Page 79 of Calling the Shots

We move past the staircase, our footsteps clicking against the marble and reverberating in the quiet hallway. My heart’s pounding like I ran a marathon—which, let’s be real, I definitely did not—and I wonder if Mack feels my racing pulse. His shoulders square, jaw tense, I have no clue what he’s thinking right now. Suddenly, he feels distant, a million miles away. And I’m knocked even more off-balance.

I don’t know this Mack at all.

We pass by several lavishly decorated rooms, all tastefully done in muted tones with golden accents and more light-colored furniture. I can’t imagine sitting down in one of those rooms to do something as mundane as watch TV. No, these rooms are built for headier past times—studying maps or playing the harpsichord or something.

Nothing like what I do back home in Thunder Creek. The television would probably short circuit if an episode ofReal Housewivescame on.

I snicker at the thought and Mack cuts his eyes to mine, a worried look flashing across his face.

“Sorry,” I murmur, pulling myself together.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. It’s fine.”

We come to the end of the hallway after walking for what seems like miles, dead-ending into a huge glass room with a rotunda and yet more white furniture. Plants artfully fill the space in carefully curated areas—vases of white calla lilies, potted orchids growing up to the sky, ferns, and potted palms. A multi-tiered silver platter filled with tiny sandwiches, macarons, cookies, and cakes is at the center of a round table, flanked by a stack of plates and flatware. A silver teapot sits next to the display, along with an assortment of beautiful teacups and saucers.

Mack’s mother’s sitting at the table and she stands as soon as she catches sight of us.

“Hello, darling. So glad you finally made it home. And this must be Grace.”

His mother steps forward, reaching out and squeezing my upper arms. Holding me at arm’s length, she inspects me, clear blue eyes raking over every last square inch of my face. I hold my breath, also studying her.

Mack’s mother is stunning, not a wrinkle on her face. She could pass for twenty-five if I didn’t know any better. Her blonde hair’s sleek, a very becoming shoulder-length, brows artfully sculpted. Make-up is subtle and on point—slightly rosy cheeks, dark lashes, a nice pink color on her full lips. She smells like some exotic flower, the very scent expensive.

“Nice to meet you.” I don’t correct her on my name, instead forcing enthusiasm into my voice, an emotion I’m most definitely not feeling at the moment.

“Lovely to meet you as well. We’ve heard so much about you.”

Really?Because until this trip, I knew next to nothing about Mack’s family.

“Same.” I bob my head, her long, thin fingers still clutching my arms.

“Come, sit. You all must be exhausted after the drive.” She finally loosens her grip, and I inch closer to Mack.

His mother takes her seat and I follow Mack’s lead, his hand hovering at my low back as he pulls the chair out for me. The one closest to his mother. I sink down into the seat as gracefully as possible, nerves thrumming wildly.

Mack’s mother starts pouring the tea into beautiful little teacups, all painted with a delicate rose pattern and ringed with gold. I stare longingly at the finger sandwiches and sweets. The stress of the situation’s making me hungry.

“Ulysses, my boy.”

A loud, booming voice sounds from behind me and I almost drop my teacup.

Ulysses? Who the fuck’s Ulysses?

My mouth opens, but I clamp it shut before I say something stupid. Only one person in this room could be named Ulysses and it’s sure the hell not me.

In the last thirty minutes I’ve learned more about Mack than I have in the last few months.

What other secrets is he hiding?

CHAPTER26

MACK

Oh fuck. Why’d my dad have to go and call me Ulysses?

I despise the name, a throwback to our ancestry that I’d love to leave behind. Far behind, in fact.

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