Halo (Fallen Angel, #1)(51)

I thought about my conversation with Killian on Friday, the one where he’d questioned me about Halo and frowned. “Yeah, he’s a real peach.”

Mom narrowed her eyes, but before she could say anything, a timer buzzed and she turned off the oven. As she pulled open the oven door, the delicious aroma of breaded chicken cutlets wafted out into the kitchen, and she took out a baking dish covered in aluminum foil.

“Okay, what did you two argue about this time?”

“Huh?”

Mom uncovered the baking dish, grabbed the pot with her sauce in it, and spooned some of it on top of the chicken. “You and Killian. You seem…irritated.”

“Nope. This is my standard mood.”

“No, it’s not. Not when you’re here. Pass me the cheese, would you?”

I picked up the small bowl of grated cheese and handed it to her, and once she’d sprinkled it over the top and placed the baking dish under the broiler, she rounded on me and gestured for my empty glass.

After she refilled it, she asked again, “What’d you two argue about?”

“Nothing.” When it was clear she wasn’t about to let that be the end of that, I elaborated in the vaguest way possible. “We just had a disagreement about the new guy.”

“Oh.” She drained the pasta in the sink and then looked over her shoulder at me. “Angel, right?”

As Halo’s stunning face came to mind, and the sexy way he’d moaned into my mouth every time it’d been under mine recently, I smiled against the glass. I was starting to think that nickname was all wrong for him, because the more confident he became, the more his “angelic” side was falling away.

“Yeah, but his name’s Halo.” When Mom frowned, I said, “I just call him Angel.”

“Ah. And why do you call him Angel?”

“Stop being nosy, woman. You’ll understand when you see him.”

“Mhmm…”

“Anyway. Yeah, Kill and I had a disagreement about him.” Like whether I was allowed to put my dick in him.

“Nothing major, I hope?”

I knew she was trying to be subtle, but it was obvious she was asking if it was something we’d be able to get past or something like…Trent. I thought back to the way Killian and I had left things and shook my head.

“Nothing major. We’re cool, promise.”

“Don’t you lie to me.”

I held three fingers up. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a Scout. They would’ve kicked your butt out the first week in.”

“Hey. What are you tryin’ to say?”

“Just that you’re stubborn and don’t like to follow rules.” Mom opened up the broiler and pulled the chicken out. “You like doing things your own way, not as a group. Unless it’s to help someone, then maybe you’d go along with it.”

She was right. I hated following anyone’s lead, which was her own fault, I was quick to point out. There was no one more independent and strong-willed than my mom. Something I was extremely proud and grateful for. But like me, she could be stubborn as a bull.

Case in point: she still lived in the same little house I’d grown up in, even though I’d offered to buy her a bigger, newer place anywhere in the world her heart desired. But she insisted that her heart was right here. In this quiet little street where she knew her friends and neighbors.

And who the hell was I to tell her she was wrong?

“Would you take these plates over to the table?” she said, grabbing a knife and fork from the drawer. “And turn on the television. I don’t want to miss Entertainment Daily.”

After putting the plates on the table, I snatched up the remote. Why my mom watched these shows was beyond me. I’d told her time and time again that ninety-nine percent of what they reported was gossip or trash, but she insisted. Always reminding me that it was called Entertainment Daily, not Truth Daily.

We took a seat, and as the overly manscaped host gushed all over the latest fashions at a movie premiere that took place this weekend, I tuned out and got stuck into the meal in front of me.

God, I loved my mom’s cooking. I’d eaten my fair share of amazing meals over the past ten years, in the best restaurants, served by the top chefs. But nothing—and I mean nothing—would ever compare to a home-cooked meal made by my mom.

I twirled my fork through the pasta on my plate, and just as I was raising it to my mouth, the image behind the host changed to the next story and caught my eye. My hand froze where it was as my mouth fell open. It was a still shot of a man with blond hair seated behind a piano, and under that image were the words: WHO IS THIS GUY?

No. Fucking. Way.

“Hey, Mom? Can you turn this up?”

Mom hit the volume button until the announcer’s voice was clear, and I sat there with my hand hovering above my plate, my brain trying to catch the fuck up.

“An Instagram post by the Warden has created quite a frenzy of excitement in the social media stratosphere. Not much is known about the origins of the recording that hit last night. In fact, the name of the singer isn’t even known at this time. All that is known is that over five million people have viewed this clip of a blond man singing behind his piano, and have now made this video the most shared, liked, loved, and raved-about clip in years, and it’s only been twenty-four hours. The question everyone, including us tonight, is asking is…who is this guy? Take a look, and see if you know him.”