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“Yes, but nothing we want to hear,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Oh, let her hear it, Sammy,” Helena said dismissively. “She’s not going to be around much longer anyway.”
“I’ve been around since we were teens,” Riley snapped back.
“That’s right, you have. Making him work for an entire decade to get into your pants, hmm?”
“Mom!”
Neither woman paid any attention to Sam. Riley had suspected the gloves might come off during this encounter, but she hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. She hadn’t even had time to insincerely compliment the woman’s shoes, or thank her for the beverage that hadn’t been offered, but hey, if Sam’s mother wanted to get right down to business …
“Sam didn’t get into my pants, because Sam is a gentleman,” Riley said calmly, crossing her legs and keeping her shoulders back.
“That’s lovely,” Helena said, voice dripping with condescension. “But we both know he was merely waiting his turn.”
“Jesus, Mother.”
Riley set a hand on Sam’s leg to quiet him, her eyes never leaving his mom’s. “You’ve read my articles.”
“I’ve scanned the filth you write, yes,” Helena said, tapping the tip of her cigarette into the ashtray.
Sam growled, but Riley merely smiled. She’d heard plenty of unsolicited opinions on her work. And if she’d learned anything over these weeks with Sam, it was that writing about sex in the general sense and making love to someone you care about weren’t even remotely in the same category.
And anyone who tried? So not worth Riley’s time. She knew what she was. She knew what she and Sam were. And no amount of heckling from his mother could turn it tawdry.
“My articles have nothing to do with Sam.”
Helena snorted. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing because it keeps my son out of your magazine, or a bad thing because he’s not worth writing about. Probably the latter.”
Sam said nothing, but Riley felt him stiffen beside her before his chin dropped just the smallest bit in resignation. And it was that resignation—that acceptance that it was okay for her to talk about him that way—maybe even acceptance that she was right about him—that set Riley off.
Her Irish temper rarely sparked, but when it did …
“Mrs. Compton—”
“Ms. I’ve learned over the years to keep my maiden name. Not that my father was any better than any of my husbands …”
Whatever. “Ms. Compton, I know it’s none of my business, but—”
“Riley,” Sam said quietly.
She ignored him. “Actually, scratch that. It is my business, because I’m in love with your son.”
It was as though a bomb had gone off in the room.
She couldn’t bear to look at Sam, but he’d turned into stone beside her. And Helena’s mouth was gaping in surprise, as though Riley’s declaration of love simply did not compute.
That, more than anything, pissed Riley off. “Yeah, that’s right. Somehow, despite your best efforts to tear him down, he’s turned into the most wonderful man I know, and for the life of me, I can’t understand why his mother—the one person who should have loved him more than anything—is so blind to the person he’s become.”
“I love him,” Helena muttered, furiously tapping her cigarette.
“Do you?” Riley said, leaning forward. “Have you ever told him that? Have you ever said you’re proud of him? Have you seen his distillery? Asked about it? Did you know that he coached a soccer team last year, even though he didn’t personally know a single kid on the team? Have you ever thanked him for driving all the way up here to visit only to have you crap all over him?”
“What do you know of it?” Helena snapped. “You ever had a kid you didn’t want at twenty? You ever try to tell the father, only to learn that he’s skipped town and gave you a fake last name and a wrong phone number?”
“None of which is Sam’s fault!” Riley shouted, coming to her feet now. “I can respect that you’ve had a rough life, Helena, and maybe you’re a little entitled to a little bitterness, but there’s no excuse for taking it out on your son. None.”
Sam stood beside her. “Riley.”
