Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
“Or you’re in New York.” Eyeing me as if someone threw eggshells between us, she adds, “It wasn’t time off, Pops. You were recovering.” The memory of the accident appears to pain her. She was in Austin and became my life support in so many ways. “Learning to navigate a new normal. I’m glad to hear you’re excited about finding work again. Broken ribs and a leg—”
I wave my hand between us. “And my dominant wrist. The coma.” Moving to the railing, I look out at where the sun sets. It’s not even eleven in the morning, but night is my favorite time of day. Glancing over my shoulder, I add, “I don’t want to relive it. I’m ready to move forward. Scars and all. I’m ready to relaunch my personal chef business.”
“Any leads?”
“I’ve received a few bites from an agency and an email about a potential job out of town. Maybe that will work out. Free vacation. Sounds like an easy gig to get back into it. But I’ll also put out feelers in the next few days.”
“So is there a three?” Her laughter trickles through the air, making me smile.
Resting back on the railing to face her, I ask, “Three. Please go with me to this luncheon. I’m begging you.”
The applause subsides.
Everyone’s attention remains fully focused on my mother, who sits in a chair surrounded by a mountain of presents. It’s so over the top like her.
What can she possibly need at fifty-two years old with an inheritance to last two lifetimes? She still has the three sets of dishes from her wedding to my father and two family trees of traditional crystal and silver.
It was foolish of me to assume she flew to California to see me and to discuss the menu she wanted me to cater. I never expected a bridal shower.
She basks in the glow of her friends from both coasts and a few who flew in from Europe to attend this extravagance in Malibu.
I’ve come to accept my place in her life, not needing the affirmations I did growing up. Just as I hold my champagne glass in the air, my mom holds out her arms and makes grabby hands at me.
Naturally, I glance at her glass beside her to see if she’s drunk. Mimi Stanfield isn’t one for PDA unless it comes to Trevor or alcohol is involved. I believe she’s only on her second glass, so I’m confused by the sudden display of touchy feels aimed in my direction—Ah!
This isn’t for me but for her friends. Got it.
I set my napkin on the table and stand to play my role as the devoted daughter. Making my way to the front of the private dining room at Nobu, I go to her and open my arms to hug her. Though I have doubts, there’s an inkling of hope she’s being genuine.
“What are you doing?” She’s quick to brush away my offering before I make contact. “No. No, Poppy. Not you. It’s time for you to present your gift to me. The bride.”
I don’t miss the snide little dig at the end, her tone snapping when she thinks no one else can hear her.
“My gift?”
“Your wedding present for me and Trevor.”
My eyes widen, but somehow, I’m able to hold my mouth closed. I expect her to start laughing, but she doesn’t. Joke’s on me, though, as I stand there dumbfounded in front of everyone. She asks, “What did you get me?”
“Well,” I start, leaning closer, “some people consider their children a gift.” I smile, hoping I suffice for once in my life.
“Not me,” she corrects with a fake smile plastered on her lips.
“Nope, not you.” That’s my cue. I turn around and head for the exit with only a quick detour to grab my purse from the table. What did I expect? She’s never going to change.
I open the door, ready to slip out, but hearing her call my name stops me. Am I being petty? A bad daughter?
“Poppy?” she calls once more, feigning pain as if I’ve wounded her. Maybe her ego but she never had a heart.
I hate myself for doing this, but I give her one last chance. Standing in the doorway, I turn back, ready to be the bigger person and support my mom when it comes to something important to her. “Yes?”
“Email me the menu tonight by eight o’clock.”
With every pair of eyes in the room swinging from her to me, I realize my mistake was trusting her in the first place.
I slip into the main restaurant, ready to make a quick getaway, but duck when a server walks by with a tray full of plates. “Sorry,” I say to his back as he rushes away.
When I turn to leave, I run right into a heavenly-scented, soft cotton-covered wall of hard muscle. My hands fly up and fist the T-shirt just as I’m caught by the elbows before I bounce off. “Oh God,” I squeal, mortified.