When the World was Flat (and we were in love) by Ingrid Jonach Page A

belonged at Rose Hill. He was dressed in a light gray T-shirt which hugged his chiseled frame, and there were no tears in his designer jeans today. Jackson looked like a kid in comparison, with his loose shirt, baggy jeans and skate shoes.
    Tom paused when he saw us and, in that moment, he looked like some kind of modern day Mr Darcy on the steps of Pemberley. I frowned. When had I read Pride and Prejudice ? Jo was the bookworm. Maybe I had seen the movie. I think it starred Colin Firth. And maybe Keira Knightly? Or was that the BBC series?
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” I asked, lowering my camera as he descended.
    â€œI live here.”
    â€œYou live here?” Of course. His family was loaded. Living in a hotel was probably as normal as having butter on bread. I guessed this was where he had been hiding out during his first few months in Green Grove.
    â€œWhat about you?” Tom asked, his eyes moving between me and Jackson. I became acutely aware of my childish T-shirt and scuffed sneakers. I thought about the girl in the photo, who had looked as polished as the brass handrail on the front steps. “What are you doing at Rose Hill?” It sounded like an accusation, as if we were trespassing on private property.
    â€œAssignment,” Jackson said, rolling his eyes as if it blew.
    The gravel driveway crunched behind us and I turned to see the valet pulling up the Benz. Tom must have forked out for a panel beater, because its hood was free from hail damage. Or maybe it was a brand new car.
    â€œI have to go,” Tom said.
    â€œWhere?” I asked compulsively.
    He looked at me for a moment and then at Jackson. “Tell Lorraine at reception to let you into the ballroom.” He turned towards his SUV and then hesitated. “And steer clear of the out-of-bounds signage if you go into the gardens.”
    His tone made my blood simmer and boil as I watched him climb into the SUV. “Who does he think he is? Lord of the manor?” I muttered, looking at his silhouette behind the tinted windows. The accelerator was pressed down and the vehicle moved off with the slightest spin of his tires, as if it were a message to me – “F-you.”
    It was like we were in the middle of an argument that had started before he came to Green Grove. I was ready to bury the hatchet, but he continued to hack at my heart with his mixed messages. I put a hand to my chest as I watched him drive through the gates and into the Open Valley.
    I let my hand drop as I followed Jackson up the front steps and through the double doors.
    â€œSee?” he said, gesturing around the white marble foyer. “James Bond would love Green Grove.”
    â€œTechnically this is the Open Valley,” I grumbled, but I had to agree as I surveyed the sweeping staircase with its ornate banister that looked like it had been hand-carved from mahogany or some other expensive, well-oiled timber. I lifted my eyes to the ceiling, which featured a dome of ornamental plaster the size of a small continent.
    Lorraine was an equally glamorous woman pushing sixty. She wore a caramel-colored skirt suit with an oversized gold brooch pinned to its lapel. Her bright red nails were as fake as her botoxed brow. She was about as Green Grove as the Statue of Liberty. She looked down her powdered nose at us like we were a couple of stray dogs, until Jackson mentioned Tom. Suddenly, she was all smiles and bleached teeth.
    â€œFollow me, darlings,” she said in a posh accent, which I could tell hid a Texan twang.
    Jackson stopped about halfway down the passage to sketch an antique vase that occupied a recess lit by downlights. I walked ahead, as Lorraine doubled back to tell him its history. I passed a number of doors on both sides, but I knew I wanted the double doors at the end. You could call it intuition, I guess. Like how I knew about the scar on Tom’s chin.
    I placed both hands on the brass handles and pushed. The ballroom