Fierce. Loud. Sharp. Dramatic. Kind in all the ways she hides from everyone else. The only person who can walk into a room and rearrange its emotional temperature without touching a damn thing.
If anyone can get this house out of its funk, it’s her.
I hit call before I can overthink it.
She answers on the second ring, sounding already halfway through a latte and a schedule she didn’t write but somehow controls anyway.
“Silas Grant, if you’re calling me before ten a.m., someone better be dead or pregnant.”
I smile despite everything. “Morning, Ma.”
Pause. The rustle of something silk against the phone. “Oh no. You sound serious. Why do you sound serious? What happened? Who got arrested? Was it you? Tell me it wasn’t you. I do not have a courtroom outfit picked for this week.”
“No one’s in jail.”
“Yet?”
“Mom.”
She exhales, long and put upon. “Fine. Then is someone pregnant?”
I huff. “No pregnancies. No arrests. Calm your pearls.”
“I don’t wear pearls anymore,” she sniffs. “They read too conservative on camera. Are you watching my segments? You should be watching my segments. I give excellent life advice.”
“Yeah, well, I’m calling because I need some of that allegedly excellent life advice in person.”
That gets her.
There’s a tiny shift in her tone, a softening around the edges.
“Sweetheart,” she says, and the word slides under my ribs as it always does. “What’s wrong?”
My throat tightens stupidly even though I’m a grown man and entirely too handsome to get emotional at nine a.m.
I wander back into the kitchen and lean against the counter, looking at the cold coffee.
“It’s a mess here,” I admit. “Like… everything’s sideways. There is some town gossip…”
“Oh, that small town of yours,” she tuts. “So dramatic about everything.”
“Well, this time it’s about Delaney.”
There’s a sharp inhale, the kind she used to do right before dropping a bomb at a dinner party.
“Delaney?”
“Yes.”
“Who is Delaney?”
I blink. “…The chef.”
“What chef?”
“Our chef.”
“You have a chef?”
