Page 64 of The Marriage Clause

"I don't pay attention to the media."

"No," I murmur. "I'm starting to notice that."

We wind through the property, past one house after another, until he slows in front of the one at the center.

Everett's.

It isn't the biggest. That's the one beyond it—larger, broader, full of curved glass and dramatic terraces that somehow looks exactly like the sort of house Everly would build if someone handed her an unlimited budget and told her to make a statement.

But Everett's is the one everything seems to orbit.

Stone and glass. Clean modern lines. Three stories. A wall of windows facing the Sound. The kind of architecture that looks simple until you realize how much money it costs to make something look like it wasn't trying.

And tonight it's glowing.

The air smells like cut grass and salt and something floral that's probably worth more per stem than my monthly grocery bill.

A tented structure has been set up beyond the back terrace. Florals spill over tables. Strings of warm lights hang through the trees. Catering vans line the drive, and there are enough people moving in black with headsets to make it clear this is not just dinner.

It's a production.

"All of this for a rehearsal dinner?" I ask.

Everett pulls up along the circular drive and cuts the engine. Then he looks over at me.

"You do remember Everly is involved."

"Right." I let out a breath. "I almost forgot."

"Then you still have a lot to learn about Everly Kauffman."

He gets out and comes around to my side, opening the door and offering me his hand. I take it, because not taking it while getting out of a car in heels in front of an event staff would be idiotic.

His fingers close around mine.

And I hate that his hand in mine is the one thing keeping me steady right now.

"That one?" I ask, nodding toward the bigger house beyond his as he leads me toward the front door, my hand still in his.

"Everly's."

I glance at him.

"She hosts most family and corporate events. She has a ballroom and a catering kitchen."

"I'm not surprised."

"She's also probably responsible for half of what's happening here tonight even though I'm technically hosting."

"Only half?"

That almost-smile again.

Inside, his house is not what I expected.

High ceilings. Warm light. Dark walnut. Leather. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A kitchen that opens into a living space large enough to hold fifty people without feeling crowded. Everything expensive, but unlike the penthouse, this place feels warm. Inviting. The kind of house you could raise a family in.

And yet it still feels untouched.