Page 22 of The Pack Next Door
“Mum—” I sat down beside her, but she shook her head.
“I pushed you.” Her lips pursed even as I saw real regret in her gaze. “I pushed you when you were in high school and that’s why you left, never coming home.”
“It’s not that…” She watched me closely, so I was forced to shrug. “Well, not entirely.”
With a sigh, she gripped the counter.
“In my mind, you’d have what I never did.” Her smile was bittersweet. “Men that waited a whole life to be with you.” She shook her head. “That wouldn’t leave you for some woman half you age in Queensland.”
“Mum—”
“I’ll butt out now.” My snort was entirely involuntary, which made her smile. “I will. Whatever’s going on…” She glanced over her shoulder, in the direction of the Sanderson… the Whitlock house, before she picked up her knife and fork. “With anyone, it’s none of my business unless you want to talk about it.” That sidelong look, it was contrite. “I’m sorry, Briar. I shouldn’t have talked to you that way.”
“That makes two of us.” All the tension in my body leached out as I settled down in the stool beside her. “So, would you consider having a nurse move in here or?—?”
She shut me down with a small smile.
“Darling, we’re both adults now, and I think we need to change the way we do things to reflect that. I promise not to say a thing about any alpha, in town or otherwise…”
If I stayed out of her business.
I smiled ruefully, then squeezed lemon juice on my pancakes along with a healthy tablespoon of sugar.
“Butting out and acting like an adult,” I said, holding out a fist. She bumped her knuckles with mine with a grin. “Got it.”
“Good, now have your breakfast, because I’ve got something I wanted to show you.”
One eyebrow jerked up as I looked at her quizzically, because she’d picked the very moment I had a mouthful of pancakes to lay that one on me. No doubt that was deliberate. We ate up our breakfast because no amount of questions from me would get her to reveal what it was. I impatiently collected up our plates when they were done, then put them in the dishwasher, before Mum beckoned me into the lounge room.
On her bookshelf was a record of our life. Her photo albums, created with care when I was a baby, then a child. Some of her mother’s albums, even her grandmother’s. I was never able to handle the old ones, reduced to peering over her shoulder as she flicked through the cracking pages. But this time it was a scrapbook she pulled off the shelves. The hardcover was printed with a pretty swirling design, but that didn’t prepare me for what I found inside.
The first page was an interview I’d done with the local newspaper. A staff writer discovered my stuff at my very first market stall. There were a few questions and a black and white photo of a much younger me, which had me staring up at Mum.
“Take a look,” she said.
Screenshots of my website. I forgot how amateurish the design was at first. I’d had a crack at doing it myself, only to never do that again. Ads in the paper, a feature in an interior design magazine. I flipped through page after page of photos of me, of my business, until finally I saw the award I received last year. That had me looking up at her.
“I know your business is important to you.” She squeezed my hand. “I guess I thought it was just something you’d do until you found your alphas, but that’s not it, is it? Millions of dollars in turnover?”
“Our growth has my accountant scratching his head,” I admitted with a rueful smile. “He doesn’t really get it.”
“But you do.” She took the scrapbook from me, tracing the shape of the award with her finger. “This is your passion, what makes you happy.” Her eyes met mine. “That’s important.”
“Yeah.” That came out as a croak, which had both of us laughing. “You know you’re always welcome to come up to the city and check it all out. I could fly you up so you’re not stuck on the bus. Then you could come and see my apartment. There’s one that’s coming up for sale…”
We both grinned. Like mother, like daughter, I was imagining a whole future for her that slotted neatly into my life.
“Or not.” I threw my hands up in the air. “Whatever you’d like to do.”
“What I need to do is make a nice cake for those boys next door,” she said, clasping my hand, then slotting the scrapbook back into the bookshelf.
“And why would we do that?” I asked warily.
“The one that mowed the lawn.” She turned to face me. “Maddox, was it? He invited us to dinner, and we can’t go over there empty-handed.”
“Muuum…”
My protest was waved away.
