Page 31 of Love and Lies

“I have to go—issues with a supplier,” she was already saying.

“Anything I can help with?” I asked, sliding the cup across the island toward her.

“No, I can handle it.” She leaned over and planted a quick kiss on my cheek before taking the cup. “Thanks, you’re a star. Is there anything you can’t do?”

“Loads of things. But I’d be a fool to tell you what they are.”

Samara laughed. “I’m back in the city in ten days,” she informed me, already at the door. “It was a pleasure as always, JC.” She gave a mischievous grin.

I gave a little bow and smirked back. “Ditto. Call me.” Then she was gone.

Since, unlike Sam, I was a breakfast fanatic, and I had no meetings that day, I decided to make pancakes. I usually only made them when Eli was sleeping over, but at least if I used whole wheat flour it wouldn’t be totally unhealthy. But I’d only just taken the ingredients out of the pantry when there was a knock at the door. I cast a quick eye around to see if Samara had left anything behind—she was a pro at that—but couldn’t see anything at first glance. I was at the door in a few strides and pulled it open with a flourish.

“I knew you only slept with me for the breakfa—” I broke off. It wasn’t Sam at the door. It was my mother, in an immaculate beige coat and perfectly coiffed hair. “Trish? What are you doing here?”

“Bearing witness to your so-called love life, clearly.” She walked into the apartment, a veritable ice queen. “Weeknight dates until midmorning with that whiskey girl I just ran into downstairs? Interesting. Business hours are really going out of fashion, it seems.”

“There’s no nine-to-five in the restaurant industry, you should know that by now,” I muttered, though I didn’t owe her any explanation.

“Of course I know that. I was married to your father for long enough. But you—a restauranteur? That’s news to me. Or are you actually running your own business now, instead of setting up other people’s?”

I snorted. She never changed. “I own twelve restaurants, in case you’ve forgotten. Surely I can call myself a restauranteur.”

“Those restaurants are an inheritance that you’re managing, nothing more.” Her disapproval was evident.

“Right… and if I were to join the family firm—what would that be?”

“Your only chance to do something really meaningful with your life.”

I didn’t bother to reply. “Are you here for a reason?” I asked. She usually had meetings from seven in the morning until ten at night. Trish Coldwell didn’t visit her son spontaneously or out of the goodness of her heart. She wanted something. And the sooner she came out with it, the sooner she would leave.

“Coffee, first of all. Provided you have whole beans.”

“Of course I do.” I went to the kitchen, repeated the same process as before, and although I’d have loved to give her a takeout cup, I took down a ceramic mug and placed it on the breakfast bar for her.

Whenever my mother was in Adam’s apartment, it looked as though someone had transplanted an alien into the Wild West. The rustic loft was so completely at odds with her aesthetic, I was afraid she might dirty her outfit just by being there.

“Thank you.” My mother pursed her lips, sat down at a barstool, and took a sip of her coffee before she continued. “You worked out yesterday,” she said, making it sound like a statement and not a question. That meant she knew the answer already. And that meant somebody must have told her where I was yesterday.

“I thought we were done with your spying on me,” I remarked coolly, although a more heated reply was on the tip of my tongue. After I’d gone to live with her, she’d hired someone to keep watch on me from time to time—where I went, who I met. I’d found ways to dodge her, though, and at some point she’d given up. Until now, it seemed.

“I have no interest whatsoever in spying on you. But I’m not going to turn a blind eye when somebody informs me that you have been seen making a grave mistake.” She set the cup down and fixed me with an icy stare. “You know, I’m sure, what I’m talking about.”

“I have no idea.” I did, of course, but I enjoyed provoking her a little sometimes, even these days.

“Really? So you think it’s completely acceptable for you and Helena Weston, of all people, to be… enjoying yourselves, in public, in a seedy fight club?”

So it really was about that. I laughed, but only half out of amusement. The other half was anger. “Enjoying ourselves really is the last thing we were doing.”

“Well, what would you call it, rolling around on the floor together in one of the training rooms?” Trish raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but her composure was a facade. She’d always looked exactly like that whenever I’d pulled one of my stunts to make her mad. Below the surface, I knew she was fuming.

“It was… nothing.” It didn’t sound very convincing, even to me, but it was the truth. “I was asked to show her around, and when we went into the practice room, I showed her a move, and she retaliated. That’s all.”

“Ah, that’s all. And you expect me to believe you’re not interested in her?”

“I don’t expect you to believe anything,” I corrected her. “I’m telling you that’s what happened. We’re not friends, on the contrary. Helena hates me. And how could she not, given everything?”

My mother studied my expression so carefully I knew she was making a note of every tiny movement of my face. “So she hates you. Do you hate her too?”