Page 42 of Kandi's Crush: A BWWM Sweet Billionaire Romance

“And I love you, Sweets.”

Chadwick

My parents lived in a white, two-story Italianate mansion in the Garden District. In the late 1800s, Charles St. Clair had earned his first million dollars and built the home for his family of ten. A regular fixture in New Orleans holiday home tours, the house had also been the setting for top-selling vampire novels and movies.

The house was an edifice, but my mother made it a home. In her quest for a beautiful life, she’d added warmth and character to the large, sterile home. There were always bouquets of beautiful flowers on display, and she’d taken care to create a large gallery wall filled of photos of family and friends.

Nine thousand square feet hadn’t been able to contain the ninety thousand square feet of personalities within the walls of this house. There had been many arguments between a rebellious teenager and his firm, demanding parents.

I parked my Jeep in the stone driveway. My mother’s white Mercedes convertible was parked inside the opened garage. Excited about seeing my mother, along with my newfound relationship with Kandace, I bounced into the house with an extra spring in my step. I entered through the back door and hung my keys on a hook in the mudroom.

“Mother? Mom?” I hollered from the back door.

When silence met my calls, I grew concerned. I walked through the hallway leading to the main living areas, peering through the doorways of the kitchen, bathrooms, and informal living room. I found her in the formal sitting room, the most ornate and photographed room in the house. Elegant festoons topped the gilded draperies. Intricate ceiling medallions and gilded trim added an air of formality to the room. The jewel of the opulent space was a large mural of the Garden District during the early twentieth century.

“Mom. You had me worried. Why didn’t you answer?”

The word best used to describe Genevieve St. Clair was impeccable. At forty-nine, she was youthful and fit. Styled in an off-white knit pantsuit, she sat on the antique sofa and thumbed through a gardening magazine. Her chin-length, blonde bob was smoothed and glossy from her twice-weekly blow out appointments. It didn’t matter if she was having a night out or a quiet evening at home—her signature shade of cherry red always coated her lips.

“I was ignoring you. What did I tell you about yelling in the house?” she playfully scolded. She stood before pulling me into a tight hug. Rocking me back and forth, she cooed, “My handsome boy. I’ve missed you.”

“I can’t breathe,” I choked out dramatically, stiffening until she released her grip and playfully slapped me on the arm.

My mother was my best friend. Through circumstances neither of us wanted, we clung fiercely to each other. My father viewed his role in the family as the provider. Many hours at work and travel had left little time for being a consistent male role model in a boy’s life, which meant my young mother had been mostly on her own with the difficult task of disciplining, supporting, and nurturing a rowdy boy. I considered her parenting a success because I made it to adulthood in possession of all of my limbs.

“You’re staying for Sunday dinner, right? Dante will have everything ready at three thirty. He’s preparing a fabulous Keto meal. Your daddy read a book, and now it is our new way of eating. Are you familiar with Keto? It’s such an easy diet, and the results are incredible.” Dante was my parents’ personal chef.

“I’m familiar with the Keto plan.” I bit my lip to contain my laughter.

“Your daddy looks good.” She whistled and grinned. “Don’t tell him, but sometimes when I’m out for lunch with the ladies, I eat a big ol’ hunk of bread slathered with lots of butter.” She poured me a glass of iced tea from a neighboring pitcher. “Sit and talk with your mother. Catch me up on everything. How is the loft conversion going?”

“The lofts are coming along. There are a few issues with the electrical inspections. Once we pass, we’ll move to drywall installation and painting.”

“Fantastic. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mom. What’s going on with you?”

“I’m doing well. I’m preparing for next month’s anniversary party and the Anthea’s winter festival. It’s in December, and I expect you to be in attendance.”

My mother was a charter member of the Krewe of Anthea, it was one of New Orleans’ most exclusive, all-female social organizations. Anthea translated to ‘Lady of Flowers’ in Greek. Twenty years ago, a group of homemakers from the neighborhood garden club had started the organization. Under my mother’s leadership, the group had grown from thirteen members to three hundred. Throughout the year, they held fundraisers for city beautification projects and scholarships. During Mardi Gras, the members dressed in floral-themed costumes and rode on the parade float.

“I’ll be there.”

She looked at me over her reading glasses. Her eyes pierced mine and held me in place. That was ‘the look’ she used when she would speak with parental authority. I’d been a wild teenager, so I was all too familiar with that look. I didn’t breathe or even look away.

“You’ll need a date.”

“I’ll have a date,” I agreed.

“A nice girl. Someone you can marry. Not the usual women you show up with.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

I knew exactly where she was going with this conversation. My mother had nearly disowned me after the last gala I’d attended. My date, Whitney James, had drunk one too many of the garden rose martinis, and had passed out at the table. I’d ended up carrying her out of the ballroom. We’d never spoken again.

My decision to take Whitney to the gala had been another fuck-up in a series of fuck-ups. My parents knew of my sexual reputation. Their disappointment in me was no secret—I sensed it in my father’s glare almost every time he looked my way. The heir to the St. Clair fortune and New Orleans’ number one bachelor should go for quality over quantity.

“I know the perfect girl for you. Remember Arden Leblanc? She has a lovely granddaughter. A gorgeous girl. She’s a recent Loyola law graduate. You two have so much in common. You should get to know each other.”

“Mom, that’s unnecessary.”

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