Page 89 of His Choice

“You’re going to wear out a path on that oriental rug.” It was my mother, who had entered my library without me noticing. I didn’t realize I had been pacing until she pointed it out.

I frowned. “I’ll buy a new one.”

She crossed her arms. “Now that sounds very entitled and bougie for someone who prides himself on minimizing extravagance and contributing to charity.”

“Hmm,” I muttered. “Not that much minimizing. Have you toured the property lately? When did I become so greedy? It’s no wonder people hate me.”

That threw her, the composed expression faltering. She shut the door to the room, walked to me and put a hand on my arm. “Sit.”

“Don’t feel like it,” I replied.

“And I’m still your mother. Sit,” she repeated.

I huffed but did as I was told. She took the chair next to mine.

“I’m trying to sort out my decision for later, Mom. I don’t have time for…whatever this is.”

“For once, you’ll make time for your mother,” she said, as if I never did. I rolled my eyes, and she scowled. “Don’t give me attitude. When I’m in the room, I’m the only one allowed to be a diva.”

“You’re certainly the best at it,” I agreed.

“I should have listened to that crazy preacher from the Methodist church on Park Street. Do you remember him?”

I shook my head. “Who are you talking about? The one who was there when I was a kid? Reverend Jones?”

She slapped her hand on the arm of the chair. “Yes! Jones—like the preacher who made all those crazies drink poisoned Kool-Aid. How could I forget?”

“What about him?”

“He told me I shouldn’t spare the rod. I couldn’t understand how he could have looked at your sweet little face and thought about beating you. Fast-forward… I was too quick to judge. Look how disrespectful you’ve become. Maybe I should contact Elon Musk to see if he’s in the process of building a time machine or something.”

I scowled, not wanting to hear that man’s name or my mother’s punishment fantasies. “Really? Regrets about not smacking me when I was younger? You know that corporal punishment just teaches kids to use violence as a means of winning a conflict. And there’s no evidence they grow up any better. Look at Brett Arnesen. His mother used to whip his ass all the time. Now he’s in jail for domestic abuse.”

“Well, he probably doesn’t talk back to his mother,” she pointed out, just to be difficult.

“No need to. He killed her along with his wife!” I reminded her.

She shrugged. “I didn’t say he was perfect.”

I exhaled loudly. I hated when she’d say ridiculous things just to get under my skin. “What did you want, Mom?”

She smirked. My mother felt victorious when her needling ended with her having the last word. “I want to address your negative attitude. You saying everyone hates you is so bonkers, that I’m sure even you—Mr. Worry About How Everyone Perceives Me—doesn’t believe that. The only thing people probably dislike about you is how you go into inexplicable funks, get down on yourself, and become surly. And who’s the one who always needs to snap you out of it?”

I sighed. “You.”

She smiled. “That’s right, darling. Now talk. Mommy’s here.”

I narrowed my eyes, but the mischief in her eyes made me chuckle. “God, you’re annoying.”

“Are you seeing your reflection in the mirror on that wall?” she shot back. Unfortunately, there was a mirror right behind her head where I could see myself.

I changed the subject. “Okay, maybe not everyone hates me. But nobody likes me enough that I’m their first choice or would take me without conditions. I try to be a nice guy. People tell me I’m easy to look at. Is it the money? Am I a jerk with how I spend it?”

“You mean that not enough of it is on me? I’d say yes. A mother asks her rich son to buy her a new convertible, and you’d think she’d asked for a yacht.” She couldn’t hide her amusement. “You know, I should look up that Reverend Jones. He was an asshole, but he was kind of cute. I’ll bet his wife dumped him years ago.”

“If I recall, he’s dead just like Mrs. Arnesen. But by all means, check him out. He’ll never talk back to you,” I pointed out.

“Fresh.”