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Ethan
Was I surprised that Mia had run away like a scaredy-cat seeing its own shadow? No. But did I think it was because it was me, the son of the father’s sworn enemy…also no.
Well, not really.
Maybe twenty percent of it was me, but I was sure the other eighty was her reaction to good sex. This brought me to another question: what the hell kind of guys had Mia been with those years? She was twenty-seven; I assumed she was not a virgin…but she felt shy about her own body.
Was it that she truly had been fixated on studying rather than making relationships? Knowing Mia, it was a possibility. The times I came upon her at high school, she was in the library with her nose stuck in a book and making notes like a lawyer in court.
After she had left, I’d boxed up her uneaten food, shoved it in the back of my fridge, went to take a shower, plopped myself in my in-home office, and went through a few files for the Meadery.
There was no notice from the Texas guys, but I had firm hope that they would reach out to me very soon.
At about ten o’clock, I shut my computer down, closed the book I had open, and headed to bed. Checking my phone, I found the one message I had hoped never to see.
Dad: We need to talk, son. Your mom and I need to see you at the clubhouse before we cast off to Pikes Peak cabin tomorrow. You need to explain why you’ve been seen with Mia Sullivan.
I groaned.
Of all the rumors they could hear about what was going on here…the one about Mia was the one to reach their ears, not about the pests in the orchard or the newest high profile contract up for grabs.
No—just Mia.
The Eastlake Golf Clubhouse was the last place I never wanted to set foot in. The place was swarming with nauseatingly rich people who thought shutting down a local restaurant for the night made them feel normal and couldn’t comprehend why jetting off to Paris to get a custom bag from a designer, take two photos for promo material, and go on to relax on a beach isn’t considered “hard work.”
Plus, on any given evening, there would be approximately thirty socialites, two foreign princesses, and five cougars who wanted to get into my pants—worst of all—small talk. I loathed small talk; it was literally chatting about nothing.
Going to see them wasn’t the problem.
Going to see them and getting harassed was.
I wished I could get in and get out without having to stop every moment, paste on a fake smile, and listen to Mrs. Moneybags of Mini Miss Moneybags go on about their frou-frou puppy or their latest vacation to Ibiza, or worse—why their botox wasn’t working.
Could I—for once—cut out the bull, get in and get out?
“Hell would probably freeze over first,” I grunted while forcing myself to go to sleep. I was going to need it.
* * *
“Into the valley of death rode the six hundred,” I muttered while stepping through the wide glass doors.
Stepping into the dining room of the exclusive golf club, the next morning, it wasn’t hard to spot my parents. Dad’s silver hair was still thick as ever, even at fifty-nine, but the bifocals on his nose were not tortoiseshell instead of the straight black I knew he once had.
Mom was looking bright in a mauve wrap dress, and her hair was up while sipping on orange juice—or possibly a mimosa. I almost made it to their table—when I got waylaid.
“Bless my beating heart,” a high, faux-French accented voice stopped me cold. “Is that Ethan Vega, I see?”
Mrs. Braithwaite, the seven times divorcée and widower who collected alimony checks and estate payouts as easily as Balenciaga came out with new purses, was the one calling me. It seemed as if everyonebutthe men she married knew about her history, and half of the club was waiting for her to go through Google’s list of reasons for divorce and drop this season’s beau with anirreconcilable differencessuit.
Oh, damn. I think she had used that one in the marriage before this one.
It could be alienation of affection—I don’t think she’s used that one before. Everyone knows her husband is screwing his assistant.
“Mrs. Braithwaite.” I smiled. “How are you?”
She tried to smile, but the fillers in her cheeks stopped it halfway. “Better now that you’re here. How are you, sweetheart? You look like you’ve grown.”
“I’m the same height as I was, ma’am,” I replied.
