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He placed a cup of English breakfast tea and a cranberry-orange scone on her desk. “Just a little something.”
Her smile spread sunshine in his chest. She stood and approached him.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Throwing her arms around him, she kissed him slow and deep and hard. This was the stuff. He couldn’t get enough of her.
“You are. I can’t believe how helpful you are today.”
He chuckled. “Because that’s not really me, is it?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. Not because of you, but because I don’t usually expect that kind of assistance.”
She fostered an image of independence and can-do, but he saw right through it. He lay his forehead against hers. “You work so hard. I want to take some of that burden off you.”
Usually she would toss off some quick denial about not working all that hard or how it’s a mom’s lot in life. Today, she accepted his observation. Leaned into the comfort he was giving her.
He wanted to be the one she came to in time of need. He was so crazy about her.
Screw the court case. Just tell her how you feel.
“Thank you. For being here and running with the ball. I so appreciate it.” She looked up and sighed. “I need to talk to you about something. It’s important.”
Not as important as what I have to say. But he’d hear her out. “Okay.”
She bit her lip. “Maybe have a seat?”
He sat in her boss’s chair and pulled her down into his lap. She squirmed a little, not settling as much as he’d like, and with her next words, he understood why.
“I talked to your mom.”
Fuck. He stiffened, blinked, expelled a small puff of air. “When?”
“A couple of days ago.”
“She come back here?”
“No, I ran into her at the coffee shop. We talked for a little while.”
“Why?” Why the hell would Ashley give this woman the time of day?
“She hurt you and I needed her to know that.”
Okay, that sounded … better. Like Ashley had his back. Still, he didn’t want her cozying up to his mother. He didn’t want Ruby in Ashley’s life because that meant the inevitable thinking about Dex 1.0, the one with the junkie mom, the guy who was a hair’s breadth from a prison sentence of his own.
Like mother, like son.
“You don’t think it was clear already? I’ve been ignoring her. Why else would I be doing that if she hadn’t hurt me?”
She stood and leaned against the desk. He hated that look on her face, the one that people got around him because he needed to be scolded or have something explained to him very slowly.
“I understand you’re hurt. And I understand you don’t want to see her. And you don’t have to. But I talked to her, and I thought you might be curious.”
He was, damn her. A part of him—the sad, lonely, lost little boy or maybe the increasingly responsible, compassionate man—wanted to know if his mom was okay.
What was prison like?
Did anyone hurt her inside?
