Page 75 of Under Southern Stars
“Well…yeah…probably.”
“Jack.” Her voice sharpens. “Listen. I understand what you’re going through, but I reaaalllllyy think you need to think this one through. Showing up at the estate with her completely unprepared is asking for disaster.”
“I will, I am, I’m going to,” I insist, not sounding convincing even to myself.
“It’s not just about the couple hundred million in assets, Jack.” Charlotte sounds exasperated. Even converting from NewZealand dollars, that is a number I try not to think about too often.
“I know.”
“I’m not talking about the stuff you’ve already told her—the sisters, the vineyard. I’m talking about the things that make them your family. The reputation in the community. The expectations.”
“I get it, Char.”
“Dad’s already planning the vineyard tour, by the way.”
“Of course he is.”
“And Mum’s invited the Wallaces for dinner your first night.”
“She what?” I sit bolt upright. “No. Absolutely not. Charlotte, I swear to God—”
“Already handled it,” she says smoothly. “Told her you’d all be jet-lagged. The Wallaces will come for Sunday lunch instead.”
“You’re evil.”
“I’m efficient. There’s a difference.” She pauses. “They matter to you, don’t they? This woman and her daughter?”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “They do.”
“Then you better make sure it’ll work out,” Charlotte says with her usual certainty. “If it doesn’t, Lily and Emma will help me hide your body in the vineyard. We’ve got plenty of space.”
“Your support is overwhelming.”
“That’s what sisters are for. Safe travels, little brother. Text when you land.”
After we hang up, I sit staring at my phone. My sister is right—this has disaster potential. But somehow, the alternative—not bringing Sophia and Madison home, not showing them this part of my life—feels even worse.
I spend the next few hours double-checking everything. Our tickets are confirmed. The Auckland hotel suite is booked. The car service is arranged. I’ve done everything to make this journey as smooth and comfortable as possible.
Everything except be honest from the start.
???
“You know, I can carry my own bag and Madison’s,” Sophia says as I load the last suitcase into my car. “I’ve been doing it for years.”
“Humor me,” I reply, closing the trunk. “I’m trying to be gallant here.”
“It’s working,” Madison chirps from the back seat, not looking up from her phone. “Mom never lets anyone help with bags.”
“That’s because most men only offer so they can complain about how heavy they are,” Sophia retorts. “Making a big production about the weight.”
“Your bag could be filled with bricks and I wouldn’t comment,” I promise, sliding into the driver’s seat.
“Yeah, but you’re a paramedic,” Madison points out. “You carry people on stretchers and stuff.”
“True. Though technically I shouldn’t lift more than 50 pounds without help.”
“Well, my makeup bag alone is about 40,” Madison says gravely.
