I just need to survive this first official meeting without giving her ammunition. I’ve even got an outline printed on the desk so she can’t divert me. I’m going to spell out, in no uncertain terms, that she’s no longer permitted to steamroll me. I’m in charge now, and I answer to no one.
If she gets snippy or starts hurling insults, I’ll just grit my teeth and let her words roll off my back. Like water off a duck. She can’t ruffle my feathers.
“Quack,” I grunt, and a dark laugh slips out of me.
I’m still biting back a smirk when I come through thedoor and drop my gym bag on the floor. I already showered at the Stony Peak locker room, so all I have to do is change into something professional. From the waist up, of course. Then I’ll be good to go.
The whiff of perfume assaults me first, though. Cloying, floral, and way too rich.
Not Loren’s.
My entire torso goes rigid, like I’m being crushed in a vise, and I slowly turn toward the dining room. Our first houseguest is sitting at the table. Ramrod straight.
“Hello, Mom.”
“Hello, son.” Her mouth curls up. “Welcome home.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bridger
She hasn’t changed at all.
Still well-preserved. Still sporting just the right clothes and accessories. Her jet-black bun is scraped back tight. One stripe of white hair stretches from her right temple up and over her skull. I swear, she asked her hairdresser to dye that thing in. Like an ageless bride of Frankenstein. Which, I guess, makes my dad the monster. Kind of perfect, actually.
Either way, it’s a horror show.
“How did you get in?”
“Oh, come now, Bridger. Don’t be droll.”
She doesn’t clarify. This is her way of asserting power. She wants me to be unsettled, to push for answers. So I meet her gaze, chin ticking an inch. Standoff time.
I refuse to give her the satisfaction.
“I had a locksmith meet me here,” she says, even though I didn’t ask. “Convincing him that I needed to be let in was such fun. The car I arrived in helped. Most men would havetrouble saying no to a woman being delivered by a driver in a Bentley.”
She nods toward the Louis Vuitton luggage in the corner, and my mouth twitches. A twinge of victory in this moment. I didn’t pursue the subject, but she felt compelled to explain herself anyway. And that flex. Bentley. Right.
Who’s off balance now, Mom?
She rises from the chair, her gaze sweeping the room. “Care to give me a tour of your lovely home?”
I offer her a stiff smile to stall. Loren and I have our stuff in two separate rooms. On two separate floors. So showing my mom around won’t help our cause. What’s the opposite of helping?
A big old torpedo.
“According to the note you sent—the one with the flowers—you’ve already seen the place, though, right?” I nod to indicate the tapestry over the stairs. “A virtual tour? On some website your team found?”
She presses her lips together primly. “I did notice you have plenty of guest rooms.”
“We do.”
“So I assume your bride won’t mind that I came for a visit, then?” She takes a small step toward me. “You and I haven’t spent time together in so long. And your birthday is coming up, after all.”
“Been a while, yeah. Quite a few birthdays, by my count. Like seven, maybe.”
Something flickers in her eyes, and my throat tightens.