Chapter Forty-Three

Michaela

 

Making out with Lincoln wasn’t the worst delay for breakfast, even if I was starving.

Distantly, the sound of the lock turning in the door registered to my mind. Abby.

“So this is what you do in my brother’s house.” Not Abby!

“Mother!” I broke from the hot drummer, putting him behind me. “How did you get in?”

She dangled a key from her right index finger. “Please. Harry predictably never changed the locks.” Her gaze traveled down and up Lincoln, who had moved to my side. “I see your tastes have upgraded with maturity.”

I blocked her view of him again. “What do you want, Mother? There’s nothing more to say after yesterday.”

Her eyes briefly took in our surroundings. “Mr. Howell might’ve filled your head with pretty assurances, but my parents’ estate is my birthright as much as it was Harry’s. I—”

“The will is clear. You already got your piece of flesh when Grandma died, or did you forget I witnessed the hell you and that flock of petty vultures we call cousins put Harry through?”

She scoffed. “You were a child.”

“Fourteen is old enough and you bitched about all the legal blocks in your way at every meal, on the phone, in the car…let your brother rest in peace.”

Her eyes narrowed, accentuating the ugliness in her soul no cosmetic procedure could hide. “Harry was no saint,” she spat.

“Maybe not.” I stepped forward and she stiffened. She only reached my height with heels. “But he still made his wishes abundantly, legally clear. Go home, Mother.”

Yet she didn’t back up. “I’ll be happy to, if you instruct Mr. Howell to give me what I want, Michaela Acero.”

Something twisted in my gut upon hearing her use Jonny’s name. “Don’t,” I barked.

“Did you think I wouldn’t look up my only daughter after your little tantrum post-graduation?” She fed on getting a rise out of me in my teens.

But I didn’t lose my cool now.

“You won’t find any loopholes in Howell’s paperwork. Let it go.”

“Aw, did your boy toy not know you were married? Ooops.”

Lincoln moved between us, forcing her back to the threshold. “Ms. Whoever-you-are, you’re being rude and Michaela already asked you to leave. I suggest you do so before the request becomes less polite.”

I touched his arm. “I’ve got this.” To her, I said, “My legal name is Simon in California and on my Social Security card, so your feeble attempt at…whatever that was is moot. Now, if you don’t leave the premises, I’ll call Thomas over to persuade you. Goodbye, Mother.”

She huffed. Tugged on the hem of her jacket. “You had your chance to be reasonable. Remember that. This isn’t over.” Then she strode back to the Uber car that brought her here.

Abby’s car turned on the driveway to park by the garage. I checked my watch. 9:00.

Right on time.

Lincoln rubbed my back. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I turned to him. “You need a shirt.”

“Around Mom?” He eye-rolled.

I shut the front door. “If you don’t mind her seeing the bulge in your pants.” While he hadn’t sprung a boner from our making out, yet, there was more to notice than…yeah.

Gray sweats didn’t hide much.

His hand moved under his waistband to adjust the goods. “Better?” He grinned. “Mom won’t care if I eat breakfast without a shirt.” Then his hands slid around my waist again. “Or do you need me to cover up?”

Before I had to answer that question, the door opened. “Who was visiting?” Abby asked.

“No one important,” I replied. Then turned out of her son’s grasp. “Is that bread I smell?”

She carried a reusable grocery bag, which she held up and shook. “Fresh baked this morning. Lincoln Adams, are you still in your pajamas?” Shaking her head, she continued into the kitchen.

I laughed.

He poked the ticklish spot on my ribs. “I only sleep like this when I visit Mom and Dad,” he grumbled.

“What do you wear at home?”

His eyes twinkled when he replied, “Whattya think?”

“Oh geeze.”

We started for the kitchen door.

“Really, it’s my shorts most of the time, unless it’s really hot or pretty cold.” He leaned toward my ear. “Or I’ve fallen asleep with a beautiful woman.” His nose brushed my hair. “You’re wearing the earrings,” he murmured. “When you said they were from your uncle, I could’ve never imagined then you meant Harry.”

The gold cross studs he leveraged me with for a date.

That felt so long ago even though it was a week.

He pushed the kitchen door open for me.

Abby already had eggs in a pan. “Michaela, how did you sleep?”

“Alright, considering.” Toast popped out of the four-slot appliance and I snagged a piece. “Lincoln planned to start breakfast before we got delayed.”

Her moss-green eyes flicked to him. “Not without a shirt. You’re begging for a grease burn.”

I spread butter on the toast. A Lactaid pill was in the pocket of my leggings.

“Mom, I cook like this all the time.” He snagged the piece.

“Hey!”

“There’s more in the toaster.”

“If you steal food out of women’s mouths, no wonder there’s been no girlfriend to introduce to us in years,” Abby quipped, stirring the eggs so they didn’t stick.

“Ooo, burn.”

“Quiet, brat,” he retorted, poking my ribs. “Mom, I was working. In California.”

I grinned around a bite from another piece of buttered toast.

“Michaela’s dressed. Why aren’t you?”

He opened the fridge. “One, she’s wearing slippers, and two, because the only plan for today so far was breakfast. Oh, and three, it’s Saturday.”

“Now who’s hangry,” I teased, leaning on the dark soapstone.

“What do you want to eat?” he asked me.

Abby scraped the scrambled eggs into a stoneware bowl. “Good question.”

“Then why did you make eggs?”

“Because someone will always eat scrambled eggs.”

“I’m not fancy,” I said. “My typical breakfast is either oatmeal or cereal and a piece of fruit, so don’t bicker over me.” Was two cooks in a kitchen too many? “Mr. Howell told me last night that the trust should proceed pretty quickly as long as everyone’s keeping what Harry dolled out.”

Lincoln slid a glass of orange juice my way. “That’s what he was here for?”

“To explain the process of what’s next, and to give me an envelope from Harry.”

“What was in it?”

The coffeemaker burbled as it started to dispense the brew. Abby divided the eggs onto two plates after tossing the scrambled pieces with salt and pepper.

“Combination for the safe,” I replied, and grabbed a fork. Last night, I set the envelope aside before letting him undress me, and tucked it in the nightstand drawer this morning.

His eyes met mine. “Guess it’s real now, Miss Heiress.” He tucked into the food.

“Real and still strange. Abby, I mentioned the B&B idea to Howell, so he’s going to research whether it’s feasible.”

With egg bits scraped off the pan into the sink, she set it in the dishwasher. “Ah, good. He’ll be thorough. Have you heard from Harry’s accountant?”

I shook my head. “Everything has been through the lawyer.”

She nodded. “That may be the proper way of it, or he’ll get in touch once money starts changing hands. You’ll need a good tax man now, Michaela.”

My nose wrinkled up. “Yeah…not looking forward to that part.”

“Do you do your own now? I do.”

“Through an online program, yeah. I’m good about keeping my receipts from gigs, but that income doesn’t overtake my day job, so filling in the side hustle stuff isn’t that complicated.”

Abby had one hand on a hip. “You told your father you have a tax guy,” she said to Lincoln.

“Yeah. Me.” He folded his arms over his defined chest.

“You could get audited.”

“Only if I took risks, which I don’t. I got advice when I became a full-time musician and I’ve followed it since.”

“Would you tell me if there was trouble?”

“Mom, if I learned one thing in college, it was meticulous record-keeping. Stop worrying.”

She tsked. “One day you’ll have a child and you’ll understand.” Then she left the room.

Mmm, good eggs. “That went well.”

He pointed his index finger at me, a silent command to zip it, but I just eye-rolled.

“You’re lucky your parents genuinely love you.”

“I’d rather they respect me.” He opened the fridge again and stared at its contents.

“They let you carve your own path. I say they do.”

“Except I’m thirty and still get questioned like I’m eighteen.”

“How often do you keep them updated?”

He sighed. “Maybe I could keep in touch more, but why would I want to when there’s a third degree every time?” Closed the refrigerator and turned to me.

“I don’t know your dad, but Abby’s reasonable. Tell her the type of conversations you want.” I dropped my dirty stuff in the dishwasher.

He snagged the hem of my sweater and pulled me close. “Where did all this interpersonal wisdom come from?”

“I’m not a hermit. And I can’t tell you how many hours I spent in therapy.”

The first crack of a smile since we entered the kitchen.

“Thank you. Maybe after I’ve had coffee.”

“Mm, this is an early hour for you.”

He bent his neck to Eskimo kiss me. “To be out of bed, yes.”

My spine tingled at the reminder of all the pleasure he’d given me the past week. “Tamp that smolder while your mom’s here, big boy.”

His grin widened. “It’s a big house…” But instead of kissing me like I expected, he tickled my ribs, making me yelp and retreat.

He laughed.

“Your middle name should’ve been mischief.”

“Sweetheart, you have no idea.” He seemed incapable of a bad mood for long. “Before your mother interrupted…” A sad shake of his head.

“We just got out of the shower,” I said with a hush. “Your hair is still damp!”

He shrugged unrepentantly. “I want you.”

Simple as that.

And my body hadn’t failed to respond so far.

Lust like this wasn’t something I was used to. Setting aside the years of deliberate celibacy, Jonny and I were in the flush of young, dreamy love. Getting together forever was more important than getting naked.

Our honeymoon weekend was incredibly romantic, but we hadn’t run hot.

Not like Lincoln and I did.

“Pour your coffee before it burns,” I said, then cereal for myself. Mini-Wheats.

I first discovered the frosted squares in this house many years ago.

Moira had a couple burning-chemistry boyfriends in the past and those relationships didn’t last long. All the fuel was consumed and left them with not much else.

Would that be us?

Hot Boyfriend 1 was more of a fling that started at a college concert. She blamed it on free alcohol and the recreational weed in the air. As soon as she finally saw his apartment, the attraction was dead. Hot Boyfriend 2 had more in common with her and lasted three weeks—until she discovered he hated Star Wars and voted for Larry Flint in the election to replace recalled Gray Davis. Doomed from the start.

I sat in the breakfast nook to chew and think while Lincoln prepared his mug of caffeine and figured out what to eat. If I saw him in L.A., we’d have to figure out the deal-breakers, because friends-with-benefits wouldn’t be our thing.

Casual had left the building long ago.

Commonalities? Music. Sex. Marvel movies. Maybe food. Neither of us had eaten something to gross out the other, yet. We both loved Abby and had fond memories of this house. He liked my uncle in the time he knew him. We lived in the same county. Close in age.

Was that enough after a week?

While I didn’t know all his favorite things or the quirks that might endear or annoy the hell out of me, I’d seen his character—and I liked him.

So maybe it was enough for a start.

He sat across from me with a plate piled with pieces of country ham and the fresh bread, breaking my train of thought. “You’ve been quiet over here.”

“Feeding my stomach before it eats me.” Another bite of cereal as example.

“You kept your cool with your mother pretty well.”

Part of my mood deflated with the topic. “Thank you.”

“Can I ask…why didn’t you change your name?”