Some things never change, huh?"

I slide the metal prongs of the fork out of my mouth as the sweet, syrupy taste of cooked apples invades my tongue. Fuck, that's good. I take half a second to swallow and only then do I lift my eyes to my mother's smirking face. "What things never change?"

A hearty laugh pours out of her chest. "I say 'pie' and you come running."

I scoff, pretending to be appalled by her self-satisfied tone. "So, this was a bribe?" I wiggle the container in my hand and the decadent goodness bounces from plastic wall to plastic wall.

Her eyes dance. "I wouldn't call it a bribe. ‘Bribe’ is such an ugly word. ‘Incentive’, maybe." A network of lines shows up on her face when she laughs.

My pace stalls completely and I clasp my hand on her shoulder to stop her. I know my mother and I know that she's only half-joking. She hates asking for help. It's like she thinks that her rare requests are a burden on Madden and me. They're not. We’ve got her back. I just wish she'd believe us. But the fact that I’ve been so doggedly focused on work lately only adds to her hesitation to reach out for help. Well, since I screwed up the meeting in the hospital’s auditorium, I’ve been rethinking my priorities. Especially since a certain stubborn, doe-eyed brunette is back in town. Maybe I need to lay low at work for a while.

I turn her to face me. "Incentive? Mom, when something is wrong, you call me. Or Madden. We don't need incentives or bribes or—"

"I know, I know,” she says snappily, her gaze falling instantly to the floor.

She called me this morning on my day off and asked me to swing by to help her get Clyde to the hospital. I didn’t hesitate. For family, you never hesitate.

She shrugs out of my grasp. All levity has disappeared and now, all I see in her blue irises is distress. “It's just that, you and your brother are busy with work. And Clyde isn't your father. And—"

"It doesn't matter that Clyde isn't our father. He's family and if something is wrong with him, I want to know. And Madden feels the same.” I pull in a deep breath and the pungent Iodoform hospital-smell is so thick in the air I can taste it. “You don't need to be going through this shit alone."

I bite down on my tongue, silently wishing I hadn’t let the swear word slip. My mother is as sweet and wholesome as the apple pie she’s so famous for baking. The last thing I want to do is offend her sensibilities.

Her gaze lingers on the ground and I know that after all these years, she still feels guilty. Clyde and my father had the type of friendship they make movies about. Golf partners. Drinking buddies. Die-hard Packers fans in a town full of Chicago Bears enthusiasts. They were both lieutenants on the fire department, friendly competitors in the running to be the next captain. Mom would poke fun at them all the time—my father was Peanut Butter and Clyde was Jelly.

So when dad got taken out by a heart attack that no one saw coming, it was natural for Clyde to step in, I guess. He helped with the funeral and with all the paperwork mom had to sort through. He was around to handle house repairs and garden work. And soon, he and mom became something more. Too soon.

Of course, Madden and I tried to resist it at first. We were just teenagers, sad that our dad was gone and defensive at the thought that some other man was trying to take his place. We both rebelled against it in our own way. Made stupid decisions that could have forever fucked things up. But Clyde came to our rescue more than once and with time, we all adjusted. Hats off to the guy for taking on a woman with an intimidating pile of debt and a pair of know-it-all 17-year-olds intent on giving him a hard time. He earned his place in this family and today, I'd never challenge that. 

My mother heaves a hard breath as we continue our stroll down the hallway. "I don't know what I ever did to get so lucky. All my life, I've been surrounded by strong, protective men. The men I grew up with, your father, Clyde, now you and Madden..." We pass by a group of idle nurses as we swing a left toward the old, rickety elevator.

"You deserve it. You're a queen, Polly Riggs-Tolbert." I throw her a wink as I stab my fork into the pie again. "Now, tell me—how long has Clyde been having these stomach pains?"

At the question, she presses both palms flat to the center of her chest. That quiet panic flickers in her eyes again when she looks at me. "On and off for the past few weeks. At first, we thought it was indigestion. I've been cooking a lot of Mexican lately. And those jalapenos just strip the poor guy raw. We didn't want to take it seriously." Her voice dips low. "But Benjie, it's serious. I can just feel it."

I deliberately avoid her eyes as I balance the pie and fork in one hand to press the call button on the elevator. "Don't go jumping to the worst. It could just be indigestion. Or stomach ulcers. Or—"

"Or cancer," she says shakily as she steps onto the lift. 

Cool, calm, collected. Like the word doesn't rattle me. That's the vibe I try to give off as I follow after her. "Jeez, lady, would you have a little faith? For someone who sits in the front pew every Sunday morning, I'd expect a bit more optimism from you."

The elevator commences its wobbly descent and my mother's hands clasp tightly around the leather strap of her purse. "I just don't want to be taken by surprise this time. I already lost a husband with no warning. I'm so scared that that will happen again." We step out onto the hospital's ground floor and she grabs my arm. The urgency in her grip forces me to stop moving again. "If he dies...if Clyde dies...this time, I'll really be all alone."

Her fear stabs me straight in the chest. I lower my face so that we're eye to eye because I need her to hear this. "Mom—as long as Madden and I are around, you will never be alone. Never. You hear me?" Tears dance under the lenses of her glasses as she smiles. "And as for Clyde, he's tough. And he loves you way too much. He's not going anywhere. Not without a hell of a fight...So shut up with all that scary cancer talk. You're ruining my pie."

That gets her to laugh and the noose on my heart finally loosens. “So lucky to have you.” She pinches my cheek as I pivot forward and we continue our stroll down another quiet hallway.

Just as I'm shovelling into the pie for another bite, my eyes catch on one hell of an ass bent over in front of the vending machine outside of the cafeteria.

A shot of adrenaline zips through my veins and I lose my grip on the fork. The rush of blood from my brain to my groin is instant, not a sensation I'm thrilled to be experiencing while I'm standing next to my mother, mind you. 

The clang-clang-clang of the metal prongs hitting the PVC floor tiles causes Angie to jolt. With lethargic movements, she massages her temple and straightens into a standing position, a candy bar clenched in her fist. Her pretty, wincing face pivots in our direction.

I laugh internally. She’s hungover from last night. It’s cute as hell.

Her brows furrow as she squints at me through her glasses. I’m not surprised that she throws me a quick and nasty scowl. But her jaw drops into a wide ‘O’ when her sights land on my mother. “Mrs. Riggs?”

Mom’s hand grasps at my forearm and her nails dig into my skin. She blinks a dozen times in rapid succession as if she’s staring right at a ghost. "Angela? Is that you?"

Suddenly wide awake, Angie shoves the candy bar into her pocket as she comes charging down the hallway at high speed. "Oh my god!" she shrieks as she and my mother collide in a hug. “It’s so good to see you!”

"Benjie didn't tell me you were back in town!" Mom exclaims as she cups Angie's cheeks in her hands. Her attention flits to me for a fraction of a second. "Ben, did you know she was back in town?" The woman doesn’t even wait for an answer. She's already resumed her gushing over Angie.

The two of them were obsessed with each other back in the day. No doubt, in part because Angie had such a difficult relationship with her own mother. I can't count how many Saturday afternoons they spent together baking cookies or poking at the tomatoes that used to grow in our backyard. Mom was so devastated when I broke up with Angie. It didn’t help that she was still mourning my father at that point. She got closer to disowning me than she ever has.

Anyway, right now, the two women are picking up right where they left off, like they haven't skipped a beat. I can’t take my eyes off of Angie. She’s sexily disheveled and completely unassuming with her unkempt bangs and the pillow wrinkles on her cheek. I could stare at her forever.

But when she glimpses at me with her adorable what-are-you-looking-at? expression, I realize that my doting gaze may be a little bit creepy. Just a little.

With an impish grin, I slip my empty container into my mother’s purse and start backing away into the cafeteria. “I'll just be over here picking up some lunch for Clyde...y'know, in case you're looking for me."

Angie glares at me again. Nope—she definitely won’t be looking for me.

Chuckling under my breath, I pick up a clean tray and move along the counter, checking out the meals displayed behind the glass. I’m guessing that last night is still fresh in Angie’s mind. That’s what all the frowning is about. She’s pissed. When we were together at the bar, I made her feel something even though she was determined not to. I made her remember what things were like between us even though she was fighting to shut those memories out.

I wish she’d just sit down with me, talk with me. Then maybe I could make her see that I still love her. But she thinks I’m a cold bastard. She probably thinks I went home with another woman last night after she walked out of the club. That couldn’t be farther from the truth.

When Angie left the Opal Lounge, so did I. She refused to let me take her home but there was no way I'd let her stubbornness get her hurt. So, I kept a safe distance and watched her stumble down the sidewalk to the street corner. I watched her lean against the light pole at the intersection on a red light. Then she limped across the street into the hotel lobby. Like a freak, I peeked in through the front door to make sure that she got onto the elevator safely to make her way up stairs.

Y'see, Angie may hate me because she doesn't know the truth and I may never get the chance (or the nerve) to tell it to her but now that she's back in my sights, I'll do what I have to do to make sure she's all right. No amount of her tough-girl posturing will make me forget about her.

She’s not the type of girl you can just forget.

She’s the most complex, interesting, quick-witted person I know. She could be extoling the miraculous properties of coconut oil one minute and then effortlessly segue into decrying the covert dictatorial regimes of Southeast Asia and then transition to a discussion of the hottest trends in Brazilian women’s fashion, all without skipping a beat. Plus, she’s beautiful. Doe eyes. Soft skin. Lush curves. Every part of her is pure temptation. She’s also kind, thoughtful, generous and she can never turn down someone in need of help. She’s the whole package. It’s rare to find all those traits in one person.

Seeing her standing there with my mom all these years later—it’s doing strange things to my heart. It's a throwback to when all was right in the world. Before dad died. Before that avalanche of debt came crashing down on my mother's shoulders. When Angie was my girl, it seemed like nothing in this world could split us up.

I bask in the memory as I pay for the food and pick up a plastic tray stacked with sandwiches, juice boxes and fruit for my stepfather. As I’m walking back over to where the women are standing, one corner of my mouth is curled up into a smile. Angie’s expression has softened just a bit. When she stares at me, she hardly looks like she wants to rip out my windpipe with her bare hands. Things are definitely looking up.

My mother's gaze darts between the two of us and she claps her hands together, hardly able to manage her excitement. I see that dangerous glint in her eyes. She's picking out names for the grandbabies right this minute. 

"Angie—you're coming over for dinner this weekend," mom announces decidedly, leaving no room for argument.

Those pretty dark eyes flit across to me from behind her glasses and she looks downright nervous. "Oh, I'll probably be working this weekend..." He gaze quickly snaps away from mine.

"Okay, so you'll come over one night during the week. Or we can do brunch at the house."

“I don’t think that would work. I’ve been so busy with this new job.” She’s lying. I know this for two reasons. Firstly, her eyebrows twitched. Whenever Angela Gallo lies, her eyebrows twitch. It’s a truth, universally acknowledged. Secondly, just one glance around this place clearly demonstrates that there isn’t much going on in this hospital. Angie lied. She doesn’t want to get cornered into dinner at my childhood home and that’s understandable. Just tell that to my mother.

Mom’s lips turn down with disappointment. “Well, they’ve got to give you a break sometime. They can’t work you around the clock.” Did I mention how persistent my mother is when she sets her mind to something? 'No' is not an option for her. 

Angie's shoulders sag as she gives in. "I'll check my schedule and let you know." My mom claps with glee and throws her arms around the pretty girl's shoulders, gushing about how excited she is. Despite the uncertainty in Angie’s features, there’s a little subtle smile on her face, too. "Okay, I've really got to get back to work."

"Yes, don't let us keep you, darling," Mom says, giving her hand a squeeze.

Angie gives a slight wave as she turns down the hall. "Bye." She's careful to avoid my eyes as she says it.

Damn, that girl is a brick wall when she wants to be.

Her hand dips into her pocket to pull out her candy bar. I cringe on the inside.

"Angie—wait," I call after her. Her steps falter and she throws me a hesitant look over her shoulder.

I know she wants to make a snarky remark, but she cuts a quick glance to my mother and bites her tongue. "Yes?" she says, straining to be sweet.

I jog over to where she's standing and hand her a shiny red apple from my tray. Yes, I’m totally stealing a move from the Clueless Third-Grader with a Crush Handbook. It's sad but my resources are limited right this minute.

She draws in an exasperated breath, like she’s tempted to turn down my offer. I resist the urge to lift my fingers to her crooked collar of her scrub shirt and straighten the neckline. "Take it," I urge her quietly. "It's good for the hangover. Better than that chocolate bar."

“Is it poisoned?” she shots back, a ghost of a smile tugging at the edges of her lips.

Tilting my head to the side, I watch her with an arched brow. "As if I'd ever hurt you."

She scoffs bitterly. "As if you haven’t already."

Her words have the impact of a brick to the chest. She's right. She has no reason to trust me. I've already shown her how dangerous that could turn out to be.

But her eyes move over my shoulder and they soften immediately. I'd almost forgotten we had an audience. My mother. 

She snatches the fruit from my hand and mutters a reluctant, “Thank you,” before spinning on her toe and stealing open the door to the stairwell. Right as the door is swinging closed, my gaze skitters down her smokin’ hot body. I don’t mind the view. Not at all.

Her ass in those duck-pattern scrubs is gonna be a problem. I adjust my erection in my pants.

And because my mother has the most impeccable timing in human history, she sidles right up to me with a thoughtful look on her face. "Y'know, she'd probably look gorgeous in off-white lace, but every time I picture her walking down the aisle, I see her in ivory satin..."

I angle my head and pin the over-presumptuous woman with a glare.

She giggles innocently. "Just sayin'."

"Come on—let's go feed your husband," I tell her as I slide an arm around her shoulder and guide her to the elevator.

The thought of Gigi walking down the aisle toward me flickers across my mind and I grin. I may not be an expert on bridal fashion but I'd marry that girl even if she were wearing a potato sack.