Then her phone pinged. She shrieked, “Adrian sent me a message!”
My mother nearly jumped out of her seat. “What did he say?”
“It’s a picture—of the damage estimate.” She beamed. “This must be his way of starting a conversation with me. He probably doesn’t even want me to pay, he just wants an excuse to talk.”
She quickly sent him a syrupy voice message: “How about we meet at a restaurant to discuss compensation? Or you could come to my place—26 Willow Lane.”
The reply came seconds later:
No need. Just transfer the money directly to this card.
My sister’s smile faltered. “Forget it. I won’t reply right away. I have to be reserved. Make him chase me.”
I knew exactly why she was sulking. In my previous life, after the neighbor’s child blew up that Rolls-Royce, Adrian Beckett had personally visited the mother and son every day with gifts in hand. My sister must have thought history would repeat itself.
She muttered under her breath, half-dreamy, half-bitter. “He must be intimidated by my beauty. That’s why he’s acting so distant. He probably thinks he’s not good enough for me. Poor man.”
Then she sighed dramatically. “Oh, it’s so hard being this beautiful—men just can’t handle it.”