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“Of course.” Olivia said it with a shrug, but her eyes shined as Audrey leaped up to grab Morgan and bounce. “The Jamesons aren’t idiots.”
“I start training tomorrow, and I’ll work on a probationary basis for three months. After which? Automatic raise in salary. Jesus, they offered more than I was making at the Round, with benefits. And, and, oh God, I’ll manage a team of twenty-three, including back of the house.”
“We have to celebrate,” Audrey declared. “We’ll take you out to dinner.”
Morgan followed impulse. “I’m going to make pork chops.”
Audrey blinked. “You’re going to cook?”
“It’s Nina’s mother’s recipe. I made it once, I can do it again. I’m going to make pork chops and her spicy potatoes,” she repeated, because it would close out an ugly memory. “And we’ll use the good china and stemware. That’s how I want to celebrate.”
She drew back. “Thank you, Gram, for opening the door. Thankyou both for the lucky earrings I may never take off. I’m going to the store, then making dinner.”
She gave them both a squeeze.
“If it tastes horrible? Lie.”
Chapter Eight
The depth of stupidity, laced with gullibility, in the human race never failed to amaze him.
And delight him.
After all, without those lovely weaknesses, how would he live his life in the style he deserved?
Gavin Rozwell had learned early on the female of the species offered almost endless opportunities to exploit and manipulate. The method, of course, depended on the mark. For some, it only required good looks.
He had those, and had been assured of it all his life.
Others? Add charm—and he could sprinkle it on, pile it on, shovel it out as the mark and situation called for.
He had that talent.
Then again, some liked the rough stuff and no problem. But he kept the rough on the easy side. Until the end.
There were those who fell for the lone wolf, the brooder, the poet, the laid back, or the tightly wound.
He had a million personas he could wear like a bespoke suit.
Sob stories provided openings for certain types. Try the recent widower, or the cuckolded husband.
The trick? Be who the target wanted you to be.
And he excelled at it.
Again, he’d learned from an early age, watching his own motherfall for line after line. She’d truly believed people held inside them a core of good—no matter how deeply buried.
Nobody, according to good old Mom, was purely bad, not through and through. And in her world evil hadn’t existed.
God made the world, after all, and God was good.
She’d believed—no matter how often she’d been knocked flat—kindness triumphed.
His mother, the saint.
His mother, the idiot.
She’d considered him a gift—her handsome, clever little boy. Sure, his father had knocked her around on the rare occasions he’d paid any attention at all. Then came the excuses, from her—never him.He had a hard day, he gets upset, I shouldn’t have said anything.
