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Ambrose closed his eyes as Barrett carded his fingers through those auburn waves. “Thank you.”
Those words were whispered against his mouth and yet they hit him right in the vulnerable, bruised part of his heart still raw from his time with Forrest. Barrett sucked in a deep breath and let his kiss turn needy for a few seconds, then backed away. “Ain’t even a thing, Ambrose.”
“And yet,thank you.”
Chapter seventeen
Whentheletterarrivedin the early morning mail, Ambrose’s heart sank. He’d know it was her even without a return address boldly declaring her stage name. Angelica Avery, in her looping, slanted hand. His mother said letters were a lost art, one that should be cherished. She also thought she was single-handedly bringing back the art of the letter.
BecauseAngelica Averywas timeless.
She was a product of art and history, story and time, and a God-given talent. And her mantle in the brownstone she shared with her partner, Thessla, was decorated with the awards she’d won because of that talent.
“It’s a lack, Ambrose,” his mother said, one bejeweled hand glittering as she waved it at the mantle in his little rented townhouse.
He knew the answer before the question fell from his lips. “Of?
“Ambition.”
Ambrose had to laugh. “I’ve plenty of ambition, but not the will to run headlong after it. I prefer my life as it is.”
Her smile was a thing of daggers. It had been aimed at him over the years in many regards, so much that he was nearly immune to it. But Angelica Avery never liked to let go of something that had brought her success in the past. “Ambition is only good if you’ve the talent to back it.” She trailed her fingers over the tiny glass sculpture on the mantel, the one she knew he had made with his own hands. “Sold any stories yet, darling?”
Something his therapist had taught him was refusal to engage. Granted, he had just shot back at her but that was a warning shot across her bow, not a direct hit. And yes, he had sold plenty of stories and he could show them to her, relish in the way she’d silently steam at seeing A.E. Tillifer as the nom de plume. But he wasn’t going to engage because doing so would make her victor.
Instead, he leaned back against the kitchen counter and kept his face as neutral as possible. “I’ve things to do, Mother.”
Ah, there was the flinty gaze he’d been waiting on. Her eyes as dark and flat as a snake. “You could be a better host. Offer me a drink, a seat, take a moment to ask how I am.”
Ambrose stared at her, as impassive as stone. She was looking for a fight, and he would deny her that. He would. He could do this: wipe the slate clean, get the fuck out of town. The contract for the house at Lake Honor was already signed and he was moving in two weeks. All the evidence of his move was packed away in the spare bedroom, specifically in case she decided to “pop by“. Because Angelica Avery’s timing was always impeccable.
Finally, his mother huffed and gracefully sank down on the sofa, her face a moue of distaste as she picked a piece of lint from near her knee. “I raised you better, you know. Ambrose.” His stare didn’t waver but didn’t try to intimidate. His heart was pounding (he could do this, he could, he could write her off after this and be done) but he felt more confident than he ever had before.
“Ambrose.” She snapped her fingers and his only response was to raise an eyebrow. “What kind of treatment is this? I’m your mother.”
Her voice was rising ever so slightly; she wasn’t used to being ignored. Point for him. “I’m waiting for you to find your manners, as you’re in my house. Mother.”
And like he had figured, she was unmoved. “This is not a house, Ambrose. It’s a rental. And you know what I think about rentals.”
He did, indeed. Thinly veiled classism at its finest. Heart in his throat but his hand steady, Ambrose gestured to the door. “You know the way out. And I do need to get back to what I was doing.”
“Which was?”
The smile he gave her was so thin and brittle it could have shattered from the breath of a whisper. “None of your goddamn business. I’m done asking nicely. Leave.” He walked over to the door and flung it open.
The look on his mother’s face was possibly the most honest emotion he’d ever seen reflected on those features. The ones so like his own, with a narrow chin and hollow cheeks and cheekbones that stood up and out. A face called interesting or beguiling, one his mother had resculpted over the years so she never aged. He didn’t begrudge her that, but he did still taste the bitterness at how she weaponized the features they shared. Long ago he’d learned to ignore the biting comments, but even shallow wounds could scar.
She did finally leave, no parting shot aimed at him through words. Just a disdainful sniff followed by a sneer, and then she was gone, locked away outside where he didn’t have to see her any longer.
He moved two weeks later and left no forwarding address.
He left the envelope on the kitchen table, unsure if he wanted to open it. It was thick, heavy, creamy paper, his name and address in bold black ink. Hell, the paper even smelled like her and it made his stomach twist. He hated the scent of lavender, even now, but hers was a powdery thing laced with amber and pepper and it reminded him of slammed doors and backhanded compliments and being ignored for days on end as punishment.
Instead, he turned back to his work for the day; balancing books for a client who paid well and on time. Diving into numbers was soothing. Numbers didn’t need interpretation beyond the rule systems laid down for each operation. Direct questions with direct answers. As the morning wore on and he was head down in work, he didn’t hear his phone ding until he got up to make tea.
The screen was lit up with a slew of messages, all from the other person he didn’t want to ever speak to again. He should just block Preston and be done, but every time he tried, hesitation stayed his hand.
From: PrestonCan we talk?
