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“Do you ever miss Mom?” I lobbed out idly.

That was me picking a fight. He didn’t, but he should. My mom had been a saint.

But he was a sinner, so of course he didn’t care.

My dissolute father sighed like I’d just disappointed him. “For your sake, I do. But for mine, no. I’ve told you, son. Women are all the same. One’s as good as another when you’re on top of them.

“Misogynist asshole,” I remarked casually.

He continued, unfazed, “She did make great crepes, but you know, so does my chef.”

“I can’t believe she gave you the time of day. She was so much better than you. You weren’t even worthy to kiss her fucking feet.”

He shrugged, trying to look unaffected, but I could tell by a new tightness around his mouth that I’d gotten to him. “That’s what every boy wants to think about his mother. Tell yourself those lies if you must.”

“And you keep telling yours.”

It was about that time my father’s wife arrived.

She was my age and still a real stunner. Red hair complemented by lovely tan skin, sky high legs, curves for days, lips made for sin, and the kind of strikingly beautiful face that inspired poetry.

If I was brutally honest about her, which I emphatically was, she’d peaked in her mid-twenties. Probably too much time in a tanning bed.

We were both well into our thirties now.

They’d been together for over a decade, which I think we’d all have agreed was a small miracle. Neither of them were cut out for marriage. It was possible that they’d only lasted so long out of pure apathy. Why would you end something that you’d barely ever let affect your lifestyle in the first place?

I smiled unpleasantly at her. “Hello, Ida.”

She smiled warmly at me, far happier with our little family reunion than I was. “Turner, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

I rolled my eyes at that. She was as incapable of charming me as my father was, which was an impressive feat.

I didn’t hate her, though I used to. These days I just kind of pitied her and was embarrassed about our past together. I’d never understood her motives, but surely she couldn’t have wanted her life to turn out this sad.

“Where is that secretary?” Carson asked the room at large.

“Get your own fucking coffee,” I told him blandly. “You know where the kitchen is.”

He waved vaguely toward his wife. “Ida, get me a cup of coffee.”

She was unfazed. “Cream and sugar?”

He looked at her like she was a particularly fascinating bug on his windshield. “You don’t know how I take my coffee?”

She sent him a sultry stare. “We both know you didn’t marry me for my skills in the kitchen.”

It was almost impressive how seductive she looked and how unaffected he was by it. Same for me, to be frank.

“Black,” he told her. “Fucking blow up doll,” he said when she was out of earshot. That was downright polite, for him. He waved between us. “She’s useless for anything else. Guess we both look silly for falling for that one’s little tricks.”

“Speak for yourself. I was too young to know better when I met her. What’s your excuse?”

“If I divorce her now, she’ll take half. I’d rather be miserable with all of my money.”

I’d heard him tell that joke at least fifty times. I wondered how many times he’d told it in total. It had to be in the thousands.

Ro bustled into the office, setting a stack of papers on my desk. “Sign these at your leisure, and let me know when you’re done so I can send them out.”