Page 21 of The Best Worst Mistake (Off-Limits #2)

Abby

Olivia was right. But, she’s always right. Quinton and Selma’s house granager , as she introduced herself just now, is like no one else I’ve ever met.

“House manager ?” I ask gently, wondering if I’d just heard her wrong as she makes her way down the steps outside.

Starry’s laugh is deep and contagious, wrapping itself around me like a gentle hug.

“ Gran -ager,” she corrects me, smiling.

“Though, I suppose manager is what the initial job listing was for. That was so long ago, and I was a lot younger back then. I like to think that I’ve been upgraded to granager since I started. ”

She pulls my outstretched hand past her hip, sweeping me into a tight embrace instead of a handshake, the likes of which might rival Dax’s. It takes me completely off guard. I’ve never been much of a hugger when it comes to first-time meetings, but here we go. It’s happening.

“I think Quinton started calling me his granager after he had my salted chocolate-chip cookies. Took me a long time to perfect.”

“Did you say salted chocolate-chip cookies?” I ask, wondering if that’s the scent pouring out through the open door, along with the yellow glow of welcoming light.

“The salt gives them a little something,” she says, winking as if we’ve just shared a secret.

“I might have stolen that trick from that young celebrity I saw make an appearance on Iron Chef — Kendall Fisher, is it?” I chuckle as she laughs that deep, soul-filling laugh again.

“Or, honestly, I’ve been around longer, so maybe it was her who stole that idea from me!

Regardless. You’ve had a long day, honey. Let’s get you inside.”

She squeezes my hand. I’ve never felt a hand as weathered as hers.

It’s like tissue paper that’s been stashed away and reused after each gift, soft and lined and somehow familiar.

Just as I pull back, she gives me another giddy look that makes my shoulders give way, uncurling from up around my ears.

I let out a sigh. Like my entire body has been held in tight formation since running into Dax this morning and I can finally let some of the tension out.

“There now,” she says. “Take that deep breath you look like you need. I don’t blame you for being tired, sweetheart.

Cross-country flights are exhausting. And if you deal with lawyers all day, even though I know you’re one too and I’m sure you’re a great one, honey, but you’ve got to be practically asleep on your feet by now. ”

I nod, feeling the weight of the day slough off.

She cups a hand around my shoulder and we both turn, then she matches my stride toward the house, grabbing my bag with her other hand. “I can get that,” I say, reaching for my suitcase as we start to go up the stairs.

“Don’t be silly.” She nudges me forward. “I’m stronger than I look. And besides, you’ve been lugging it around for two days now, from what I hear. Plus, I could use the extra workout, so you just keep on walking.”

She goes up the steps, talking through the silence as if we’re old friends with quite a bit to catch up on. It makes my head spin a little.

“Now, Selma and Quinny take most of their house staff with them when they’re gone for longer periods of time — Connor, the chef, both their personal trainers, make-up artists, and all the like.

It’s just Charles — that’s the head gardener — and me here with you.

We make up the skeleton crew but we manage to do just fine.

More than fine, really.” She rubs her hand up and down my spine when we reach the last stair, as if to warm me up.

“Charles is pretty handy, above and beyond the garden, so I always have my list of things for him to do. He’ll be around if you need help with anything.

You’ll see him hanging around, but he’s harmless.

At least he should be, considering I married the man. ”

“You and the gardener are married?” I ask. Olivia hadn’t mentioned that.

“Thirty-seven years now,” she tells me, stepping over the threshold. “I got lucky marrying a good man for only being twenty-two when I fell for him. Not everyone is that lucky, especially nowadays, from what I hear.”

I’m expecting a large entrance room when we pass through the doors and it definitely doesn’t disappoint, but the grand foyer of the estate also somehow feels homey and welcoming.

The two arched doors are flanked by oversized window seats piled high with cushy, striped cushions beneath towering old-fashioned arched windows that I imagine allow an amazing amount of sunlight to stream in.

What a perfect spot to read a book in, if I am ever to have time for that sort of thing .

But it’s the plants that make me feel like I’m back home. Pots and greenery of every size and shape are spread around like a welcoming crew. I imagine Charles, Starry’s husband, tending to them while she looks on.

“Your husband has quite the green thumb,” I tell her, spinning on the black-and-white tiled floor to take them all in.

“He does, indeed,” she agrees. “Selma and Quinny like being among the living when they’re home. All these are little green friends , as Selma calls them.”

A scurrying fluff ball I’m pretty sure is a cat runs over to rub its flanks against my ankle. I step back, surprised that it seems to like me.

“Oh, don’t let her bother you. That’s just Millie,” she says, attempting to shoo her away. “I pretend to run the house here, but we all know that it’s Miss Millie running everything, really.”

I bend down to run my fingers through Millie’s soft mane, surprised by how tiny her body feels beneath her coat of thick, white fur.

She’s deliciously cream-colored with a smushed-in nose that makes her look like she’s frowning and smiling, both at once, peering up at me with eyes the color of hazy sea glass.

“She actually doesn’t bother me at all,” I say, as Millie’s purr grows louder. She pushes back and forth beneath my hand, like she’s anxious I might decide to stop petting her before she’s ready for me to go. “I’m just surprised she likes me.”

“Well, why wouldn’t she, hon?” Starry says, like she has no idea why any cat in the world wouldn’t love me.

I don’t admit that my own cat seems to want nothing to do with me.

Something about the way Starry has welcomed me so genuinely, so comfortably into this wonderful home makes me want to keep that to myself, instead of confessing that I can’t even get a cat to welcome me back home like she and this cat that I’ve never met before just have.

As we walk further into the house, the smell of whatever freshly-baked goods Starry must have in the works grows stronger. When we step inside the warm glow of the kitchen, which is connected to a vast family room, the scent becomes undeniable.

The connecting rooms are sprawling, but designed to be lit only by delicate lamps and intricate wall sconces placed all around.

There’s even a few tucked into corners of the enormous kitchen so not a single overhead light is turned on.

It feels like I’ve just stepped into the type of home I’ve only ever fantasized about — something off the pages of a magazine or Pinterest board.

Cozy and comfortable. A true hygge-lover’s paradise.

An enormous, U-shaped sectional sofa sits around a stone fireplace, looking worn in all the right places, like I could sink down in its soft, supple leather and take a nap after spending all afternoon reading my favorite novel there.

All while wood crackles and sizzles in the heat of gently dancing flames.

I don’t know what I was expecting when I imagined the inside of a famous movie director and his supermodel wife’s home, but it definitely wasn’t this.

And then there are the cookies. It smells like a bona fide bakery in here.

Three copper cooling racks topped with gooey-looking chocolate-chip cookies are spread out across one of the kitchen islands.

I put a hand over my rumbling stomach, starkly aware that it’s nearly ten o’clock and I haven’t eaten anything more than a browning banana off the office building’s snack counter since breakfast.

“Now,” Starry says, tutting, “we’ll get you fed, sweetheart.

Don’t you worry. I’ve already taken care of that.

Let me just show you to your room first. We’ll grab a cookie on the way, since you’re probably dying for a place to put your things down.

I wasn’t sure what time you’d be arriving so I kept dinner warm for you just in case you hadn’t had time to eat yet.

I’m right, aren’t I — you haven’t eaten?

” I stare at her, slowly nodding. She made dinner for me.

I can’t remember the last time someone made me dinner.

Myself included. “We’ll get your things all settled and then I’ll leave it up to you on whether you’d like to come back out to the kitchen for a good meal and some company, or if you’d rather I just brought you a tray so you can eat in peace before letting your head hit the pillow.

I hear you’re burning the candle at both ends downtown over a big business deal. ”

“I am,” I say, nodding, unsure of how to respond. I’ve never experienced a house granager, let alone a kind grandmother type of figure before, and the effect of it all is a bit foreign, to say the least. “And thank you for having me. And for all this,” I add, waving a hand toward the kitchen.

She crosses the room to grab two melty cookies off the cooling rack, wrapping them both up in a napkin to keep the chocolate from getting on my fingers. When she hands the little makeshift package of cookies to me, it warms my hand.

“You really didn’t have to do all this for me,” I tell her, feeling a bit embarrassed that this woman I hardly know has gone to all this trouble.

“I’m totally fine ordering Uber Eats, really.

I do it practically every night back in New York.

And by practically , let’s be honest, I mean every night. ”

She grins, then grabs my bag again.

“Well, consider this a new type of home.” She winks so quickly that I nearly miss it.

“Here, you don’t have to worry about any of those types of things, hon.

Like lukewarm meals delivered in a Styrofoam container.

” She shakes her head, tsk-tsking like me eating Uber Eats every night is a tragedy.

“Of course, if you’d prefer takeout, I’m happy to help make the calls for you,” she says, a genuine warmth never leaving her.

“I’m here to make your life easier, any way I can.

But, we can figure out this new arrangement together as we go.

For tonight, let’s just get you set up in your guest suite. It’s just down this hall here.”

I feel genuinely speechless. And I’m never speechless. But even if I’m a bit thrown off, I love her energy. I love the whole feel of her. And that’s not something I would typically think or say the first time meeting someone.

Starry leads me down a nearby hall, toward what I imagine will be my very own space over the next few weeks.