She studies my face for a second longer than necessary, then draws me into a hug that smells of lavender soap and rosemary. “Inside,” she says, already turning us toward the house. “I’ve made stew.”
The cottage smells like peat smoke, cooking food, and the ocean. We eat at the small kitchen table my father built, the same one where I carved my initials when I was eight.
“How is business?” she asks.
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“It’s the usual, Ma. Busy. Chaotic.”
She makes a sound and sets a bowl in front of me. The stew is thick with lamb, potatoes, and carrots.
“You are different,” she says halfway through the meal.
“Declan said the same thing.”
“Then maybe you should listen.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not.” She looks at me with maternal X-ray vision. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Cassian Michael Rourke.”
I sigh. “It’s nothing, Ma. Just work stress.”
“You have never let work stress affect you like this.”
She’s right.
“Something didn’t go the way I planned. That’s all.”
“And you cannot let it go.”
“No.”
She reaches across and pats my hand. “You are stubborn. Even as a baby, once you decided you wanted something, there was no changing your mind.”
“I don’t remember being a baby.”
“Of course you don’t. But I do.” She squeezes my hand. “You need to settle down. Find a good woman. Give me grandchildren before I die.”
“You’re not dying.”
“I’m seventy-three, Cassian. I will not be here forever.”
“You’re not dying anytime soon, Ma.”
“But I would like to see you happy before I go. With a family. Children running around.”
“I’ll work on it.”
“You said that last time.” She gives me a look but lets it drop. We finish eating, and she starts clearing the dishes.
“How many?” I ask.
