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She made it sound like her father had called her Morticia.
“Anyway, Ma, I’ll get looking for some properties that I think you’ll like in the city. You want to be in Hell’s Kitchen, right?”
“Yes.” She hesitated, and I knew she was embarrassed because she thought Star could listen in. “Maybe somewhere in one of your buildings?”
“We have all the penthouses,” I pointed out. "Apart from Aidan."
“Your father handed those out like they were play toys. I’m fine with a floor in the middle of the building.”
“You’d be downsizing by a lot. Wouldn’t you want some outdoor space?”
“I can manage, son,” she drawled.
“How many bedrooms? Or will you be sharing with Uncle Paddy?”
“Conor Nathan O’Donnelly!” she gasped as I rocked my chair back and laughed silently. “How could you ask me such a thing with your father so recently passed?”
“Just figured you two were getting cozy.”
“Cozy is one thing—he’s very like your father in some things but far more relaxed.”
I pulled a face. “I didn’t need to know about your and Da’s sex life.”
When she released a second, sharper gasp, I half-expected her to hang up the phone on me. “Conor, you should wash your mouth out with soap.”
“Nah, that would taste bad.”
Ma huffed. “I apologize, Star. I wish I could say that he isn’t always like this, but I’m sure if you agreed to marry him, you know that’s a lie, and Our Lady wouldn’t approve of that.”
“She wouldn’t approve of you getting with Uncle Paddy either. Out of wedlock, that is,” I said, tongue-in-cheek.
“I’m going before you manage to blaspheme St. Anthony too.”
“St. Anthony? What did you lose?”
“Your father, of course!”
“Wasn’t he the patron saint of lost things?”
“What’s your father if not that!” She harrumphed. “Hopefully I don’t see you on Sunday and it’ll give you a few weeks to grow up!”
I snorted as she disconnected the call and turned to Star with a grin. “I think that first meeting went very well, don’t you?”
Star sighed. “Only you, Conor.”
I just winked at her.
13
STAR
“PA is officially locked in the bathroom stall with an explosive case of diarrhea.”
“Good,” I muttered at Dead To Me, gently tugging on the blonde wig I wore as I strolled through David Foundry’s office with all the confidence of someone who belonged there.
“Should be inconvenienced for at least forty minutes.”
“Jesus, how much ex-lax did you put in her coffee order?”
