Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
I always have to when she worries like nobody’s business. And she’s doing it now, sizing me up, checking me over with the world’s sternest mom expression for more battle damage.
“Lincoln...the way you take care of that poor man really is admirable, but he’s not your responsibility. He should’ve seen a professional a long time ago. You deserve more of a life than just working and taking care of that lost soul—”
“That lost soul is the whole reason I’m still alive,” I remind her. “I’d be dead without him like I’ve told you a thousand times. So, yeah, he’s my responsibility. He can still find his way back, dammit, and somebody needs to try. Just because we’re not blood doesn’t mean Wyatt isn’t my brother.”
She presses her lips together, knowing she’ll never convince me otherwise.
“Have you had dinner yet? I made your favorite tonight.”
“Ma, I’m a grown man,” I say with a frustrated sigh. “I don’t need you to feed me.”
“My bad for thinking hangry is still your first language.” She smiles. “It’s pot roast and garlic mash, by the way.”
Damn her.
My stomach betrays me, growling like a Bengal tiger.
“...fine.”
Whatever. She can still see right through me and must have a psychic read on my blood sugar. Without further protest, I lead the way to the dining room.
She laughs behind me.
“You go ahead and sit, Lincoln. I’ll grab everything from the kitchen.”
A few minutes later, there’s a heaping plate of meat, mashed potatoes, and buttery vegetables in front of me and another plate a third that size across the table in front of my mother.
I barely let her dig in first to save face, listening as she cuts her meat.
“So, besides the stubborn doll who stole your cinnamon roll, have you met anyone lately?” she asks.
Kill me.
The only thing I hate talking about more than Wyatt’s latest brush with the abyss is my nonexistent dating life.
“Not doll. Donkey. Big difference,” I say, stuffing food into my mouth.
“I could tell she was pretty, though, from the way you said it.”
“She looked fine. Just a normal girl,” I lie, watching as she waits impatiently for more. “Personality wise, I’d rank her somewhere between roadkill and an ER trip for killer bees.”
She laughs so hard she almost spits water. At least someone appreciates my humor.
“You should’ve asked her out! It would’ve been interesting, Lincoln. You’re not getting any younger.”
“Neither are you,” I toss back.
“I have a family. You’re single.”
“You are, too. Technically.”
“I’m widowed, son.”
“Yeah, sorry. Poor choice of words. That’s not the point, though.” I scratch the plate as I hastily carve another piece of meat. “You’d still be eating dinner alone tonight if your son hadn’t shown up.”
She beams at me like the sun.
“Oh, I’ve already had the love of my life and a smartass son. I just want the same for you, and anytime I don’t want to be alone, all I have to do is put a pot roast on.”
I take a big bite, enjoying how it practically melts in my mouth.
She may annoy me, but she’s not wrong. If she doesn’t pack up leftovers on my way out, I’ll come back tomorrow.
“All I’m saying is, a little dating never hurt anyone,” she tells me. “It’s been so long since—”
“Don’t. Don’t say her name,” I snap, pointing my fork like a weapon for emphasis.
The only thing that might ruin this meat is thinking about Regina and her shit.
“But Lincoln, it’s—”
“Hardly just that. Ma, you know if I take any girl out, it could easily become a public matter. There are reporters out there who stake their entire careers on capturing a ten-second TikTok clip of anyone like me fraternizing. It would be uncomfortable and messy for us both. No thanks. Running Haughty But Nice is all the trouble I need. It keeps me busy, and that’s how I like it.”
“I know. I built it, remember?” She hits me with her knowing mom look.
“I know you did. Only, media moved slower in your time and fashion trends could stick around for years.”
“Oh, media,” she mutters. “You know, there must be a thousand ways to take a girl out without anybody knowing. You’re rich enough to have some Hollywood makeup artist fix you up with a disguise!”
I try not to snort mashed potatoes.
“Great idea, Ma. Just what I need, luring some poor girl in so I can peel my face off in front of her when it’s time to kiss like a B-movie monster.” I pause. My mother glares, clearly unimpressed with my razor-sharp wit. “You know how the Seattle press stalked me last time I was dumb enough to date. What’s the point in making it worse by throwing someone else in the drama? I spend enough time trying to dodge them now. I can’t even get a beer without winding up on ten Instagram posts laced with dumbass rumors the next day. Don’t people have anything better to do than sling shit at strangers online?”