Page 38 of Tall, Dark, & Ginger

And there’s a positive side effect to my deal with Ridley: sleep. After a turn with him, I practically pass out. He’s more effective than any pill I could take, and I feel better than I have in months. Even a few solid hours of sleep is a vast improvement from the tossing and turning I dealt with before.

Now if I could just get his amazing cock out of my mind so I can focus on the menu, that would be great. I glance back at the food inventory list from last week to see what we sold the most of. Fish continues to be popular, so I should do something with that. New twists on classic bar food are always favorites. Maybe I can come up with a new wing sauce.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out, cringing when I see the name on the screen. I’m really not in the mood for a family guilt trip today, but I’ve already avoided my sister’s calls the last two days.

“Hey, Whit.”

“Hey, Whit,” she mocks. “You are alive.”

“Yep. What’s up?”

“Why are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not. I’ve been slammed.”

“I guess I’ll buy that since I saw your restaurant on the news.”

“What?”

“There was a little segment on things happening around the metro area and they talked about Willow Bay.”

“When was that?”

“Yesterday.”

“Good to know. We’ll probably get a wave of people this weekend from the city.”

“Not a bad problem to have, right?”

“Right. Did you need something?”

She scoffs. “God, Wren, is it so awful to talk to your sister?”

Yes, actually. “I’m just busy, Whit. That’s all.”

“We’re all busy. Especially me. Did you know Riley is having her first ballet recital? No, of course you don’t because you don’t call your niece.”

“She’s three, Whitney.”

“And?” My sister dives into the many things that keep her life busy, sounding like a martyr just because she chose to have kids with a man who spends all his time with clients or at the golf course. “And mom says you haven’t called in weeks.”

There it is. The guilt trip. My sister is my mom’s favorite weapon of choice, flinging her at me whenever she wants something from me—sometimes money, but often just my emotional labor.

My chest tightens and I’m about to give in to it, but then I remember the tips I’ve been reading on the difficult family forum and steel myself to deliver words I’ve never said before.

“The phone works both ways. She can call if she really needs something.”

There’s dead silence on the other end, to the point where I look at my phone to make sure the call is still connected.

“But she’s your mother.”

“And? Why am I responsible for making all the contact?”

She gasps softly. “Because we’re the children, Wren. We show our parents that we care and we’re thinking of them.”

I scoff. “What about them showing that to us?”

“What is this attitude? It’s not hard to pick up the phone and spend fifteen minutes of your precious day talking to your mother.”

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