Page 68 of Beauty and the Beach

“I know my place,” I say, keeping my voice light and professional even as anger snaps inside.

My placeis wherever I dang well want it to be. I belong wherever I choose to belong.

“Ooh-ho-ho,” Mavis says as her grin returns—one of delight and amusement. “Does that get your goat, girlie? Does that make you want to rage at the injustice?” She gasps theatrically. “How dare I, an old woman, remind you that things are done a certain way at Butterfield?” Her grin disappears like a switch being flipped, and her voice is cold as she goes on. “How dare I tell you there are behavioral expectations I expect you to uphold? Is that it? Is that what’s going through your mind—lovely, liberated Holland Blakely?”

“HollandPark,” Phoenix says through gritted teeth, and when I pull my horrified gaze away from Mavis and look over at my husband, I’m not surprised to see his hands clenched into fists in his lap.

Because he was right. He was absolutely right. His grandmother is insane. She is insane and bizarre andterrifying.

She looks back and forth between us for a second, while Phoenix’s mom continues to stare sulkily at her hands in her lap. Mavis’s eyes are shrewd and mocking, and I don’t know what they’re searching for. When she finally throws her head back and cackles loudly, I feel my lifespan shortening by at least three years.

“Marshana will be taking me home now,” Mavis says.

Phoenix’s mother blinks at Mavis. “Now?” she says.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it? Your head isn’t just for decoration, Marshana. Use your ears.”

It’s both funny and sad, the way Phoenix’s mom hurries to do Mavis’s bidding—deference and proverbial bowing and scraping are involved, and it’s hard to watch. Wyatt and I wait as Phoenix leads them out of the study; I hold my breath until I hear the front door open and close. Only then do I relax.

“Finally,” I say, exhaling loudly as I flop down in one of the leather chairs. “That was torture. My heart is still beating too fast.” I look over at Phoenix just as he enters the study again. “Do they do that a lot? Just show up, uninvited?”

He hums, rounding the desk and sitting back in his seat. “Not much, but it has happened before, and it will probably happen again,” he says, running one hand through his hair. “Mavis has no respect for boundaries or niceties, and my mother will just follow along.”

“It’s too early for that kind of nonsense,” I say. I let myself slump further in the chair. Then I add, “I shouldn’t have doubted you. She’s nuts.”

“She is,” he says with an affirmative nod. “Highly unpredictable, often cruel, razor-sharp business instincts.”

“I feel like I need to call Nana Lu and talk to her to cleanse my mental palate.”

Phoenix doesn’t respond, and for a moment, silencestretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable. When he finally sighs, I’m almost relieved.

“I guess we should talk about last night,” he says, and even though his face remains neutral, I can hear the reluctance in his voice.

I straighten up, my pulse skipping.

Don’t be stupid,I tell myself.It’s fine. You can talk about this.So I open my mouth and force out the words. “I guess so,” I say.

Phoenix’s expression shifts as he looks at me, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he says after a few seconds of staring at me. “I assume that’s what your little display meant earlier—that you want to remain married?”

My little display—I guess that’s how it would look to him. I don’t know how much of it was for show and how much of it was real.

But that’s not what he’s asking.

“Yes,” I say, trying to keep the nerves out of my voice. “We should stay married. For now, at least.”

He sighs again, still looking unconvinced. “You said last night that looking at me hurts. You said that every time you look at me?—”

“I know what I said,” I cut him off. I swallow and raise one eyebrow at him. “Youasked if you could ever make me happy. Are we going to talk about that too?”

He leans abruptly forward in his chair, his eyes flashing. “If you think you can handle it, sure.”

And even though my pulse is pounding in my ears, a deafeningwhoosh, whoosh, whoosh,I scoff at him. “Of course I can handle?—”

But he interrupts me, standing up so suddenly that I startle in my chair.

“Be very, very sure before you finish that sentence, Amsterdam,” he breathes, his gaze still full of electricity. He rounds his desk in three long strides, and several more bring him to where I’m seated. “Let go of your pride for once and tell the truth,” he says as he looks down at me.

He’s impossibly tall from this angle, and even though he’s standing and I’m sitting, I can still smell leather and mahogany.

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