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Shit. Tears instantly well in Mom’s eyes. “I can’t finish the grass and trees because I’m out of the right color green!” she blurts. “And the only place they sell it is Sennelier!”
And that’s it. She melts down. Which is so fucking crazy, I can’t stand it. Sennelier isn’t Mars, for fuck’s sake. It’s a renowned art store in Paris, with an easy-to-navigate online store—the place I order all Mom’s uber-expensive art supplies. And yet, she’s just said the name of the place like it’s located in another dimension.
I grab a tissue off Mom’s nightstand and hand it to her. “I’ll order whatever you need online, Mom. There’s no need to cry.”
“How? You can’t help me because you’re going back to California.”
I can’t help chuckling at the way she just said “California,” as if she’d said the word “Satan” in its place. “Mom. Take a chill pill, would you? I’ll pay whatever it takes to get it here overnight. Come here. Watch this.” I pull her sobbing frame to the bed and sit her down, the same way I’ve done countless times. Calmly, I get onto my phone and head to the French art store’s website—a site I’ve already bookmarked for easy access—and then place an outrageously expensive order for rush delivery of every single shade of green in their store. “See? Aucun problème, madame. Whatever your heart desires, I’ll always get it for you. No need for tears.” I put my arm around her frail shoulders and hug her to me and she cries a river of tears—a torrent that obviously has nothing to do with her needing a few more tubes of green paint. As Mom’s tears continue flowing, I covertly check my watch. Fuck. “I’ve got to go, Mom,” I say, my stomach twisting. “I really can’t miss my flight.”
“Because you have to go to California.”
“Because I need to work.”
“But you haven’t had lunch yet.”
“Next time. I’ll eat on the plane.”
She sits up and levels me with her dark, piercing eyes. “You’re staying for lunch, Reed Charlemagne,” she declares. “I won’t take no for an answer.”
I take a deep breath and bite my tongue. God, how I hate that fucking expression. She’s said it my whole fucking life, as long as I can remember, and whenever I hear it, no matter the situation, the only thing I want to do is scream “No, no, no, motherfucker!” like a toddler with a very dirty mouth. But, because I’m an adult, and I really shouldn’t call my mother a motherfucker, I take another deep breath, squash my instinct to rebel, and say, “I’ll stay for a quick lunch. But no dessert. I’ve got to watch my girlish figure.”
Sniffling, Mom wipes her eyes. “You don’t have a girlish figure. You’re a strong, muscular man. Just like your father.”
“It was a joke, Mom. It’s called sarcasm.” I rise from the bed. “Stay put. I need to make a quick call to arrange a later flight, and then we’ll head to the dining room.”
“But you’re coming back?”
“Yes, I’ll be right back. I promise.”
Pulling out my phone, I dip into the hallway.
“Howdy, boss,” Owen says, answering my call.
“Change of plans, O. I need a new flight to LA, about an hour and a half later than the original one. Book me private, if necessary. I don’t care how much it costs, just as long as I make it to the RCR concert before it starts.”
“What’s up?”
“My visit with my mother is taking a little longer than planned. We’re going to enjoy chicken pot pies together.”
“How lovely. My favorite.”
“Believe me, I wish you could be here to take my place. So, listen. Since I won’t make it to the arena as early as planned, you’re going to have to be the one to greet the new Rock ‘n’ Roll reporter when she arrives.”
“No problem. I met with her yesterday and showed her around the office. Her name is Georgina. She’s great.”
Georgina. In a flash, I’m flooded with images of her again. Those earth-quaking kisses. Her mouthwatering tits peeking up from her tank top. Her ass in those tight jeans when she bent over. And, of course, those blazing hazel eyes as she raised her middle fingers into the sky.
I clear my throat. “Personally escort her around backstage, okay? And do not, under any circumstances, leave her alone with Caleb. You got me? That’s your top job. If you fuck that up, I swear to God, you’re fired.”
I can hear Owen smiling on his end of the line. As he well knows, there’s virtually nothing he could do, or not do, to get canned by me. Which is why I feel comfortable threatening him with it all the time, but only to emphasize when a particular task is especially important.
“I got it, boss,” he says. “Georgie gets no alone-time with Caleb.”
