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He swallowed, fighting to dislodge the lump that clogged his throat. The memories of his mother that he’d managed to hold at bay for so long had returned full force after that intervention. Because he’d learned that Gage had blamed himself for Mom’s suicide, and that realization had gutted Matt.
Fucking gutted him.
There was someone to blame for her death…but it sure as hell wasn’t Gage.
It was him.
And now, the memories—and the nightmares—were back, battering him relentlessly as he recalled the days, weeks, and months after his mother’s death, when his anger at the world, at his father, at himself, burned so brightly he should have been rendered to ash.
The constant drip-drip-drip of water.
Look deeper.
Matt closed his eyes, pushed the memories from his mind before they could fully form.
“Harper plans to move to Philly by March. In the meantime, I’m in charge of looking for a potential property to purchase.” Conor had signed on to become an investor in supermodel Harper Branson’s new restaurant. Harper had semi-retired from modeling and gone to culinary school, and now she was looking to open a restaurant in Philadelphia. The plan had been in the works for over a year, but Harper had extended her studies to include earning a degree not just in culinary arts, but in restaurant management as well.
“You sure you’re going to be able to work with a partner?” Matt asked. “All your past endeavors into club and restaurant management have been solo ventures. I’m not sure I can picture you working with a partner.”
Conor was an incredible businessman with the Midas touch. However, he was also—like Matt—a bit of a control freak, so he’d been surprised his brother agreed to an equal partnership.
Conor shrugged. “Harper has very definite ideas about the type of restaurant she wants to run. We’ve discussed the business model we plan to follow and it’s sound. She’s got a winner on her hands, and I want to be involved. Ideally, she would probably prefer to do it on her own, but she knew she needed someone with restaurant experience. After chatting a few times on video calls, it became obvious that we had similar visions. Besides, the only way I would agree to invest was if we were partners, fifty-fifty, and she agreed to it.”
Matt smirked. “Well, I look forward to watching you try that.”
Conor snorted, not bothering to deny the truth. His brother wouldn’t hold his peace if Harper veered in a direction Conor didn’t agree with, so this might not be all smooth sailing. Regardless, Matt agreed that if it all went well, Conor stood to make a lot of money from the venture.
“I tried to call you a couple of times earlier to reconfirm tonight, but it went straight to voicemail. Don’t tell me you scheduled another meeting on New Year’s Eve.”
Matt shook his head. “No. Actually, I was at the Promise House.”
“The homeless shelter for teens?” Conor asked, clearly surprised.
Matt had stopped by the shelter the week following the Snowflake Gala because he’d been moved by Liza’s presentation. With the holiday just days away, he’d wanted to do something for the kids.
Arnold Jackson, the director, had been all too happy to latch on to his offer of assistance. The man had given him a tour of the place, discussing his desire to buy the empty lot behind the large building so they could expand, pointing out that could only happen if enough funds had been raised at the Snowflake Gala. Seeing the need for more beds firsthand had convinced Matt to up his initial contribution.
Matt’s original intention had been to simply give money so that the teens staying there might be able to receive Christmas gifts. However, Arnold was a persuasive bastard and before he knew it, Matt had been dragged into a basketball game with several of the kids living at the house, Arnold insisting that what the teens really needed were adults willing to spend time with them and act as positive role models.
Matt had noticed the state of the kids’ shoes during the basketball game. Devonte, one of the teens he’d been playing with, had used duct tape to keep the soles of his tennis shoes from flapping. The duct-taped shoes had bugged Matt all week, so he’d returned to the Promise House today, requesting every kids’ size so he could get them all a new pair. Arnold had been delighted by his request, and then, somehow, he’d convinced Matt to engage in a rematch with the kids, where—once again—he’d had his ass handed to him.
Matt was no stranger to the gym, but damn if he wasn’t feeling aches and pains in more than a few of his muscles right now.
“What the hell were you doing there?” Conor asked.
“I attended the Snowflake Gala before the holidays, and I was very impressed by the director and the work they’re doing there. I wanted to see more.” Matt went on to tell Conor about the basketball games, his brother’s eyes so wide with surprise, Matt wasn’t sure whether or not to be pissed off. Why was it so out of the realm of believability that he’d play basketball with homeless teens?
Of course, as soon as that thought crossed his mind, he understood Conor’s shock. Because it was a completely implausible scenario. Or, at least, it had been. Until Liza encouraged him to pull his head out of his ass and look around at all the genuine need in the community. She’d opened his eyes to things he’d been far too content to remain blind to.
Liza.
The second her name crossed his mind, he felt that same ache in his gut that only went away when he managed to forget about her.
Which was next to never.
Though he had managed to put her out of his mind for two whole hours today as he played basketball. Maybe he’d go back for another game, once his glutes stopped screaming at him.
“Well…” Matt rose from the couch, glancing at his watch. “It’s getting late. I think I’ll head home.”
