Page 51 of Grumpy Bossy Billionaire Enemy

“Both,” I replied, squeezing Mother’s hand. This conversation might have been the longest and deepest discussion I’ve ever had with my mother.

“I’ve seen you exhibit the courage I never had. So, I trust your instincts. I want you to do whatever makes you happy.”

“You shouldn’t sit up in your big home twenty-five years later, regretting what you didn’t do.”

“Do you regret everything that has happened?”

“Everything except your sisters and you.”

I climbed down from the kitchen stool. My eyes settled on Mother’s big brown eyes. I walked closer and hugged her. She still smelled the same as when I was a child. Her scent was quite personal. I’d know when my mother walked into a room even if I was blindfolded. She smelled like a fragile rose petal on the first day of spring, lost in the early morning dew. Her skin felt like it was graced by the sun.

Her presence was joyful, the type that brought an unexplainable excitement into a home. She made everyone feel secure; and today, she brought me a hope of a new beginning. Ultimately, Mother smelled like she grew love from her soul. Her scent often stayed in the house even when she was long gone, and it left me longing to see her again.

Mother carried an aura of confidence and grace – a reminder that the air was filled with oxygen and the promise of a better life. I often wondered what she would have been outside the confines of marriage. But I didn't have to wonder for long. I wanted to be everything Mother wasn’t.

I pulled away from the hug and tucked her hair behind her ear. Now that I looked at her closely, I realized that she had a new haircut. Her long flowing hair now hit her shoulders; she hadn’t looked more beautiful than today.

“I’ll catch up with Nolan,” I told Mom, who smiled at me. She mouthed the words, thank you.

Like everything I had done while growing up in this home, I wanted to make my parents happy. This time, I was forgiving my father, getting to know Nolan, and doing it to make myself happy. I scouted the house and realized that the room that used to be mine had been converted for Nolan’s comfort. No one was here at the moment, but Nolan’s MacBook sat in a designated work space. A guitar was leaning on the wall near the bed stand.

He’d gotten rid of my pink walls and replaced the feminine color with black and gray patterned wallpaper. The wardrobe had a light rope around its edges, and the corner by the closet had another table, different from where his MacBook sat. The table was cluttered with brushes and paint bottles. His canvases were neatly arranged in a corner, lazily covered with an old black old shirt. The exposed part of one painting drew me closer, and I gently took off the covering.

A deep masculine throat clearing sound sent me off balance. I turned and there was Nolan by the door, his arms folded across his lean chest.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spy on your things. They just drew me in like a magnet.” I laughed at myself. I was nervous seeing Nolan closeup for the first time since he had arrived in Richmond.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he replied. “I understand that this used to be your room. I’m sorry I made changes. I just want to have a creative environment for my work.”

“Yes,” I affirmed. “I don’t have a problem with you having my room. I am here because I want to talk to you.”

I turned back to the canvas I had spotted a few minutes ago. “Can I check it?”

“Sure,” he answered.

The first canvas was an unfinished painting of a young blonde girl. The hair seemed to be the only part of the painting that was finished, as the girl’s face was still a faint sketch.

“I’m sorry I acted when you got here,” I said as I carefully looked at the other two canvases.

One was a painting of the city’s night view from my room’s window, and the other was a detailed painting of a sunset.

“I don't hold it against you,” Nolan replied. “I’d act the same way if I found out that my sweet, loving father had a child outside of his marriage.”

“He is not always sweet-loving,” I warned him.

Nolan smiled now as he walked in and sat on the neatly made bed. His brown hair was cut short. I could see his scalp if I moved closer. His jaw was shaped just like my father’s. He was tall and muscular with his shirt sleeves rolled up. His hair was brown like Dad’s but he had natural curls, which I guessed he gets from his mom. He wore a dangling claw necklace that stood out between parted buttons.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Nolan said. “Dad won’t stop talking about how industrious you are. He’s always been proud of you.”

“He never told me,” I replied. “I didn’t think he was ever proud of me.”

“I considered being a doctor because of you,” Nolan said, and I chuckled. “I realized I can’t deal with blood.”

“That’s one good reason to avoid medicine,” I said and laughed.

Nolan motioned me to sit on the chair by his workspace. “You are a good artist,” I complimented him. “Do you make lots of money from it?”

“I sold my first piece for one thousand dollar at an online art auction when I was eighteen years old,” Nolan says with a subtle tone of pride.

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