I shrugged. “Sure.” I waved at the ladies and let him guide me down to the garage and into his car.
“You’re driving this time, huh?” I asked as the garage door opened and he started the car.
“Yes. There is plenty of parking.”
“And you don’t mind Pat staying in the house when we’re not there?”
“No. I’ve known her for a long time. I trust her, and I trust Janelle. They’ll look after things. It’s no different than leaving Kimberly behind.”
That made sense.
He paused in the driveway as the garage door closed. I could see his lips thin as his eyes trained on the pink scrawl. He didn’t say anything, though, just waited until the garage was fully closed before backing out.
Hunter’s mother lived across the Golden Gate Bridge in a stupidly wealthy area where a large house would be priced in the millions. Not a mansion, just a large house. It was the area where all the wealthy people, who worked in downtown San Francisco in extremely well-paying jobs, lived.
“I just can’t get behind the idea of an area where you spend millions on a normal-sized house. You could have a palace in middle America for this kind of money.”
“But then you’d have to live in middle America.” Hunter parked the car in between a shiny Mercedes and a Tesla, and across the street from a Porsche.
“What’s wrong with middle America?” I didn’t make a move to get out of the car. Even if I looked like one of them, they’d be able to sniff me out, easily. I was from modest stock, and rich people could tell.
“Snow, sleet, cold, not to mention landlocked—need I continue?” Hunter smiled at me and got out of the car.
I was pretty sure a little snow would be a small price to pay for affordable housing, but I couldn’t tell that to someone who owned an island. He just wouldn’t get it.
The door opened, allowing a swirl of cold air into the car. I pulled my wrap tighter around me before I took Hunter’s hand to get out of his sleek sports car. “I forgot that the temperature shifts by ten degrees across the bridge.”
“At least. It’s chilly here.”
I smoothed my dress and then looked around again. “I feel like Cinderella. I’ll probably have to pull a runner in a few hours when everyone realizes I still have something called college debt…”
“Not Cinderella.” Hunter put his arm around my shoulders as we walked up the walkway to the front door. “Belle from Beauty and the Beast. You were smart and beautiful before I found you. The only change you made was putting on nice clothes and jewelry. It’s still the same you. I was the one who turned from something ugly into something I hope, one day, you’ll be proud of. The transformation was all on my side. Because of you.”
I leaned into him as warmth filled my chest. He squeezed me tight as we arrived at the door. He turned me to him, lifting my chin so he could give me a soft kiss. He looked into my eyes for a moment before giving me a smile, then rang the doorbell.
“You don’t just walk in?” I asked, savoring the soft look he’d just given me. Trying to commit to memory the beautiful words.
“Do you just walk into your mother’s house?”
“No, but your mother likes you. Right?”
He squeezed me close again. “She likes to hang on to ceremony with these types of things. Besides, her butler insists on the right way to do things.”
“She has a butler?” I mumbled as the door swung open slowly.
An old man that may or may not have already died and refused to admit it stood in the doorway wearing a black suit and a bright red bowtie. Wrinkles lined his face and white wisps of hair stuck out from his head. “Mr. Carlisle. How nice to see you. And Miss Jonston, I presume?”
“Mr. Smith, hello. How are you?” Hunter guided me forward as the butler stepped back to admit us before closing the door behind us.
“Just fine, Mr. Carlisle. Just fine. May I take your wrap, miss?”
Hunter shrugged out of his jacket as the oldest butler in the world draped my wrap across a coat hanger, moving so slowly a turtle would be impatient.
“Please, follow me.” Mr. Smith led us down a wide hall adorned with well-polished furniture and really neat art. My gaze was captured by a painting and became trapped, following the colors and lines within the frame.
Despite the fact that everything seemed high-dollar and of the best quality, it gave the impression of having been bought long ago and kept in good condition. The style, and an occasional faded color or two, lent it that older person feel that said Hunter’s mom hadn’t updated her furnishings in a while. Not that she really needed to—it all still looked great. Just…dated.