Page 13 of My Totally Unfair Deal

Later that evening

Jackson must sense how skeptical I am about this favor, because he hasn’t stopped talking about how “amazing” and “incredibly sweet” Eliza is since he started giving me a private tour.

He’s also pulling out all the stops and adding extras to my stay: free spa treatments, unlimited breakfast, a key to one of their top villas—complete with butler service. He’s even offered to cook me dinner, which I’m 95% sure is a trap.

“This is Eliza’s favorite thing to do,” he says, leading me through a field of wildflowers. “She’s a master gardener. Got it from our mom.”

I pluck a sunflower and twirl the stem between my fingers.

I know better than to ask about their parents. He was always quiet about them in college, and I know both of them are long gone.

“If our mom were still alive, we’d probably have a million sponsors by now,” he says. “She’d be our Martha Stewart.”

“You still have that pasta recipe she gave you?” I ask. “It’s still the best I’ve ever had.”

He shoots me a look. “Better than all those Michelin-starred restaurants you eat at now?”

“I have no reason to lie. I compare every pasta dish to that one—and nothing’s come close.”

Jackson grins. “I’ll have Eliza make it for you while you’re here.”

“Let’s not give her another reason to hate me.”

“Speaking of which,” I say, “what doesshethink of this coaching plan?”

“I haven’t told her yet.”

“…What?”

“I wanted to talk to you first—ease her into the idea.”

I blink. “Ease her in? Have you met your sister?”

“She might push back at first,” he says, “but once I explain how important it is—how much we need her—she’ll come around.”

If you say so…

“When are you planning to tell her?”

“When she’s at her nicest and sweetest.” He grins. “Like in the morning, when she’s watering her?—”

“What the hell did I say about doing that, youmotherfuckerrrr!”

A high-pitched yell cuts through the field like a grenade, and we both turn.

Eliza is standing by the mailbox, arms flailing.

She’s screaming at a mail carrier who’s trying—and failing—to make a fast getaway on his bike.

“Next time you throw our goddamn packages, Iswear to GodI’ll flatten your tires and bury your bike in the garden!”

He flips her off from a safe distance.

She returns the favor—twice—and keeps yelling until he disappears.

I glance back at Jackson.

“What were you saying about her being nice and sweet?”

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