’m sure you know that Francesca was a top runway model before she started designing for Dior.”

“Francesca sounds like a keeper.”

The edge of sarcasm won’t quite stay out of my voice. I’m actually sorry for Runway Model Francesca. I sure hope she catches a glimpse of Grant Gallant’s narcissism and treachery before she makes any permanent choices.

Grant’s mother flashes a thin-lipped smile. “And what about you, Mercedes? I’m sure you couldn’t possibly still be single, could you?”

Now she’s just openly being a jerk.

In her mind, the script is simple. Grant, the dashing prince, was wronged by an ungrateful little troll who should have kissed the ground at his feet and thanked her lucky stars that he ever looked her way.

Jessica Gallant wouldn’t believe the truth and I can’t be bothered to correct whatever nonsense her son fed her.

As for the dating game, I’m too busy to deal with extra drama. One near miss with matrimonial hell was more than enough.

“Nope, happily single,” I say and stifle another sneeze. “Merry Christmas.”

I walk away before she can respond. The news that Grant Gallant is lurking about makes me want to sneak upstairs and hide in a closet until all the party noises evaporate.

Too bad that will solve nothing.

I’ve come all this way and I can’t run. No, I need to figure out a way to earn my father’s sympathy and I don’t have much time. In three more days I have to return to Colorado to face the people and the animals who are counting on me to figure out how to keep Bright Hearts Ranch on its feet.

Despite my issues with Baylor, I thought he might be willing to put in a good word on my behalf. I should have known better. The goofy, occasionally devilish big brother of my childhood has devolved into Asher Wingate’s prop. Baylor doesn’t even tie his shoes without our father’s blessing. We barely keep in touch and I haven’t seen him since his wedding a year and a half ago. I knew nothing of his political plans until this week.

My sister was always a lost cause but Hadley and I never got along so her indifference stings less than Baylor’s. At least she’s consistent. Hadley genuinely doesn’t care a fig about anyone but herself, her social media fandom and her vast shoe collection. After two short-lived unions followed by quick divorces, I’m convinced she’s only getting married for the third time because she really really likes playing the bride. She just has no use for all the actual marriage stuff that comes next.

The pianist parked at the antique grand piano begins playing Silver Bells. I think I like the song more without the words. The whole Christmas in the city thing isn’t too appealing. When I was very small, back in that foggy time before my mother died, she used to take me to Rockefeller Center during the holidays. Manhattan is beautiful in December. Yet even back then the lights and the buzzing throngs of people made me feel uneasy and restless, as if I was dropped in the middle of a scene where I didn’t belong.

Kind of like how I feel right now.

With a tug of deep longing, my mind veers back to home, the scrappy little center of my universe. Peggy is likely doing the evening rounds right now, checking the outbuildings to make sure all our four legged residents are warm and safe. According to the weather report, the skies are all clear for Christmas. Once Peggy is satisfied that all is well for the night she’ll make the short walk back to the house. She might even pause and look up, marveling at the canopy of stars overhead, before retiring to her cozy little suite where she’ll relax with all of her cats plus my two dogs and settle down with one of her many ongoing yarn projects.

When I bought the property the realtor warned the house was ‘dated’, as if I’m supposed to scream over dark wood paneling and chipped tile countertops. I didn’t change a thing. I love the house, even if the list of more practical repairs is tougher to ignore. The old furnace is one shuddering belch away from dying, the roof leaks have caused water damage in the den and in September a worried electrician warned that the breaker box urgently needs to be replaced.

Yeah, I’ll get right on that. Just as soon as I win the lottery.

My wish to be back at Bright Hearts right now is so powerful I can taste it, even though the place is in good hands with Peggy. And Gus assured me she’d be visiting every day while I’m gone.

It’s a stroke of luck that my best friend is a veterinarian but I try not to take advantage. It’s just that every time I attempt to pay her for her veterinary services she refuses, despite the fact that the practice she took over from her retired father barely scrapes by.

The last time I meekly made the offer was three weeks ago right after she performed lifesaving surgery on a pregnant stray Labrador who would have otherwise lost her puppies. Augusta Edelstein responded with one of her trademark withering looks and said, “If you insult me like that again then I will be forced to watch the next Bridgerton season without you.”

She knows how to deliver a threat. I clamped my mouth shut instantly. Anyway, I don’t have any actual money to give her. Every cent of the trust fund I received on my twenty-first birthday has been sunk into the ranch.

Often I wonder if my mother would approve of how I used the legacy she left to me. I was only five when she died and no one was willing to talk about her after that. Baylor and Hadley spent occasional holidays with their jet-setting socialite of a mother and hordes of British cousins but I had no other family. And my father was remarried within six months.

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