The Do-Over (The Miles High Club #4)(65)

She smiles up at me. “I’ve come to take you to breakfast.”

Fucking Elliot.

“I’m too busy today, Mom.”

“Nonsense.” She smiles. “I have only seen you for two hours since you got back. I need more time, sweetheart.”

“I already ate.”

“Come.” She walks out of my office, ignoring everything I just said to her. “I’m stealing Christopher,” I hear her announce to my brothers.

I trudge down the hall to see Elliot and Jameson still hanging around reception, chatting, and I narrow my eyes at Elliot. “You’re fucked,” I mouth as I walk past him.

He smiles and waves with his fingertips. “Have fun,” he mouths back.

It’s blatantly obvious Elliot has tattletaled on me, and I am not in the mood for this today.

We get into the elevator, and she links her arm through mine. “Tell me about your trip.”

“It was great.”

“Was?” She frowns up at me. “Does that mean you aren’t going back?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” The elevator doors open, and she keeps her arm linked through mine as we walk through reception.

“Where do you want to have breakfast?” I ask her.

“I’ve got a table booked at Lamberts.”

“That’s too far. Let’s just eat across the road in the café.”

“Good lord, no. Have you tasted the coffee in that place?” Her driver opens the back door of her black Mercedes, and she climbs in. “Thank you, Roger.” She smiles.

I exhale heavily and climb in after her. The thing is . . . you can’t argue with my mother. She is the boss of everything. She says jump, and we all ask, How high?



Twenty minutes later, we are sitting in her favorite breakfast restaurant, and I smile over at her drinking her coffee out of a pink-and-gold fine-china cup and saucer.

Her eyes hold mine, and she smiles knowingly. “So . . . darling.”

I roll my eyes. Here we go. “Spit it out.”

“I don’t spit. I’m not a camel, Christopher.”

I smile broadly, and there it is, her obnoxious wit. I think we boys are all more like her than we are like Dad.

“Elliot told me you are having a few issues.”

“Nope,” I lie. “He got it wrong.”

“Now, darling.” She stares at me, unrelenting. “We are not leaving this restaurant until we discuss this.”

“There’s nothing to discuss, Mother.”

“You don’t want to talk about the little gold digger you met.”

“She is not a gold digger,” I snap. “She thinks I don’t have a cent to my name.”

“And there it is.” She smiles sweetly. “I knew that would make you spit it out. Tell me all about it.”

I narrow my eyes. Damn this calculating woman.

“So . . . she thinks you’re broke?”

“Yes.”

“And from what I hear she’s not that attractive.”

“What?” I scoff. “She’s fucking beautiful.”

“Language,” she reminds me with a knowing smile.

We stay silent for a moment as we both sip our coffee.

“You know”—she puts her fancy pink cup down in its matching saucer—“she’s not the girl for you.”

I feel my hackles rise. “What makes you say that?”

“She’s backpacking in filthy hostels and taking you for granted. She’s obviously hurt you in some way if you’ve had to come scurrying home. Probably sleeping around on you, and I bet she won’t commit to a relationship either.”

“It’s the other way around, Mom,” I snap. My face falls. “Wait . . . you know I’m backpacking?” I ask.

“Do you really think I was born yesterday?” she replies as she watches me. “The stories about your fake course in Paris are fascinating, though. Definitely give your father and me a chuckle.”

“Fucking hell.” I drag my hands through my hair. She’s just said that entire thing to catch me out.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” she urges.

My eyes hold hers, and I roll my lips, the closest to tears I’ve been in my adult life.

“I fucked it up, Mom.”

“What happened?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I don’t know.” I stare across the restaurant as I go over the last few months. “We’re friends, and she’s just . . . so beautiful and sweet and everything I’m not, and then we kissed, and . . .” I shrug.

She smiles softly as she watches me.

“Anyway.” I straighten in my chair. “It’s over now.”

Her eyes hold mine. “Is it?”

“I want it to be over.”

“Some things you cannot choose. They choose you.”

I sip my coffee. I have nothing more to say.

“Do you remember the time I pulled you out of school and you stayed home with Dad and me for the year and went to the speech therapist Miss Theresa on Tuesdays?”

“Vaguely.”

“Do you remember what you used to talk about with her?”