The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(7)

And then there’s my baby, Patrick, just nine years old. He’s sweet and gentle and sensible and everything his brothers are not. He’s also my biggest worry. He was only four when his father died, and he missed out the most.

He doesn’t even remember his dad.

He has photos of him strewed all over his room. He hero-worships him. I mean, we all do. But Patrick’s obsession is almost over the top. He asks me to tell him a story about his father at least twice a day. He smiles and listens intently as I relay past events and tell him stories about Wade. He knows all of Wade’s favorite meals at restaurants and then always wants to order the same. He sleeps in one of his dad’s old T-shirts. I do this too, but I would never let on that I do.

To be honest, I kind of dread story time. We all laugh and make jokes over the memory. Then the children go to bed and fall into a blissful slumber, and my mind goes over the scene time after time.

Wishing we could do it all over again.

Wade still lives here with us, just not in flesh and blood.

He’s dead enough that I’m lonely . . . but alive enough that I can’t fathom moving on.

I’m stuck in the middle, halfway between heaven and hell.

Madly in love with my husband’s ghost.

“Okay, read out my list,” I continue.

“Bus . . .” Patrick frowns as he reads. “Bus-in-ess.”

“Business clothes.”

“Yes.” He smiles proudly that he nearly got it.

I mess up his dark hair that is curling up at the ends. “Check.”

He ticks the word. “Cas . . .” He frowns, as if stuck.

“Casual clothes?” I ask.

He nods.

“Check.”

“Pj’s.” He hunches his shoulders in excitement. “I knew that one.”

“I know—look at you all growing up and reading.” Patrick has dyslexia, and reading is hard for him, but we’re getting there. I check the suitcase. “Got them.”

He ticks and then goes to the next item on the list. “Shoes?”

“Check.”

“Ha . . . ha . . .” He frowns, deep in concentration.

“Hair dryer?”

“Yes.”

“Got it.”

“Dresses.”

I puff air into my cheeks and look in my wardrobe. “Hmm, what dresses do I have?” I flick through my clothes on the hangers. “I only have going-out kinds of dresses. These aren’t really work-conference outfits. Hmm . . .” I pull out a black one and hold it up against my body and look in the mirror.

“That’s a pretty dress. Where did you wear that with Dad?”

“Well.” I frown. I have no idea, but I have to make something up like I always do. “Um, we went for pizza, and then we went dancing.”

He smiles goofily, and I know he’s imagining what I’ve just told him. “What kind of pizza did you eat?”

“Pepperoni.”

His eyes widen. “Can we have pizza tonight?”

“If you want.”

“Yes.” He punches the air. “We can have pizza tonight,” he screams to his brothers as he runs from the room. “I’m having pepperoni, like Dad.”

I smile sadly. He would be sorely disappointed if he knew Wade would have had extra-chili-and-anchovy pizza, but I’ll let him have his pepperoni pizza with a huge smile on his face.

I take a few of the dresses and throw them into my suitcase; they’ll have to do. I don’t have time to buy anything else.

I stare down at my packed suitcase and put my hands on my hips. “Okay, I think that’s it. Conference, here I come.”

The car pulls into the grand entrance of the Chateau de Makua. “Wow,” I whisper as I peer out the window. I’ve flown almost eight hours, and then my driver picked me up, and it took us another three hours to drive here. I’m dead tired after my early start but suddenly filled with nerves.

The driver takes my suitcase from the trunk, and I tip him and stare up at the big building in front of me.

MIND MASTERS

Even the name of this conference is ridiculous. I wheel my suitcase in and wait in the line at reception.

The building is lovely, old fashioned, and otherworldly. It’s luxurious and opulent and feels like I have stepped back in time. The foyer is grand, and a huge circular staircase is the center feature.

“Next?” the concierge asks as everyone shuffles forward. I look around at the people in front of me in the line. I wonder if they are attending the conference.

There are two girls who look like Barbie dolls. Huge silicone lips—and how do they think those ridiculous huge eyelashes look good? Don’t their eyes hurt with something that heavy on their lids like that?

One has waist-length bleached-blonde hair with extensions that you can see at the roots. Ugh . . . so tacky. The other one has a dark, curly, thick mane. They’re both wearing next to nothing and are done up to the nines. I tighten my ponytail and pull down my linen shirt, feeling extraordinarily uncool. Damn it, I should have worn something a bit swankier.

The blonde notices me standing behind her. “Oh, hi. Are you attending Mind Masters?”

“Yes.” I give an awkward smile. “Are you?”

“Yes,” she shrieks. “Oh my God, I’m so excited. I’m Ellie. What do you do?”