Mrs Ashby.
Stifling a groan, I slowly begin to backpedal out of the aisle before she can notice me, but because luck isn’t on my side as of late, the basket hanging over my arm collides with someone’s cart. The clanging of metal meeting metal might as well have been a bomb going off.
The old man grumbles something about watching where I’m going before stalking past me and with wide eyes, I look back at the woman whose attention is nowfocused entirely on me. Her bloodshot eyes narrow and then darken as recognition sinks in.
Fuck my life.
A smarmy smile crawls up Mrs Ashby’s weathered face. “Well, well, well. Look who’s finally returned.”
“Hello, Mrs Ashby.” I lift my chin with feigned confidence as I stare back at her.
I may have only been gone for a few years, but those years have not been kind to Clara Ashby. If it weren’t for her signature white-blond hair and deep grey eyes, I might not have recognised her. That, and the fact that I don’t think I’ve ever seen the woman without a bottle of vodka in her hands.
“Let me guess, my daughter told you all about her brother’s success and you thought you’d come crawling back for a piece,” she spits.
What?
I almost laugh, because what the fuck is she talking about?
Tilting my head, I eye her in confusion. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Her responding cackle resembles one of a witch. “Oh, don’t play dumb, girl. I know what you did before the wedding. And I know that you want to take everything from my boy.”
Seriously, what the fuck is she talking about?
And what does she know about before the wedding?
I look up and down the aisle, hoping that someone else might be witnessing this odd encounter, but unfortunately, it’s just me.
“Really, Mrs Ashby, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I can assure you I’m not trying to take anything from Killian.”
She steps closer, bringing the stench of stale liquor and cigarette smoke with her and I hold back a grimace. Smoke doesn’t smell like this on Killian. On him it mixes with the scent of his cologne and creates something that is purely him. His scent is addictive and manly, and I could wrap myself up in it. On his mom, it makes me want to vomit.
Her voice is low and full of venom as she gets in my face. “I never liked you. I always knew you were bad for my son. The best gift you ever gave him was leaving him at the altar.”
If she were anyone else, I would have slapped her right there in the middle of the store.
Not only because her words are spiteful and piss me off, but because she has successfully struck every single one of my insecurities with just two sentences.
I may have been – may still be – bad for her son, but so is she.
Before I ever started a relationship with Killian, I knew Mrs Ashby wasn’t like most parents. I had heard the stories from Bella. I had sat with her while she cried and wished that her mom could be normal.
Although it’s questionable, I don’t think Mrs Ashby is evil, I think she’s just sad. She’s a lonely woman pushing fifty whose only thought is where her next drink will come from. She failed as a wife and as a mother and she lives with that regret every day.
Targeting the insecurities of others is the only way she can actuallyfeelsomething. I’ve watched her do it to her own daughter on many occasions.
Looking at her now, swaying on her feet with a bottle of vodka clutched in her frail hands, I pity her.
With a tight-lipped smile, I grab a bottle of wine off the shelf and say, “You have a good night, Mrs Ashby,” before turning on my heels and walking away.
***
“Bella?” I call out as I kick off my boots at the front door.
“Kitchen,” a familiar British accent answers for her.
I carry the bag of groceries into the kitchen and find Savannah seated at the kitchen island, her hand resting delicately on her swollen belly while Bella loads the dishwasher.
