Five years ago, if you’d asked me what I’d be doing today, sitting in a red piece-of-crap car surrounded by the dead, heavy heat of summer on the driveway of a stereotypical plantation— yes, think pristine white siding, wide porches, and an avenue of geriatric trees during an afternoon thunderstorm—would be my last guess. Hell, it wouldn’t even be that. I would’ve guessed running some Fortune 500 company or spearheading the Genius Academy of Whatever at some Ivy League college. Maybe sharing an office with my parents at Harvard, or better, bossing them around for a change.

Their five-year plan for me would have led to just that. But I ran. I threw their plan away and devised a newer, more Cassidy-friendly version. Version 2.0, with no flaws, no room for error, only consistent progress onward and upward. A perfect forty-five-degree angle plotted on a line graph. And at the end of the line, at the end of the five-years, a conclusive point. My achieved success—a job, financial freedom, and planning a wedding of my own.

I glance out the front windshield at the shiny windows, the contrasting black shutters and the ginormous blue-stained double front door with its ornate carvings and the huge brass door knockers centered on each. This is what stands between me and my goal. The final hurdle. And it’s a huge fucking hurdle.

One
of the most prestigious families in the Lowcountry owns this house. They’re like, the monarch mafia of Lucas Hill. Which sits just outside of Charleston. I think they own that city too. Did I mention I’m in South Carolina? The South? Like deep, deep, swampy, hot, twanging accent South. Yeah, being from Boston, you can see why this was
never
in my five-year plan. As far as last hurdles go, this will definitely be the hardest to jump. I’m so out of my element I’m like a gnat trying to survive a nor’easter. My boss being the evil ice queen of said nor’easter.

Lilian, the only person I confide in, said I could spin this internship two ways. I could grab my boss’s balls, tie them in a knot, and keep marching through the crap she puts in my way or let her scare me into submission, be her bitch, and graduate with less than perfect grades. Lilian prefers the second. She wants me to loosen up and live a little. Me? I want to survive. I want to prove I can be perfect without my parents’ help. I want to end this five years of studying, working, and eating nothing but ramen noodles and oyster crackers with a bang. Impossible, some may say, but to me, a challenge I refuse to fail.

My phone cackles. I throw my head back against the headrest. I’d assigned my new boss a ringtone to match her surplus of emotions that so far have ranged from slightly deranged to terrifyingly psycho. The witch’s
shriek
claws up my spine, sends chills racing across my skin. The kind you get when you scuffle through a haunted house and your friend deserts you to race to the end. The dark and alone kind of I’m-going-to-die fear. And I just might if I don’t answer.

“Hey, Mrs. Covington. Just got—”

“Tut-tut, Ms. Beck. When greeting others, whether you’ve been properly introduced or you don’t know them from a hole in the ground, remain courteous. ‘Hey’ is
not
courteous.”

What the fuck? I pull the phone back and stare at it. Her chatter starts back up and I quickly put the phone to my ear.

“
You should be in town. Are you settled? The linen samples are in the binder with my notes pinned to each. Go over these. Have Eleanor pass judgment on my selections. And yes, I overrode some of hers. The crystal samples in the hatbox are new. She needs to pick out three favorites.”

“Okay. I’m working on everything now.” Damn. Better not be late to anything. And I thought I was doing good. “Unpacking the stuff as we speak.”

I pull the car under the mossy limbs of one of the oaks near the side door like I’d previously been instructed and cut the engine. Heat instantly takes charge and whatever comfort I’d had, disappears. Mainly because of the voice on the other end of the phone.

“A few rules then, Ms. Beck.”

Rules? God. This woman is crazy. I took this job only because I’d won first place in an art show. I got first pick of senior internships, and this was the only paid position available. Maybe I should’ve thought this through. It’s not in my realm. I paint, create . . . this is party planning. Like, making people happy and feeding them shit ideas until they are. Don’t get me wrong; I can do what needs to be done, but I thought I’d left that world behind when I left home.

And this lady is Queen of Rules. She’s already e-mailed me a multipage document with all the allowables and disembowelables. Like seriously, I think she’ll gut me if I screw up. She kind of made that clear when I called to tell her I’d be her intern and she’d scoffed at my suggestion of being a sketch artist instead of an on-site wedding coordinator. I mean, hell, I was trying to save us both some grief, especially after she told me the bride was her daughter
and
the first wedding in the family. No pressure there.

“Rule one, do not override me. Do not make suggestions, offer unsolicited advice, or engage in any conversations dealing with planning this wedding outside the parameters we
discuss.
If something hasn’t been brought to your attention, take notes and tell my daughter you’ll get back to her after speaking with me.”

“What happens if she doesn’t like one of your ideas?” I close my eyes and muffle my sigh.

“Have you no manners, Ms. Beck? Don’t you know, if an elder is wrong, to bite your tongue? See fit you do just that from here on out.”

I bite my lip hard. This is just fucked up. To deal with this crap for six weeks? This lady is ruthless. Why does she bother having interns if she doesn’t like working with them? Well, two can play this game. I can give her what she wants. And find a way to get what I want too.

“I totally see what you mean. Consider my lips zipped.” I suck in a breath, then smile. “Since you are the elder and all.”

The line goes silent.
Zero, one,
I count.
Two, three.
The numbers override the silence and relax me. Typically, they’re my enemies. Today . . . my friends.
Five. Eight.
Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have added that last part.
Thirt—

“Fly on the wall, Ms. Beck.
That
is your job.”

I don’t respond, not sure if I’m supposed to.

“Rule two,” she continues. “Eleanor is the simplest and easiest to appease of my daughters, but also thick-headed. Keep her mind off insane requests. We’re down to the wire, here. There’s no time to change her dress again or fly in Konik horses from Europe; don’t let her tell you otherwise.”

“Really, she wants horses?”

“Of course she wants horses. What bride doesn’t?”

Not all brides–
almost
brides, I mean.

She
says something to someone in the background, then returns to our conversation. “As I was saying, keep Eleanor from dreaming up more convoluted ideas.”

I don’t see any danger in letting her dream.

She continues, “Besides wedding discussions with the bride or myself, keep your presence to a minimum.”

“I’m not sure I understand. How do I avoid them if I’m staying in their house?” I’d fought this like crazy–not wanting to live with my boss’s family–but apparently the closest hotel is thirty miles away and the traffic isn’t worth the frustration when it’s a hundred plus outside.

“You just do. There are plenty of gardens to enjoy and at one point there was a hammock near the pecan grove. I’m sure you can find other places to be instead of in the house.”

“Sure, okay.” Sounds more like prison.

Mrs. Covington heaves a heavy sigh. I’m pretty sure it means she’s ready to end this conversation. Well, I second that.

“My daughter Katherine will also be staying at the house,” she says. “You need not worry about my son’s presence because he’s not”—she sighs heavily— “he’s out of the country. This doesn’t give you permission to snoop around or laze about as if you own the place. And no visitors. Please respect our home and privacy.”

Visitors? Who in their right mind would find swarming gnats, predatory mosquitos, and drowning in this unbreathable air enjoyable? And getting my heart crushed by another guy isn’t in my five-year plan. It isn’t even in my ten-year plan, so bringing home a guy should be the least of her worries.

I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Stick to my room. Use the kitchen sparingly. Out of sight, out of mind.”

Since
the rain has let up, I climb out of the car and ease my suitcase out of the trunk, shutting it gingerly so as to not alert Ms. Crabbypants that I’d lied about being settled. I tuck the key in my pocket and waddle toward the back door, hoping to make it before the clouds let loose another dumping of rain.

“And curb your smart-aleck comments.”

“Yeah, okay.” Arguing with her is too much work anyway. And she lacks a sense of humor, so joking about anything will only pave my way to hell faster.

“Learn your manners. My colleagues expect it and so do I. It’s “yes, ma’am” or “no, ma’am.”
Yeah
,
yep
, and
uh-huh
aren’t words. Eradicate them from your vocabulary,” she barks. “I really must insist your school teach poise before sending me anymore interns. You could use a semester or two.”

I purse my lips, drop my suitcase on the porch, and stare at my escape vehicle. Could she be any more condescending?

“Yes, ma’am, Ms. Covington.” I punch the air to keep my voice steady. “I’ll give two hundred percent to this project. You can count on me not to screw up.”

Her laugh, almost sinister, is covered up by what sounds like a car engine. I glance down the drive but don’t see anyone.

“I should be going. I need to—I’d like to review your notes for this meeting one last time before Eleanor arrives. Should I be expecting her fiancé?”

BOOK: Love Me Crazy

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