She wrapped her hands around the large coffee from the Peach Pit. Madison had warned her it was a bad idea to bring it back, but after that weekend, she didn’t care. But how best to get it into the house unnoticed? Was there a side door? Though she had no idea where in the house her father-in-law resided. She bit her lip and examined the house again.
Oh, fuck it. She was a grown woman. If she wanted to buy coffee, Jonathan would have to deal with it like an adult. She smiled to herself, the cup warming her hands and self-righteousness warming her soul. She was going to find the largest mug possible and hide the shit out of that coffee.
Hannah peeked in the front door. No one was in the vestibule. Not that that meant anything in a mansion—someone could be in the next room, and she’d never hear them. She shouldered the front door closed and weighed heading straight to her room or detouring through the kitchen. Her stomach growled. The kitchen it was. Maybe there would be some breakfast left out since they apparently didn’t eat lunch on Sundays. Heathens.
“Pardon?”
Hannah slapped a hand over her mouth, swallowing a squeak at the voice. She’d apparently said that last part out loud.
“Did you need something, miss?”
“Oh, Renata,” Hannah said, turning to face the older woman. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
Renata stared at her—judging or calculating, Hannah didn’t know. She counted the seconds before the woman finally spoke. “You don’t like Mr. Thorne’s coffee?”
“Umm... it’s just a bit strong.” The urge to shield her offensive outsider coffee from Renata overwhelmed her, and she wrapped both hands around the paper cup.
Renata’s eyes narrowed, but then the smallest of laughs escaped her lips. “Can’t say I don’t agree. Come with me.”
Hannah thought her wanderings from that morning had given her a solid understanding of the house layout, but she had no idea where Renata was taking her. They might as well have been crawling through a secret passage behind the walls.
They went through a part of the house with its own vibes. Nothing was dusty, but everything seemed older, from the style to the personal pictures of the boys as kids—something the rest of the house lacked. She stopped to pick up a picture of a young Will curled against the hip of his mother. Will resembled Jonathan, but wow, he was his mother’s son.
“Miss?”
Hannah took a few quick steps and found herself at the back of the kitchen. She followed Renata through the pantry, past the appliances, and to the front where breakfast had been set up that morning. She grabbed a plate and a cranberry muffin, taking a seat on one of the stools. Renata placed an oversized mug in front of her. It wasn’t anything she would have expected to find in this house with its fine china for a continental breakfast. Hannah spun it around. University of Iowa was on the other side. It was Will’s mug. It had to be. She distinctly remembered the morning he chipped the handle and his resolve to use the mug through graduation anyway. That had been October of junior year.
“Has Will been down yet?” Hannah asked, sipping her still-warm coffee.
Renata nodded, her attention focused on the vegetables she was chopping. “I saw him heading out in his trainers right before you came in.”
Right. Of course he’d be out for another run. Hannah pulled out her phone and found a text message confirming this information—a series of messages, upon further review. She typed out a quick text with one hand, picking up Will’s mug with the other. She stood up, raising the cup to Renata in farewell. She smiled back, laughter playing across her face. Was Renata like this with all the women the boys brought home? Probably not—Madison had barely registered Renata’s existence. Hannah held her coffee close to her chest. She had found another ally.
She meandered through the halls, certain if she kept going straight, she would find a room with a fireplace. It would be nice to sit in the glow of a fire, relax, contemplate life—or at least text Kate the latest details. She’d promised a live-texting event but had sent only two texts since Friday night. Fate had other plans. The door next to her opened, revealing none other than Jonathan himself. Crap.
She smiled wanly and waved with the hand that didn’t hold her contraband coffee. Jonathan did not wave back or smile but rather nodded. “Ah, Miss Abbott,” he said, his tone placid. “Or I suppose Mrs. Thorne?”
“Hannah is fine,” she said, trying to keep her tone neutral. Jonathan was prickly and could insult a person without ever saying anything negative and keeping a completely sanguine smile on his face. Will had warned her. She was prepared not to react, but seeing it in action and having it directed at her created quite an exercise in self-control.
“As you wish. I was hoping to chat with you without my son, if that’s amenable?”
She nodded her approval and then followed him into what appeared to be an office. In the middle of the room sat a giant mahogany desk whittled to spectacular detail. It was every writer’s dream desk and something a writer’s salary could never afford—at least, not her salary. Jonathan took a seat behind the desk in an oversized leather chair. He motioned for Hannah to sit across from him. Even the chairs were designed to intimidate. They were
