Page 42 of Whiteout

“Yes, please.”

“Ian?”

“No, thanks.” He tipped his chin at the bottle of Van Winkle. “I’m good.”

“Uh-huh.” And returning her attention to Breanna, she asked, “How do you take it, dear?”

“Sweet,” Ian answered with a wink, bringing the glass of bourbon to his lips.

Breanna shot him a look. “Just cream, thanks.”

“So,” Pamela said, handing her a cup. “My son tells me you’re going to college in Portland—which school?”

“Son? You’re his mother?”

Ian had to stop himself from laughing because the slack-jawed expression on Breanna’s face was truly comical.

“Course, dear.” She graciously smiled and took a sip of her coffee. “What did you think?”

“You look far too young to be…” Her cheeks turning pink, Breanna shrugged.

“Thank you,” Pamela said, waving off the compliment. “Botox is my friend. I was already thirty-three when Ian was born. So then, which school?”

“Portland State.”

“Lovely campus. Beautiful city.” She nodded. “And you’re an English major?”

“Yes,” Breanna answered, glancing at him. “I graduate in May.”

“And then what?” His mother went on with her disguised interrogation. Ian knew how she rolled. “What are your plans after that?”

“I applied for an editorial internship with Penguin Random House.” Her voice becoming animated, Breanna’s face lit up. “It’s only twenty hours a week, but it’s a paid position. Gets my foot in the door, you know?”

“You’ll be moving to New York, then?”

“No, it’s remote. That’s the best part. I can work from anywhere.”

How convenient.

“Fingers crossed you get it,” Pamela said to her, doing exactly that. “Your father was a writer, you know. Well, that’s what he aspired to be.”

“No, I didn’t, but then I don’t know much about him.”

“Why is that, dear?”

“It makes my mom sad to talk about him.” Petting Hera on her lap, she shrugged. “So, we don’t.”

“Oh, sweetie, we have to fix that.” Pamela reached across the table and took Breanna’s hand. “You should know everything you possibly can about your daddy. And your family. They’re such a big part of who you are.”

Annoyed, Derek put a tray of brandy down on the table. “And just who is she, Pamela?”

“A Dalton, that’s who.” Looking smug, she picked up a glass from the tray. “Now, where is my pie?”

“Get her some pie, Ian.” Shooing the dog off the sofa, Derek claimed his place beside Breanna.

His lip curling, Ian stood. “Can I get some for you, too, Miss Dalton?”

“Um, yeah, sure.”

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