Page 23 of Peaches

As in, I need to look over my shoulder, pinch myself, is this real, sort of mansion!

Picture this if you will, and I know you will…

A circular drive is highlighted by a large fountain in the center that looks like it was specially imported here from Italy. A large basin sits beneath the running water that is coming out of a worldly old jar that a nude woman holds in her hands. She stands in the center, plump, unembarrassed and brazen in her nudity.

If only I could have the guts to ever feel the same.

I’ve never felt secure with my smaller breasts, thicker hips and thighs and a bubble butt that puts Kim Kardashian’s plastic one to shame. All real here, and I’ve always despised it. But back to the landscape.

Large, white columns frame the front door with steps that curve up through them, at least ten to twenty, just like you would expect a mansion to have here in Georgia. The white house curves out from the front door on both sides, big, long, strong, hard and… wait a minute… rewind… curving out both sideselaboratelyand giving the illusion that it’s just as large inside as it is outside, just like anyone would expect.

The house is highlighted with perfect manicured planters extending the full length of each side and disappearing into the distance, because yes, this house is that large. (Big, strong, hard… excuse me while I giggle.)

Roses in every different color pop as they lay in perfect contrast to the white exterior. Perfectly trimmed hedges are scattered throughout, all of them the same height and distance apart, which pleases my OCD brain so much. Vines climb magically up the house in the most pleasant of ways. Not too much, and not too little, making my dreamy fairytale heart beat a little faster.

As we finally meet the fountain in the center, Brett turns left and follows a path towards the side of the house. I get whip lash from craning my neck to look at the beautiful unreal residence (unreal because I can’t believe people can afford to live here) once we’ve past it and hear him laugh.

“To look at the expression on your face, you’d think you’ve never seen a house before.”

He pulls up to a garage, designed more like an expansive airplane hangar, which has four large doorsand the space to house at least a dozen cars. The garage matches the house in style but has an expensive feel all its own with matching vines that frame each set of doors and pots of perfectly planted flowers - hibiscus, dahlias, hyacinth and lavender to name a few - all thriving in the Georgia humidity.

He gets out of the car and the smell of magnolias, plumeria, gardenias (ugg, my favorite) hit my nose as he walks around the hood and opens my door, extending his hand to me, and I must admit, I take it willingly. A little drunk by the perfectpicturesquesurroundings I’m in.

“This isn’t a house. This is…”

“Possessions, Grace.” He comes a step closer and grabs me strongly around the waist so that I have no place to look but straight in his eyes. “Remember, how do you feel worth?” His free hand comes up and plays with a loose strand of my hair. I watch his eyes as he looks down and twirls it between his thumb and finger, and I must admit the high he gives me climbs a little bit higher from feeling him pressed up against my frame for the very first time.God, I could get used to this.A small handsome grin plays at the sides of his lips and I’m suddenly - breathless. Speechless once again. All at the hands of a man that swears hedoesn’t do romance.

“There is more to life than what money can buy.”

“Is that right,” I finally and quickly stammer in response as his grin deepens and he continues playing with my hair.

“And I suppose you’re an expert on the subject?”

“Expert, specialist,master,” he pulls on the strand of hair deliciously, making my mouth gasp open and a shrill sound of shock (or is that pleasure) magically falls from my lips as he looks up to meet my eye. “Teacher, if you’renaughty. I could tutor you, if you’re feelingeager?”

The blood running through my veins screams for him to do just that, coach me in every way he possibly can, but my brain, (stupid brain), yells for me to listen to reason. Something no girl wants to remember when she is in the arms of a man that is promising to take her places she has never been before.

“Mr. Beckett,” a voice sounds behind us and I startle. I go to turn, to look at who is responsible, but he keeps a tight grip on my waist and pulls me closer.

Biting his lip, he gives me a shake of his head. Left, right, left again, and then smiles, a type of smile that has blood strongly and urgently rushing to my lady parts. It’s a heavenly type of smile, that does things to me that it shouldn’t be allowed to do, before his eyes raise and catch those of whoever is standing behind us.

“Yes, Wadsworth?” I stifle a laugh at the name, and he looks down at me and grins wider knowingly before giving me a heart-stopping wink.

“Please, Sir, I’ve asked you repeatedly to stop calling me that,” comes the now slightly irritated voice behind us. Finally, Brett lets his death grip on my waist loosen, but only in order to turn me around and grab me close at his side.

I look up to see an older gentleman standing in what appears to be a uniform. Hell, really? I thought we did away with this kind of lifestyle when the world made it past the Bridgerton and Downton Abbey era. He looks at me and gives me an inquisitive look. Well, looks like they passed the head butler attitude down through the ages, too. Then he ever so properly turns back to Brett.

“Your father and grandmother are dining on the back patio, Sir. Drinks have begun. Dinner will be served in an hour.”

“Perfect, thank you Wadsworth, you’ve been most helpful.” Brett pulls my hand and I follow him quickly as we pass the gentlemen, who can’t help but outwardly groan from the name once again, and I give him a sympathetic smile in return.

“Wadsworth?” I ask once we are out of ear shot and I’m still trying to keep up with his speed in my heels in, may I remind you, the gravel!

“His real name is Fred, but Wadsworth suits himsomuch better,” he says as he spins around once we reach a pathway.

I look over his shoulder and see the patio that was mentioned a few moments ago behind him. We remain hidden in the shade of dozens of large magnolias as other servants dash around and follow orders just a few feet away. Large, flowering jasmine bushes act as a barrier between where we stand and where we’re headed, except for the small cobble stone path that sits perfectly guiding the way to something I have the feeling we both would rather skip tonight.

“Do you know what would suitusso much better, too,” he suggests as the shadows play beautifully with his features and I have to stop myself from outwardly drooling. “Some shrimp and grits at one of my favorite restaurants on River Street overlooking the entire Savannah River. If we leave now, we can make it there in under a half an hour.”

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