Page 10 of Broken Pact

“She’s feeling punny today, isn’t she. I’d bet my house there’s no sugar in that dessert.” I take a sip of my coffee as I look at the photo she posted twenty minutes ago, captioned Sugar, We’re Going Down. Amusement crackles inside my veins like popping candy. I expected to see something with apples today, but Coraline Carter is anything but predictable.

I glance at her profile picture, looking for the colorful circle around it indicating she has a story. But it’s the same meme she shared last night about asshole exes. I chuckle as I read it again.

I don’t get addicted to things. I’m not gluttonous by nature, and I never get attached. But the satisfaction that sings in my blood at knowing she was still thinking about me six hours after our little run-in at the grocery brings me immense pleasure. It’s the kind of thing that has me contemplating driving the extra forty-five minutes from the clubhouse to Harold’s Grocery just to increase the odds of seeing her caught off-guard.

Pudding meows his agreement, like he can read my mind from his perch next to me. He’s currently twenty minutes in on a cleaning session, his sandpaper tongue rasping with every swipe along his back leg.

I tilt my phone to show my black and white Turkish Angora the photo of brightly colored ice cream sandwiched between two cookie-biscuits. And because he’s a fucking gentleman, he pauses his bathing long enough to stare at my phone and give it one long blink.

I chuckle at his perfectly timed deadpan stare. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t toss me in the lake to get your claws on one of these, ya fluffball.”

Pudding is the strangest and most amazing cat I’ve ever had. He’s the only cat I’ve ever had. But we have an unbreakable bond, him and I. A few years ago, I found him outside my late-grandfather’s house—right when it became my house—and brought him inside. He dove headfirst into a chocolate and vanilla pudding cup the second I turned my back, and he’s been king of this little castle ever since.

My phone vibrates in my hand, and I answer it on a sigh, putting it on speakerphone right away. “Mornin’.”

“Hello, darling. Are you ready to sell Father’s house and come back home yet?”

I scrub my hand across the bottom half on my face, a chuckle slipping through my fingers. “Jesus, Ma. It’s not even nine o’clock in the morning. Don’t you think it’s a little early for this?”

She hums over some rustling in the background. “Too early for me to start my weekly plea for my only son to move back home so there isn’t a million miles between us? I don’t think there is such a thing.”

There are only a handful of states between us, a relatively short plane ride. But I don’t need to tell her things she already knows. Vivienne Devereaux was born and raised in Avalon Falls. Not in this house. She was only here until she was twelve, then her dad got a job in Fontaine, Louisiana. Elias loved Avalon Falls though, so he eventually came back. Bought this lake house so he’d always have some place to stay here.

“You’re always welcome here, Ma. I have plenty of room.”

She sniffs, and I imagine her turning up her nose at the idea. “Oh gosh, can you imagine me staying at the clubhouse like a preteen at summer camp?”

The image of my posh and put-together mother strolling into the Reapers clubhouse is so comical I can’t stuff the laugh back inside quick enough.

“See! You finally understand how ridiculous that idea is. It makes much more sense for you to come home and stay with me. Unless.” She pauses, for dramatic effect, I’m sure.

My chuckles taper off. “C’mon, Ma. Just ask, I know the question is burning the tip of your tongue.”

“Unless,” she says, dragging the word out and somehow managing to sound both hopeful and annoyed. One of her many talents I suppose. “Unless I should come there to meet a certain someone. Perhaps someone special?”

I eye the ball of fluff underneath my palm, a smirk pulling up one side of my mouth. “You know, I wasn’t going to bring it up yet. But there is someone who you should meet. It’s been serious for awhile now?—”

“You better not be toying with me right now, son,” she snaps without any real heat. “I’m fragile.” She says it so dramatically too like she’s a crystal vase.

That pulls another laugh from me. My mother is a lot of things, but fragile isn’t one of them. She discovered my father had a second family when I was in high school, and she didn’t crumble, which would have been completely understandable—maybe even a little expected. Instead, she pulled herself up by her bootstraps, changed her name back, and got us the hell out of there. Then she took my dad for everything she could, and moved closer to her father. That lasted a few years until she decided she didn’t want to be run out of her town.

“Me? I’d never dream of such a thing. I’m serious. There’s someone who I’ve been meaning to introduce you to.”

“I’m on the first flight out, darling!” she practically yells.

“Black hair, a little white too, but don’t make a big deal out of it, yeah?”

“Well, that’s alright. I know a great colorist that can help cover up grays if she’s interested. Maybe you can plan a trip home to me and bring this special person with you, hm?”

“We see each other every single day, sometimes spending our mornings together too,” I muse, folding my lips over to hinder any amusement from slipping free.

“Mornings? Darling, do you two live together?”

I feel the goofy grin widen across my face. “Sure do, Ma.”

“Oh Jesus. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? It must be serious if she’s living with you. Where did you meet her? Please tell me she isn’t one of those club—club . . . whatever you call those gals.”

“Nah, Ma. Not a club bunny. Which, by the way, are really very lovely girls.” I take a sip of my coffee. It really isn’t hot anymore, but I still need the caffeine if I want to get through my day at the garage.

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