Chasing Waves

Chapter Twelve: turf war

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

12: The parties will not associate with each other's acquaintances, notwithstanding the relationships formed prior to the establishment of the Partnership.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Honey lived in a palace.

Not an actual palace.

But it might as well have been.

Iron railings snaked around balconies. Flowering vines bloomed on cream pillars like vibrant quartz waiting for a princess to come along and gather them for her tiara. A reflecting pool glistened like a glacier at the centre of what Adam reckoned rich people called a garden, but was actually an endless spread of lush green land that ended in a lake, disrupted only by sculpted hedges and manicured garden beds.

He backed away from the arched window that looked down onto the lawn and loosed a deep breath. Even from the second-story landing, he could see the house's hulking shadow devouring the estate like a sun eclipsing the moon. It was somewhere between three to four stories high—the literal towers had thrown off his estimate—and had to have housed at least three dozen rooms. Adam shook his head to himself. This was Honey's childhood home? His was a shoebox in Lower Daintree.

A group of whispering guests wearing tails and gowns passed him on their way up the staircase to the third story. Offering a smile that went unreturned, Adam followed. The corridor—perhaps wing was a better term—was lacquered with gold. Black and white tiles shaped like diamonds cushioned his footsteps. Expensive pottery sat atop podiums, and murals and portraits were spotlighted by warm sconces.

It had been years since Adam had felt this ... well, poor. And his bank account was nothing to scoff at. He wished he'd stuck to his guns and declined Honey's father's invitation to attend Ember Valentine's annual birthday gala. When Honey had told him that he absolutely had to attend now that her parents knew they were a couple—as confirmed by the press, at least—he'd asked why he couldn't just be 'busy' that weekend. He knew Honey wanted him there even less than he wanted to don a tie and attend.

With all the patience of a starved shark dumped into a pool of blood, Honey had explained that she was from a very traditional family; even at the ripe age of twenty-five, she was seen as an extension of her parents, and they'd be shunned if Honey was spotted canoodling a man in public, but didn't bring him home. When Adam had asked when said canoodling would commence, she'd almost hissed a few choice words of her own before escaping to her bed and breakfast for the rest of the evening.

Aside from spotting her watching him win the finals from the beach during the last day of his tournament, he hadn't seen her since. She'd texted him directions to get to her family's estate. Apparently, she had to arrive before him to do damage control. Whatever that meant.

And then there was the matter of Adam's outfit.

He dusted invisible lint off his wine-red blazer as he made it to the upper landing, schooling a grimace at the reminder that he was wearing matching slacks. The blazer even had a pocket square, which he'd had to Google what to do with after pulling it out of the dress bag.

A goddamn suit. Worse. A dark red suit. Adam Ripley did not do suits, and certainly not gaudy ones.

One look at it when the concierge had brought it to his hotel room, and Adam had immediately thought that Honey was taking the piss. He'd sent her a message accusing her of as much. She'd replied with a link to an article about the Valentine's annual event, which hadn't done much to ease his suspicions; Honey was brilliant and just petty enough to hack a mainframe if it meant making Adam look stupid in front of her million-dollar family.