Vital Sign (20 page)

The jet taxis right up to a black
Lincoln with heavily tinted windows. We jar slightly, coming to a full stop, and Zander wastes no time getting us off the plane and into the waiting car that is obviously for us.

A beefy man opens the back door then stows our bags in the trunk. Zander’s hand on my lower back ushers me forward into the leather bench seat. I smooth my dress and take a deep breath. I’m startled to see the back of another man’s head sitting in the front passenger seat of the Lincoln.

“Hey, Trav,” Zander mumbles.

“Zander. How you been
, man?” The man he called Trav turns around in his seat to face us.

“Travis, this is Sadie Parker. Sadie, this is Travis
Casin. He works for dear old Dad,” Zander explains, buckling his seatbelt.

I turn my attention to the middle-aged white man in the passenger seat. He’s handsome. Well
-dressed, from what I can see. Unassuming. Salt and pepper hair that’s more pepper than salt. I smile courteously and lean forward to take the hand that he offered.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, ma’am.”

“So what’s the plan for tonight and in the days after,
Trav?” Zander asks, all business.

“Well, we didn’t have much notice, so we’ve been doing some damage control as far as social media and public knowledge. There’s nothing much to cover
, though, so it’s been pretty to the point. We’ll just feed them the information and nothing else. It’s important that she not give them any reason to take photos or chase her. Low profile. You know the drill.” The man in the front seat rambles on at a rapid pace, his head facing forward.

“Travis,” Zander growls with a clenched jaw.

“I’m sitting right here. You can talk to
me,
you know,” I interject, sparing no insolence.

Travis holds his hands up in mock surrender but doesn’t look back at either one of us. Nor does he apologize.
“Ma’am—” he begins.

“Sadie. Call me Sadie.”

“Okay. Sadie, is there anything damaging that the media could dig up on you?”

“Fuckin’ bullshit,” Zander mutters rubbing the bridge of his nose with his eyes squeezed shut.

“Define damaging? Like am I a crack whore? High school dropout? Do I fib on my taxes? What are you getting at?”

“Anything. Drugs
, illegal or otherwise. Peculiar hobbies. Known associates that may be of questionable background. Anything like that.”

“Wow. Uh, no. None of that. My life is boring.” I decide to skip on telling him anything about the anxiety meds. It’s none of his or anyone else’s goddamn business anyway.

“Let’s just go home. Fuck ‘em. Let ‘em write what they want. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll handle all of it,” Zander urges tersely, his Georgia drawl more prevalent now that he’s anxious and pissed. My mouth hangs open just a little thinking about his choice of words.

Let’s go home. Home. Is Tybee
home? Could it be? Would it be if I’d let it?

“Zander, don’t be melo
dramatic,” Travis cuts in. “I’m only trying to do my job. I’m trying to avoid trouble. We’ve gone around in this same circle more than we should have, right?”

“You’re being a fucking dick!” Zander snaps. “
Don’t talk that way in front of her and for damn sure not
to
her. Get me?” 

Travis lifts his hands again and I subliminally
re-label “Travis Casin” as “asshole.” It’s no wonder Zander wants nothing to do with all of this crap. I’ve only been involved for all of ten minutes and I’m ready to tell Travis and the rest of them to kiss my scrawny ass on their way to hell.

Who are they to pick apart and scrutinize Zander
, or me, or anyone else, for that matter?

Zander laces his fingers with mine
, but his eyes focus on everything zipping by outside his window. He’s tense. I can feel it. My guard has gone up and I don’t like what all of this has done to Zander. He doesn’t deserve this.

***

Thirty minutes later, we slowly approach a set of gates. I crane my neck enough to look beyond the driver and out the windshield. The beefy driver flicks his fingers in a little salute to a man in a small red brick security booth at the gate. The wrought iron gates part and slide open sluggishly to retreat behind a huge brick wall that appears to encircle the property. The driver takes us further down the smoothly paved driveway. Huge trees drip with Spanish moss, giving the place the old Georgia charm that is so unique to this part of the country.

A
multilevel red brick house that looks more like a stately building comes into view. Windows with navy blue shutters ornament the front. Huge white pillars line the front of the house, creating a porch as wide at the house itself. The white pillars contrast against the red brick, creating a look that keeps my eyes locked on in admiration.

The car comes to a stop and Zander finally looks at me. “Welcome to
the Governor’s mansion,” he muses dryly.

“Cross
ing ‘go inside a mansion’ off my list,” I joke, using air quotes, hoping that I can garner even just a little bit of a smile from him. The shadow of a grin plays at the corner of his lips and I inwardly tally a point for myself.

The foyer is just as grand as the outside of the house. The entire place oozes political royalty
, from its crystal chandeliers to the red carpet runners up the split staircase. There’s pristine white trim, dark, glossy-varnished antiques, rugs that are probably worth more than my car, waxed tile, and wood floors. The place is a mini White House. It’s impressive, but nowhere near comfortable. I feel like I’ve been holding half a breath since we got here. I much prefer the cozy, inviting warmth of Zander’s house over this joint.

“Oh
, Alexander, honey, so glad you decided to come,” I hear a female drawl in full-on
Steel Magnolias
style.

Jesus Christ. Images of a beauty salon full of self
-proclaimed Georgia Peaches discussing shades of pink for a wedding comes to mind. I shake the distraction away just in time to see a beautiful, well-groomed older woman practically
glide
across the wood floor right towards us.

“Sugar,” she coos into Zander’s ear as she takes him into a hug.

He kisses her cheek when she angles her face expectantly. “Mama,” he says in an autopilot sort of greeting.

“
Mhmm,” she appraises me, letting her eyes roam freely over my body.

I tense
, feeling like a goddamn steer on the auction block. Zander takes my hand and squeezes reassuringly.

“Alexander, honey, are you going to introduce this young lady to you
r mama or should I do it myself?” She chuckles halfheartedly.

“Mama
, this is Sadie Parker. Sadie this is my mother, Virginia McBride.”

Mrs. McBride s
coffs as she reaches forward, hugging me lightly. “
Mother
. You know I positively loathe when you call me
Mother
.”

“Sorry
, Mama,” Zander corrects himself right on cue. I can practically see the eggshells that he’s walking on in this place and it makes me sad and overly protective of him. When a person comes home, they should
feel
like they are at home. Poor Zander is standing here in the main foyer of this mansion being scolded by his uber-conservative
mother
about which title he should use to refer to her.

“Well,
darlin’, your father is in his office. He’s expectin’ you. Go on in. I’ll have someone bring in some iced tea,” she says, gliding away from us with her hand sort of flicking through the air like she’s forgotten the name of something.

Zander sighs heavily then ushers me toward the Governor’s office, I presume.

“Wait. Wait. Should I—I mean, maybe I should wait in the other room or something,” I offer feebly, working at avoidance.

“Do you want to meet him now?”
Zander asks calmly.

“I—well, maybe later tonight when there are a lot of other people around,” I explain.

“Okay.” Zander leans forward and kisses my forehead. “Sit tight. Don’t go anywhere. This won’t take me long,” he instructs, directing me to sit in a fancy chenille upholstered chair that’s resting against the wall with one other chair exactly like it.

I take the opportunity to call
Mom and bring her up to speed. She’s going to faint. The phone rings twice before she picks up.

“Hey
, stranger! Are you home now? Dad wanted to get over there today to change your air conditioner filter before the heat of summer sneaks up,” she jabbers on in her typical fashion.

“Mom. Mom. Mom!”

“What?” she squeaks.

“Yes
, I’m back in Atlanta but I’m—shit.” I pace in small circles. I don’t know how to even
begin
to explain.

“What? What’s wrong? Are you in trouble?”
Worry fills her voice.

“No. Nothing like that. Um
, listen, you wanna swing by my house in about an hour?” Maybe talking to them in person is the best choice. There’s no real way to wimp out then.

“Yeah
, we can do that,” she answers with a sigh, though I know she’s on high alert. This is the first time I’ve really initiated what appears to be an important conversation. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine. Promise. See you in a bit.”

“Okay. Bye.”

I end the call and turn
, coming face to face with Zander, who’s watching me with a pensive look in his eyes.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” he counters.

“Do we have time for me to stop by my house?”
I ask.

Surprise flits across his face. He looks down at his watch and nods.
“Yeah. Can’t be too long, though. You have an appointment with Anthony, the staff stylist, in a while. He’s going to come to the hotel to help you get ready for tonight and all that.”

“We have a hotel reservation?”

“Yes. Did you think I was going to sleep without you after the last couple nights?” Lust fills his low voice, making my center churn deliciously.

“Oh. U
-um—no,” I stammer, switching my weight from one foot to the other, hoping that the ache at my center will pipe the fuck down so I can think clearly.

“Okay then.” Zander cups my jaw with one big hand and drops a kiss on my cheek
, eliciting a shiver from me. “Want me to go with you to your place?”

“Yeah,” I whisper hazily, leaning into his tender touch.

***

As soon as I see
my parents’ car parked in my driveway, I tense up, wondering what the hell I’m going to say. How can I possibly explain Zander? How can I explain where I’ll be staying while I’m here? How can I explain that I’ll be going right back to Tybee tomorrow? What would I tell Jacob’s parents if they knew? I know they love me and they’d want me to be happy, but would they be okay with the fact that I’m unofficially “seeing” the man who received Jacob’s heart?

“Just park on the street here,” I explain
, pointing to the curb in front of the house. Zander pulls the borrowed Jaguar up to the curb and puts it in park. “If you want to just wait in the car, I understand. My mom can be a bit much sometimes.”

“Do you want me to stay in the car?”

“No. It’s not anything like that. Don’t think that I’m trying to hide you.” I stumble through my words and decide to just shut up. “Come on.” I pat his thigh and reach for my door.

“Ah! Don’t you dare,” he scolds.

I quickly drop my hands to my lap and wait for him to come around for me. Zander opens my door like he always does, extending one hand for me to take. I slip my hand in his and step out just in time to see the gaping expression on my mother’s face.

She’s standing on my porch with a broom in her hands.
My father must be puttering somewhere. She always sweeps my porch when she comes over. It’s a thing she does. Another way that she expresses her love. Food and a dirt free porch. My mother is a saint who deserves far more than a piece of shit daughter who doesn’t even return a fraction of the love she gives to me. I love her. I should try harder to understand where she’s coming from, which is a place of love. She pushes and squeezes and corners me because she loves me. I should tattoo it on my forehead so I have no way to forget where I’ve come from, the road I’m travelling, and the stock from which I was born. I’m from stubborn, driven people that have the ability to love bigger and harder than any opposing force.

I glance to Zander and motion toward the house with my head. “Come meet my mom.” I lead the way up to the porch where
Mom is openly gawking. She must recognize Atlanta’s very own poster boy for troublemaking.