Mama Hart’s question was simple and straightforward. The answer is anything but.
No, that’s not true. She only asked for an introduction. She didn’t ask what we were to each other, or rather, who I was to Nick.
Because she’s already made the assumption.
Lady friend. It’s quaint, and technically accurate, but—
Mama Hart clears her throat and turns that steady gaze on me, clearly expecting… something.
My manners kick in and I thrust out my hand. “Scarlett Evans. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Scarlett.” She gives my hand a firm shake and pulls me in for a hug, wrapping me in an affectionate embrace. I stiffen—because really, who’d have thought Nick was raised by a hugger?—but the scent of jasmine envelops me, and I relax into her warmth. When she finally releases me, there’s a knowing smile on her face. “I’m Mama Hart.”
Don’t be ridiculous. What could she possibly know?
Right. I only told her my name. It’s not like I’m wearing aJust had sex with your son—the really dirty kindT-shirt.
“How do you and Nick know each other?” she asks, as if reading my mind.
Maybe she is. It could be her mom superpower. They all have them.
Nerves twist my belly and I rub my arms, which are covered in gooseflesh. In the rush to get here, I’d forgotten to grab my coat, but really, the chills are the least of my worries because I’m face-to-face with Nick’s mom.
Oh, shit. Do I have sex hair? I rack my brain, trying to remember how my hair looked in the rearview mirror. My fingers itch to reach up and smooth it down, but I fight the urge.
If my hair is wild, it’s too late to do anything about it now.
“We work together,” I say, hoping my voice sounds more confident than I feel. “At Triada Tech.”Duh. I give myself a mental facepalm, because of course she knows where her son works. He owns the damn company. “I’m Miles’s assistant,” I add, because apparently Mama Hart is one of those people with the uncanny ability to make you keep talking, even when you know you should stop. “Nick and I are working on a special project together. We were, um, working late when the call came in from the alarm company. He was upset, so I offered to drive.”
I clamp my mouth shut, finally getting control of myself.
Better late than never.
Heat floods my cheeks. If Mama Hart notices, she has the good grace to pretend otherwise.
Texan hospitality for the win.
“I’m sorry I scared you kids, but I appreciate you looking out for my boy.” She hooks her arm through mine and steers me toward the open front door. “Nick’s always been a worrier. If he had his way, I’d be locked in the penthouse next to his,” she adds conspiratorially.
“You’ve got that right,” Nick mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face.
Thank God he’s finally coming back to himself. I could use some help here.
“I’m not about to move into the city.” Mama Hart glances over her shoulder, giving him a reproachful look. “It’s getting chilly. Why don’t you kids come in for a nightcap?”
She poses it like an invitation, but we all know there’s no declining. Not when she’s already ushering me through the front door and into the tiled foyer as she flicks on the lights.
Nick heaves a resigned sigh and follows, closing the door behind us.
“Follow me, dear. The kitchen is just this way.” Mama Hart wiggles her fingers and I trail after her, admiring the framed artwork that lines the hall. Although the quality is amateurish, each vibrant piece is signed by the artist.
Nick. Miles. Beck.
It’s all the proof I need to know Nick was raised in a home that differed vastly from the impersonal condo on Rainey Street. Technically, he didn’t grow up in this house. I know that from the pictures in his office.
But it’s not the address or the art on the walls that makes a home.
It’s the people inside. The way they all come together with their unique personalities and an abundance of love to form a family. To create a place where all are welcome, loved, and accepted for who they are at their core.
