Page 25 of The Right Garza
I throw my head back against the headrest. “You’re unbelievable.”
“You were always a miserable Grinch in the mornings before your coffee. I wanted to see if you’d changed,” he says with a slide of a smile. “Check the backseat cupholder.”
I twist around and glance to the backseat. A travel mug sits snugly in one of the cupholder slots. “You’re evil.”
“One sugar. Two creams,” he says.
Just the way I like it.I undo my seatbelt and reach in the back for the mug before twisting back around. Taking a sip, I moan in delight. “Hmm. This is some damn good coffee. You made this?”
“Some fancy coffee machine someone bought me.”
Eying him, I take another sip. “One of your many Tiffanys?”
His shoulders jerk with a shrug. “Maybe. Don’t remember.”
“Of course, you don’t.”
~
Roughly an hourlater, we’re driving through the tall, imposing gates of a property in Pasadena. Sitting up from my slouch, I observe the overgrown grounds on either side of the winding path toward a sprawling estate, the lush high trees and neglected gardens.
When the jeep finally rolls to a stop near a dry fountain in the front yard, I open the door and jump out, gazing up at the widespread, two-story home. It’s a cross between craftsman and country with a massive wraparound porch, long windows, and wide French doors. It’s gorgeous, picturesque, charming even.
It also doesn’t look as if anyone lives here.
Trent gets out of the jeep and starts up the wide steps.
Following, I ask, “Who’s place is this?”
With his booted foot, he sweeps away windblown dry leaves from the welcome mat in front of the door. “True’s and mine.”
Whoa. “Really?”
He produces a set of keys from his pocket and unlocks the front door, letting us in. “Yeah. It used to be an inn. Was on the market for a good price and since we’ve wanted to get into real estate for a while, we threw our hats in and bought it.” He pulls the drapes back from the front windows and warm sunlight floods in. “We tried to keep the guesthouse thing going, but it didn’t pan out ‘cause we had no fucking clue what we were doing, one. And two, we just didn’t have the time or motivation. So we shut it down and it’s just been sitting here for the past two years.”
Wow. I wander around, taking everything in. So much space, so airy, natural light spilling in from all angles. I knew Red Cage was successful, but I don’t think I realized how much. They couldn’t have afforded a place like this without making some damn good moolah. “How many rooms?” I ask.
“Sixteen guestrooms, all with en-suite bathrooms.”
“Nice.”
“Come with me.”
He leads me through the space, passing through open areas with white sheets thrown over furniture and paintings, through a huge restaurant-style kitchen, and through quad French doors that spit us out into a gorgeous, expansive backyard and gardens. Withtwoempty pools separated by a cute arching bridge surrounded by limestone tiles and stellar landscaping—though overgrown and choking with weeds.
“This is areallynice place, Trent.”
“Better than Richmond’s?” he asks wryly.
I laugh, punching his arm. “Better than Richmond’s.”
“Come.” He rounds the length of the left pool and heads toward a low hedging with a cute little picket gate nestled in. He opens the gate for me to pass through.
A small, cobble-stoned pathway leads to what looks like a three-story condo.
“Is this attached or separate?”
“Attached,” he answers. “It’s where the owners lived.” He keys the door open and lets us in.
