Page 37 of My Totally Unfair Deal

She picks up a board full of garden pictures. “It’s like manifesting the things you want in life, or looking at them every day so you remember what you’re working for. I want to install a beautiful garden for our guests next year. It’ll cost about five million, so even though I’m sure we can more than afford that with all the money the farm brings in, I’m sketching out all the design ideas here before presenting it to my brother.”

I hold back a sigh.

She reaches for another board—this one covered in blush tones, fabric swatches, and wedding flower arrangements.

“You’re manifesting a husband now?”

She rolls her eyes. “A wedding venue. I’ve been dreaming about adding one to the resort forever, and I think I finally have a decent enough business plan to present it to Jackson, so...”

Her voice trails off, and she bites her lip like she’s said too much.

“Forgot who you were talking to?”

“Yes,” she mutters. “But I’ll make sure this is all cleaned up when I’m done.”

“Thank you.” I turn toward the hallway, but a knock sounds at the front door before I make it ten steps.

Assuming her Chanel bags have arrived early, I pull it open.

There are no white tissue-stuffed bags or monogrammed boxes in this woman’s hands.

The only thing she holds is the title of “Last Person I Want to See.”

“Nice to know you’re alive, Harrison.” My mother purses her lips. “Aren’t you happy to see that I’m alive?”

I don’t answer that.

“You know what I realized this morning?” She places her hands on her hips. “All my children—except you—got me birthday presents last month.”

“Good for them.”

“Well?” She arches a perfectly manicured brow. “Do you have anything to say for yourself? AnI’m sorryor anI’ve missed youwould be nice.”

They’d also be false. “I like your new sweater.”

Her scowl disappears, like it always does with the smallest amount of flattery.

“Why, thank you!” She beams. “I had it custom-made by one of Thierry Mugler’s newest apprentices. She’s going to be a big deal in fashion in about five years, I swear.”

“Right,” I say. “Well, I’m very much alive, but I’m also busy, so?—”

“You’re not going to invite me in?” she says. “Carlos dropped me off for the entire afternoon. I assumed you’d want to have tea with me.”

She’s lying. She wouldn’t let her driver leave her stranded if she were stranded in a Bentley showroom.

Still, I step aside.

“What in the tornado is going on here?” She peels off her scarf. “Did you fire the housekeepers?”

“No.” I gesture toward the living room. “Mother, this is Eliza. Eliza, my mother—Mrs. Jones.”

Eliza stands with impressive practiced poise and extends her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Jones.”

“So you’ve hired someone new.” My mother shrugs out of her sweater and dumps it into Eliza’s arms. “Could you hang that in the closet for me?”

Eliza shoots me a questioning look.

“I’ll have a freshly steeped hibiscus tea and a lightly dusted cinnamon scone,” my mother continues. “I’d like the scone on a wooden plate, and the tea in a glass mug. I’m listening to a podcast on microplastics and trying to avoid them.”

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