"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks. "Oh, don't tell me you want to go down that road again—complaining about what kind of mother I've been. Poor mistreated Becca, is it? Well, I hate to break it to you, but you had a fairytale childhood."
"If you mean the kind of fairytale where the princess is locked in a gilded cage, then sure," I shrug. Does she really not understand that all I ever wanted was her undivided attention? I didn't want to always compete with Joe Fabulous, her flavor of the month.
Just then, our Butler Carl walks into the dinning room, which freezes our hostile banter. "It's good to see you tonight, Becca," he smiles.
At least someone exudes some warmth around here.
He's carrying in the night's appetizers, a basket of warm dinner rolls with Rosemary browned butter. I try to stay away from butter, generally speaking, but this is to die for. It's that good. He's also bringing in Pancetta crisps with crumbled goat cheese and pear chutney.
Eating at home can be a decadent affair. Let me tell you.
"You should really watch your posture," my mom says, tapping me on the back and breaking my food trance. Was I slouching? My mom is never short on criticism. That's for sure.
"I'm fine mom," I snap. I'm in no mood to let her give me shit all night long. My patience only goes so far. I'm not a kid anymore.
Before she can say anything further, we hear the doorbell ring. "I'll get it," I offer. I walk over, unlatch the lock, and open the door.
At first, my eyes have to adjust to the darkness. And it takes my mind a minute to realize who's standing in front of me. There's no doubt that it's a man. A big strong one at that.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a perfectly tailored suit.
And he has cobalt blue eyes.
That piercing gaze could only belong to one man … from one night not too long ago.
What the fuck is he doing here?
"Are you going to invite me in, or are you going to stand there all night?" he asks with an open-mouthed smirk. His perfect white teeth seem to glow in the darkness.
For a moment I wonder if an ego that big will fit through the door.
Because standing in front of me is a guy I’ll never forget.
The guy who gave me the best sex of my 21-year old life.
Mason Kane, in the flesh.
Mason
She's staring at me like she's some fucking deer in headlights, and honestly, I'm just as surprised as she is. What are the chances of running into the woman I fucked in a bathroom stall the other day at a bar? Especially here at Lorna's house.
I'll admit; she looks good in that tight skirt she's wearing and I'm reminded why I decided to fuck her in the first place, but I can't afford to get distracted right now.
"Are you going to invite me in, or are you going to stand there all night?" I ask.
I don't have time for the awkward gawking. It is what it is.
I don't want to be here, so it's best to get this all over with as quickly as possible.
She steps back and motions for me to step inside, but still hasn't said a word. This should be an interesting dinner.
I walk inside and look around the place. It's not bad. Lorna has an eye for decorating, and there's certainly a level of opulence. I'll give her that, but that's the only good thing you'll ever hear me say about that fucking woman.
"Welcome, Mason," Lorna says. There's a chill to her voice. Instead of her normal pantsuit attire, she's wearing a black dress that ends well above the knee and a pair of 5-inch black heels. "Please, have a seat." She waves her hand toward the dining room.
She walks over to the long dining room table and motions for me to sit in a chair adjacent to her own, which makes me feel like I'm trapped in a real-world game of chess where she's the queen capable of any move, and I'm just one of her pawns.
If you think that somehow sounds exciting, you're wrong, Gorgeous.
"I'd like to introduce you to my daughter, Becca," Lorna says. I try to stifle my surprise. What the fuck? This is Lorna's daughter? Given our impending marriage, will this now make Becca my stepdaughter? If that's true, then I've fucked my own stepdaughter and the thought of that throws my brain for a loop.
"A Pancetta crisp, sir?" her butler asks me, breaking my train of thought. I smile and nod, and take one. I place it in my mouth and realize it's better than what I was expecting—sweet, salty, and crisp, like bacon, but better, and it's topped with goat cheese and pears, and the sweetness cuts through the salt in all the right ways.
Maybe dinner won't be entirely bad. At least I'll get a good meal out of it.
The butler comes back and begins pouring me a glass of bubbly Chenin Blanc, and when I take a sip, the crackly carbonation matches the crisp Pancetta in a way that makes me smile despite the fact that I'm sitting next to a snake thinly-disguised as a woman in a skin-tight black dress.