“I was accommodating your objection to fucking a cow,” she says carelessly.
“Yeah, well, I don’t play with my food.”My brothers were smart to not work with their mothers.I should’ve followed their lead. Nora Blane is an exceptional agent, but she’s a terrible boss and handler. “What’s wrong with ‘I’d rather fornicate with Mozart’ anyway? It’s not like anybody saysthat.”
“Bo-ring.” She puts down the glass of chardonnay she’s been sipping, and cuts into a loaf of crusty bread, creating a slice that without measuring will be precisely half an inch thick. A sleeveless black turtleneck and black leotards stretch over her tall, lithe frame. She’s wearing a pair of stylish boots, but if she ever kicks you, you’ll know the pointy tips aren’t for fashion. Short black hair frames her pixie-like face. Some say I got my coloring from her, but it isn’t true—my six half-brothers all have the same dark hair, and we’re related on our father’s side. The smoothness of her skin is more befitting a teenager than a woman with a grown-up son.
Mom tosses the breadknife in the air, catching it smoothly while her green eyes are still on me. Those eyes, which hold whatever emotion she wants them to, are currently impassive.
“Show-off,” I mutter.
“We all have our fortes. Mine happens to be blades.” She gestures with the knife. “Want some?”
She knows how much I love carbs. “Thank you.” I take the rest of the loaf from the cutting board.
She shakes her head. “Bread was probably what went through your mind when that plane was going down.”
I pull out jars of honey and raspberry jam from the pantry.Not bread, but the birthday cake Bobbi made for me. It was the last time we spent any meaningful time together.
Mom hands me a glass of the chardonnay, which I realize is chilled once I take it. We sit at the counter with a couple of knives and our respective glasses. I smear a generous dollop of honey on the bread and bite into it. It’s excellent, with a good subtle flavor of grain. Maybe the bakery this came from is another reason Mom doesn’t want to leave this godforsaken area.
“We flushed out the mole. So next time there won’t be another plane crash.” This is about as emotional as she’s going to get about what happened to me.
She can fake situationally appropriate sentiments, convince you she feels them from the bottom of her heart, but in reality, she feels nothing. Sometimes I’m tempted to poke her with a needle and see if she bleeds something like oil or hydraulic fluid.
“Nicely wrapped up?” I ask.
“With a pretty bow.” She smiles like a divine messenger. The mole probably wishes he was dead. If he isn’t already.
“Then there won’t be a problem with me taking some time off.” My tone is casual, like a billionaire carelessly expressing desire to purchase a private island.
She frowns. “Some time off?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How much time, exactly?”
“Not sure, actually.”
Understanding dawns in her penetrating eyes. “You want an indefinite leave.”
“Unpaid,” I add, like that has to be the most pressing thing on her mind.
All warmth leaches from her face. “That isn’t the point. Making it unpaid won’t make you return any faster.”
True enough. I invested my money with two of my brothers, Emmett and Grant, who founded a venture capital firm together. They made me filthy rich. If I didn’t have my job, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself all day. Hell, I might spend the time making babies, which would make my father so happy. I spread my arms. “Some people just have clever brothers, and they’re smart enough to know who to listen to.”
Mom lost a huge chunk of her retirement savings when her financial advisor bet against the companies Grant said would be good to buy. Dunno why she ignored Grant. He made at least a million a year trading stocks in college. Beating the market is his forte, just like delicately fileting a man is hers.
Mom looks like she’d love nothing more than strangling me. Not that she will, because she hates working with her bare hands.
“Besides, some quality time at home will ensure my brothers won’t suspect anything. A billionaire wildlife photographer is bound to say no to projects here and there and spend time slothing around on a beach.”
“Slothis not a verb.”
“And yet you understood my meaning.”
Her eyes narrow. “I doubt ‘slothing’ will be necessary. Your brothers are about as perceptive as deaf, one-eyed donkeys.”
“Or I’m just that good.”
