Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83102 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“Fine, at least grab a sweater or something.”
Matthew’s parents live in the Old Cloverdale neighborhood near the state capitol, which was an hour’s trek for us getting there from Auburn’s campus on a Sunday afternoon, but Matthew didn’t think much of it. He did it every week as was expected of him and his three younger siblings.
At the door of their stately mansion, we were greeted by a woman wearing a black shift dress, her brown hair tugged back into a severe bun.
“Mr. Matthew, it’s so good to see you,” she said kindly. “Your family is gathered in the blue salon.”
I returned the smile she aimed at me, glad to see a friendly face. I stepped toward her, hand outstretched. “Hi, I’m—”
But Matthew cut me off before I could fully introduce myself.
“That’s Birdie,” he hissed like I was supposed to know exactly what that meant.
“Okay…”
“The maid.”
I remember feeling nauseous as I walked away from Birdie knowing she’d overheard him chastise me for trying to be nice to her. But then a commanding voice boomed from down the hall, drawing my full attention.
“Matthew!”
Matthew Mason III—Matthew’s father—greeted us wearing a crisp button-down beneath a cashmere sweater vest, pressed slacks, and Ferragamo loafers. An orange Auburn A was embroidered on his left breast.
He focused his forceful gaze on me as I swallowed past my nerves. “You must be Madison McCall. Wonderful to have you join us.”
His dad was gracious and welcoming, ushering us into the blue salon and introducing me to the rest of the family. All of the women were blonde. All of the men held glasses of dark liquor. An adorable golden retriever sniffed my ankles; I knew he was Matthew’s childhood pet named after Auburn’s mascot, Aubie. I scratched behind the dog’s ears, and this earned me a subtle thumbs-up from Matthew. Then a whispered reminder to “Button your cardigan higher.”
The references to Auburn didn’t end with the family dog. The blue salon—as this room was so dramatically named—was entirely dedicated to navy and orange memorabilia from the university: a vintage pennant pinned in a heavy gold frame, a signed football helmet from Ralph “Thug” Jordan, a pedestal displaying a 2010 championship ring nestled in navy velvet.
I smiled at everyone, spoke when spoken to, and used the exact right fork at the exact right time. In other words, I passed my first family dinner test with flying colors—Matthew’s mother even complimented my dress!—and I knew from discussing it with Matthew afterward that his parents absolutely loved me, and how could they not? I was playing my part to a T. I was being the perfect version of myself.
That girl is long gone, so dead in fact I don’t think I could dredge her up if I tried.
Unfortunately, I don’t come up with a lie to get out of my second date with Sawyer, and I’m too chicken to stand him up. My only option—if I’m going to go through with this—is to completely keep feelings out of it. If he says something sweet, I’ll shield myself against it. If he tips his head to the side and gives me a boyish grin, I’ll remind myself that vigilante heroes don’t have feelings, they have Batmobiles, overloaded utility belts, skintight spandex pants.
This resolve is tested the moment I open my front door to see Sawyer has brought me and Queenie bouquets of freshly cut sunflowers from his grandmother’s garden. Standing on the doorstep, he looks like a dreamboat dressed in dark jeans and a white button-down, clean-shaven and smelling divine.
“Crawford insisted on the flowers,” he says, holding out the bouquets. “Said I had to step up my game if I had any chance of winning you over.”
Queenie exclaims over the sunflowers, one of which is just about the size of her head.
“Sawyer Garnett, you’re too sweet! I could just eat you up.”
She makes us redo our fireplace formal photos from our first date, this time with the sunflowers. I don’t even argue; it’ll just make it take longer if I do. I let Sawyer wrap his strong arms around my waist and I lean back against him, and for those few seconds my shield slips and real honest feelings creep up, an intense desire to stay right where I am, nestled against him.
When we walk outside, Sawyer opens the truck door for me, and we both shyly smile at each other as I climb in. “Feel like the pressure’s really on now,” he says. “I know my grandfather’s going to ask me about every little detail.”
“He’s actually asked me to write up a full review and rate our date on a scale of one to ten.”
My delivery is so deadpan I expect him to be confused (sometimes hot guys just aren’t that funny), but Sawyer gets it. He winks and bows deeply before closing my door and rounding the front of his truck. I fiddle with my hands on my lap, trying to dig deep for some vigilante hero determination.