Page 35 of The Billionaire's Beauty

My plan firmly in place, I head out to the foyer and listen for signs of life. The house is quiet, but delicious scents drift down the hallway, leaving me no choice but to follow my nose to the kitchen, where I get a nice surprise. The breakfast table is set for romance. Flickering candles. Sparkling goblets. An open bottle of red wine. Flowers. Baked manicotti sits in its covered dish atop the stove, making my heart sing.

But no Bellamy.

The doors leading to the deck overlooking the ocean are open, though, so I peek outside to see if there’s any sign of her. And there she is at the railing, staring out at the fiery sunset and the clouds blowing in on the horizon, the breeze ruffling her hair.

“Hey,” I say, a smile creeping across my face. I’m beginning to think that she keeps all my smiles in her back pocket and only doles them out when she’s nearby. “You didn’t have to do all that—”

She hastily ducks her head and wipes her eyes, but not before I catch the sparkle of tears.

Everything inside me turns to ice. I’m just getting used to Bellamy being my sunshine. I didn’t think clouds would pop up so soon and with zero warning.

Besides, my mother cried the last time I saw her. The memory barges in, startling me with its clarity.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” I said, yawning.

“Griffin,” she said, hastily ducking her head, wiping her eyes and getting up in what I now realize was an attempt to hide the open suitcase on her bed. “What’re you doing up this late?”

“I’m thirsty. Do you need a hug?”

Watery smile from my mother as she reached for me. “I would love a hug, my sweet boy. Mommy loves you. Don’t forget that.”

Mommy loves you.What a lie that was, eh?

She’s been gone ever since the following morning and my life has never been the same.

And I hate to see women cry.

“What’s wrong?” I ask Bellamy sharply.

“I’m okay,” she says, waving a hand. She seems embarrassed. “It’s nothing.”

“Then stop crying. What do you need?”

That’s the problem-solving portion of my brain talking. If Bellamy needs something, I’m on it. I have the money and resources to buy, find, build, order, hunt or steal whatever she requires. I’d prefer not to get into any criminal enterprises, but if someone has hurt her or she needs someone taking care of, I know a guy who knows a guy. Whatever it takes to make her (and me, by extension) okay again.

“Nothing,” she says, looking a little startled by my vehemence as I join her at the railing. “Unless you know how to resurrect my mother so I can wish her happy birthday?”

There it is. My worst nightmare. A problem I can’t solve for her.

“Your…mother?”

“Yeah.” She wipes another tear, leaving a wet spot on her cheek. “It’s been five years.”

I stand there waging a silent battle between my sudden paralysis and my overwhelming curiosity about every aspect of her life. I just swore to myself that I’d keep things casual with Bellamy. I don’t do emotions. I damn sure don’t do mothers. Mothers are my personal kryptonite. I’d rather submit to an IRS audit of my personal and corporate finances for the last five years than discuss my own personal mother situation.

But…

If Bellamy needs something, I have to ferret it out and make sure she gets it. I’m not sure when exactly I undertook this responsibility, but it feels like a blood oath. A solemn vow as a man. I have to take care of her. In this case, she may need a sympathetic human being to talk to, but it’s her bad luck that I’m the only person available. Sort of like needing a blood transfusion only to discover that the only available person is a cyborg.

Still, I can do my best.

“Do you…want to talk about it?” I ask carefully.

Magic words, apparently.

“She died when I was in college. Right before winter break. I’d just finished up my finals and was getting ready to go home for Christmas. She had a car accident.”

I nod, incapable of mentioning that my mother walked out on us just after Christmas.

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