I’M a nervous wreck all morning in anticipation of calling my mother, which is dumb. I should just do it and get it over with.
But I need to work up to this moment, this … conversation. She’s not an easy woman to talk to, especially when what I have to say to her will make her upset. Plus, she sleeps in every morning. Now that she has no children to take care of—or terrorize—she stays up till all hours of the night and sleeps in until ten, almost every morning, according to Sylvie. She is not a lady who does brunch. She is all about the lunch.
Maybe that’s what I should do. Meet her for lunch somewhere in public and extremely busy, and tell her to butt out of my life. Telling her via phone or text won’t have the same effect. Saying it to her face in a restaurant, where she can’t cause a scene, is the right move.
The smart move.
When I discovered that Mother was talking about me with West’s mom—she’s always dropping little tidbits to him about me and she basically said exactly that when all three of us met for dinner last week. Laura Fontaine is a lovely woman. I like her.
What I don’t like is my mother feeding her information about me that I should tell her myself. Mother is stepping over as per usual and I’m tired of it.
Tired of her.
Instead of running away from my problems, for once I’m confronting them head-on.
So, I send her a text asking her to meet me for lunch at a restaurant not too far from where she lives and she readily agrees, most likely thrilled that I would do such a thing. None of us actually seek her out so this must feel important to her.
I’m only going to crush her with my requests, but I don’t care. She’s toxic. We all know it. Pretty sure she knows it too. I can’t have that in my life. I’ve avoided her for so long. All these years in London, dancing, dancing. Always dancing so I wouldn’t think about anything else. Trying to push her out of my thoughts, my life.
I wear a thin black dress with a very expensive black bra and panty set I picked up recently while I was out shopping—something I’m not always a fan of but have been doing more because I’m bored without dance and West is so busy during the day. Black flat sandals on my feet—the boot is finally gone, thank goodness—my hair scraped back into a tight bun. Very light makeup on my face and the giant Lancaster diamond studs in my ears, a gift from my father when I turned eighteen.
The entire outfit is armor against my mother and I stride into that restaurant with as much confidence as I can muster, keeping the sunglasses firmly on my face, so she can’t see the fear flashing in my eyes.
She sees even a glimmer of terror and she’ll grasp on to that visible emotion, feeding on it until she has you wanting to run screaming from the room.
“Carolina, my goodness you look so chic.” This is how my mother greets me when she sweeps into the restaurant minutes later. I’m already seated at our table, which is situated close to the front, where almost everyone can see us. “Sorry I’m late.”
Another tactic she uses to keep people on edge, making them wait for her. “It’s fine. I was late as well.”
I rise to my feet and let her hug me, remaining stiff in her embrace, only patting her back for a brief moment before I take a step back. Her arms fall away from me, the disappointment clear on her face, and I think, point to me.
This is terrible, but our relationship has always worked this way. As sick and twisted as it is, I don’t know anything else.
“Taking after your mother after all, aren’t you.” She sits down across from me, a pleased smile on her face.
I stare at her, my gaze assessing her carefully. She’s been refreshed, meaning she’s had some work done, and she looks abnormally young. Startlingly reminding me of Sylvie.
It’s eerie.
Mother catches me studying her and leans over the table as if she’s going to share a big secret with me. “I’ve had a little touch-up done recently. It looks fabulous, doesn’t it?”
A little touch-up? More like a lot.
“You look very … young.” She looks like so many of the other women in this city who are desperate not to lose their youthful appearance. I’m not against plastic surgery, but there is something about a woman in her late fifties who is trying to appear like she’s in her twenties. It doesn’t look natural.
“Isn’t it great?” She sighs happily, flashing her smile at the server, who’s young and handsome and overly solicitous as he lists the drink specials. I ask for water. Mother orders a skinny spicy margarita on the rocks without a salted rim. The moment he’s gone, I send her a look.
“A margarita?”
“I need something to spice up my day.” She shrugs, not looking bothered by my question. “Get to my age, darling, and then you can judge me.”
This is going to be a long lunch.
We order our food and I listen to Mother complain about everything. Whit and Summer and how she can’t see her own grandson.
“They barely let me visit and heaven forbid they drop the darling boy off at my place so I can spend a few hours with him. I would assume they’d love a break here and here. Raising a toddler isn’t easy and she’s about to have another one.” Mother shakes her head, sipping from her margarita. “I don’t understand it.”
I do. I wouldn’t leave my child alone with my mother either.
“And then there’s your sister.” She brings up Sylvie after our meals are brought to us, and that must be some sort of record. “I still cannot believe she had that party and invited every single one of you but me.”
“Mother.” I rest my fork on the edge of the large bowl of salad I ordered. “You know she doesn’t want anything to do with you.”
She visibly flinches. “I don’t deserve this kind of treatment from my daughter.”
“She is literally terrified of you. That’s why she doesn’t want you around her.”
“What in the world did I do to make her react that way?” Mother actually rests her hand against her chest, aghast at the possibilities.
I’m not about to go into a list of all the reasons why Sylvie doesn’t want anything to do with her, but I take this moment as my segue into why I asked her to lunch in the first place.
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Her face is an innocent mask. “What is it?”
“Laura Fontaine.”
“Oh Laura. A lovely woman. A little … rustic for my taste sometimes, but I blame that on her wandering through the Napa Valley vineyards for so long.” Mother laughs.
“You talk about me to her,” I say. “A lot.”
“Of course, I do. You’re dating her son. We could end up being relatives.” Her smile is serene, her gaze dancing with unknown thoughts. Emotions. Whatever.
Sometimes I’d like to know what makes my mother do the things she does, and other times, I am too scared to think about it.
“I don’t want you doing that. In fact, I don’t think you should spend as much time with Laura as you do.”
The smile is gone, just like that. “You cannot tell me what to do.”
“I’m asking you politely.” My appetite disappears at the way Mother’s face transforms. It goes from friendly and light to dark and foreboding in the blink of an eye. “You don’t need to talk about me with Laura.”
“She asks questions.”
“Let her ask West or even me. We just had dinner together.”
“I know.” Mother’s smile is triumphant. “She told me. Said that you’re a lovely girl and that we’re very much alike.”
My finger curls around my fork and I have the sudden image of me lunging for her. Stabbing her in her ugly black heart with it. I shake it away, disturbed. “I don’t like this.”
“There’s nothing you can do to change it. We’re friends. I’m not going to stop talking to her. How do you want me to do that? ‘Oh sorry, Carolina asked me to keep away from you.’ How will that look, darling? Laura will be scandalized. She’ll think less of you and you need that woman on your side. She has so much influence over West.”
I stare at her, hating how logical her explanation is. “I want you to stay out of my personal business.”
Her eyes flash, her expression turning fierce. “I know how you are, and I’m sure this is making your little controlling heart nearly collapse with palpitations, but you don’t control this situation, Carolina. Laura Fontaine is my friend and there’s nothing you can do to change that. And you can’t expect me to not talk about you. I’m your mother. You’re involved with her son. We’re going to talk about our children.”
I’m so angry I can barely see straight. Whit never lets her get the better of him. Sylvie either agrees with whatever she says or runs away. I usually just stayed out of the way, but every time I talk to her lately, I find myself unable to convince her of anything. Most of the time, I’m actually agreeing with her.
It’s frustrating. Infuriating.
“I hear you’re going back to London in a couple of weeks?” She smoothly changes the subject and I automatically answer, grateful to talk about something else.
“Yes. I need to be there to start practicing for the next production.”
“I think it’s a mistake.” She takes a sip of her drink.
“Me going back to London?”
She nods. “Leaving West behind? Have you discussed this with him?”
No. Not at all. We don’t talk about the future beyond the House of Fontaine merging with the luxury conglomerate, which is happening soon. It’s too scary to think about anything after that happens, let alone say out loud.
“Sort of,” I hedge.
Her disapproval is obvious. “Carolina. Really?”
“What do you expect me to do? Stay here forever, marry the man and have his babies?” I make it sound like torture when I secretly adore the idea.
Which means maybe I care about him—dare I say love him—more than I thought.
“Absolutely,” she says without hesitation. “If you were smart, that’s what you would be doing. Darling, Weston Fontaine is an absolute catch. And once the sale of the House of Fontaine is announced, the man will have women swarming him. He’s young, he’s attractive and he will be filthy rich. The sole heir to all of that champagne money.”
“It was never about the money with West,” I protest, and she laughs.
“It must be so nice to be you. Perfectly insulated in your rich little world. Never having to worry about a thing. You have more money than anyone you know. Even West Fontaine.” Her smile turns shrewd. “Merging those fortunes together is a smart move, darling. And he knows you won’t be using him for his money. He’ll never be able to trust another woman after you. He’ll always wonder if they’re with him because of his name, or his bank account.”
I can’t stand the thought of West with another woman after me. Not after everything we’ve shared. He’s had my drawing tattooed on his skin since he was seventeen. I have his words tattooed on me. That means something.
“I don’t want to push.” This is about as real as I will ever get with her, I realize. Because there is one thing my mother understands. How to lure a man in.
She also knows how to push one away, though I’m sure she’d never admit it.
“I’m sure he’s smitten with you. If you behave like you usually do, I’m sure he’s completely gone over you.” She drains the last of her margarita, then lifts her glass into the air. The waiter notices, of course, and acknowledges he’ll bring her a fresh one with a quick nod of his head.
Unreal.
“What are you talking about?”
“Your utter indifference about everything, darling. The more you act like you don’t care, the more they want to be with you, so they can make you care.” Her smile is knowing. “I’m sure he’s madly in love with you by now.”
I say nothing, thinking of that night after the tattoo, when he told me he loved me. He’s never said it again. I’m sure he thinks I’ll freak out if he utters those three words, and back when he first told me, he would’ve been right.
But now, I’m tempted to hear him say those words again. I’m even tempted to try and say them on my own. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get past the lump in my throat that will undoubtedly form, or the anxiety that will have its evil clutches wrapped around my heart, but I want to try.
I want to tell him how I feel.
I ARRIVE HOME from my too long lunch with my mother to find West already there, pacing around the living room, pausing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out at the cityscape with his phone pressed to his ear. He’s not doing a lot of talking, only interjecting here and there, and I wonder who’s on the other end.
He’s in shorts and a T-shirt—a look I don’t see him wear much at all, and I let my gaze drift over the length of him, lingering on his broad shoulders. The curve of his ass beneath those shorts. His long legs covered in hair. Not too much though. It’s just enough. Perfect even.
West glances over his shoulder and catches me staring, his lips curving into the faintest frown, a question in those beautiful brown eyes. I smile at him, clutching on to the positive feelings my mother stirred inside me. The ones that remind me I have a good man by my side, who’s only going to grow into a better man. He’s smart and caring and attentive to my every need. He’s more than proven he cares about me.
I’d be a fool to let him go. To leave him behind so I can dance.
It’s still important to me. Ballet. Performing. But it can’t be everything. I’m good enough to dance for a smaller company, but I will never be a part of the most renowned dance troupes in the world, and …
I’m at peace with that.
Everything is going to be okay.
“All right,” he says into the phone. “That all sounds perfect. I’ll talk to you later.” He ends the call, turning to face me, that question still glowing in his eyes. “I take it your lunch with your mother went well.”
I texted him to let him know what I was doing and where I was going. Just in case. That’s how paranoid the woman makes me feel.
“It was good.” That’s all I offer, all I’m willing to say, and I think he can tell.
“I’m glad. I don’t want you two hating each other. Family is important. My mother is all I have.” His smile is slow. “Well, and then there’s you.”
“Do you consider me a part of your family?”
His expression becomes serious—enough to make my heart catch and my breath stall. “You’re in my heart. On my skin. Forever, Carolina.”
“West.” My throat aches with the words I want to say and I close my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before I say, “I’m not going back to London.”
He blinks in confusion. “Why not?”
“I don’t want to dance anymore. I mean, I don’t want to stop dancing, but I don’t feel the need to perform anymore.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to stay here.” I swallow hard. “With you.”
