No hesitation. “I’m doing great. How about you?”
As usual, she fiddled with the cheap locket around her neck as she spoke. He’d given it to her … what? Twenty years ago? Not long after he’d left for L.A., anyway.
She still wore it every day, because she loved the pair of tiny photos inside. On the left: the two of them, mother and child, from when he was a toddler. On the right: the two of them fifteen years later, posed exactly the same way as in the earlier shot.
He’d even managed to find reasonably similar clothing for the second photo, although his mom had insisted he leave out the pacifier for the department-store shoot. If memory served, he’d called her a spoilsport and produced a beanie with a propeller on top instead.
At some point, he’d have to introduce Lauren to his mom. He suspected they’d discover a great deal of common ground when it came to him.
“I’m an exemplar of good health, good looks, and good choices, as usual.” He smirked at his mother, who merely rolled her eyes in response. “What’s happening for you this week?”
“Not much.” She tilted her head in thought. “They finally have the new kid fully trained, so I can take an extra day off. I’m going to set up my big umbrella, put some paperbacks I don’t mind getting sandy in my bag, and relax by the water on Thursday.”
Alex sent enough money for her not to work, but she preferred to keep busy. Her part-time job at a seaside used bookstore kept her happy and well supplied with reading material.
At least she’d finally accepted a new home by the beach a few years back. She deserved the world, and that would be true even if he weren’t roiling with guilt.
“Umbrella or no umbrella, put on your sunscreen,” he reminded her. “You remember what your dermatologist said.”
“Nag.” It was a cheerful accusation, and an ironic one, given his complaints about Lauren. And as if she’d read his thoughts, his mom added, “Speaking of wise decision-making, how’s it going with Lauren? You’re being kind to her, Alex, I know. Aren’t you?”
That tone could still make him squirm, even as a man in his late thirties. As could that calm, piercing,knowinggaze.
“I, uh …” He licked his lips and swiveled his chair some more. “I made sure she had everything she needed in the guesthouse?”
Dammit. That was supposed to be a confident statement, not a question freighted with guilt, but holy shit, his mother hadpowers.
“Hmmmm.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s not a yes, Alexander Bernard Woodroe.”
“She thinks I’m funny. Mostly.” He looked somewhere into the middle distance, where he couldn’t actually see his mom’s chiding expression, then scrambled to change the subject. “Anyway, we have a charity event to attend together tomorrow, which—”
Motherfucker.
He closed his eyes briefly.Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
He didn’t want to talk about the event with his mom. Hecouldn’t.
“What’s it for?” She didn’t sound entirely appeased, but she’d accepted the change of topic, which was unfortunate. “The environment? Or that UN global poverty initiative we talked about a while ago?”
“Something like that,” he mumbled. “Look, Mom, I should probably go. I just got a text from Lauren about, uh”—fuck, why would she be texting him?—“our apple-Danish supplies”—oh, that wasterrible—“and I don’t want to keep her waiting. She’s my guest, after all. Myhonoredguest, whom I treat with the utmost respect and courtesy at all times.”
Another unconvinced hum was her only response to that. But she let him off the hook.
“All right, sweetheart. Thanks for calling.” Her suspicious glare softened into a loving, soft smile. “I’ll talk to you soon?”
“Yes. Definitely.” It was a vow. “If you need anything at all, call me. Immediately.”
And that was a demand. A plea.
Her brow furrowed. “Alex, honey—”
No, they weren’t having this conversation. “I love you, Mom. Bye.”
He barely let her say it back before he cut their connection, all his werewolf-related peace of mind entirely absent once more.
To calm himself, he could read another fic, of course. Earlier that day, a story had appeared in the Cupid/Psyche fandom involving something called … consentacles? Whatever that was, it sounded intriguing.
Or … or …
