“Rich O’Connor has lost his damn mind.”

I was glad that I was on coffee #2, otherwise, Simone’s declaration would have made me go to the minibar and dribble a little Kahlua in the paper cup.

It was a brand new week at Whitmore and Creighton. The paparazzi had all but forgotten about me and Corbin and were off to drum up other, juicer drama since I refused to even address the rumors. All was quiet on the Western front, with nary a peep from any of my clients—which unfortunately meant that something was bound to happen.

I reclined in my chair, trying to not give in to that smug part of me that knew that this turnaround was too good to be true. No one spends years behaving badly and quits their douchey ways overnight, even if it would give me less headaches. “What’s going on?”

Simone flipped her blonde hair, juggling her laptop, cell, and a coffee cup of her own. “I was working on a brief, and I was ready to put it all aside so I could reach out to him and you could get some idea of where his head’s at and-ugh!” Her face matched her nails: red and fierce. Even though she was officially the bearer of bad news, I’d be lying if I said a tiny part of me didn’t feel a sense of pride. Someday, she’d make one hell of a publicist.

I gestured at the chair in front of my desk. “Have a seat.”

She glanced at the chair, then slumped into it, like she wished she could go back to bed and crawl under the covers.

Maybe I should grab that Kahlua after all.

I wasn’t sure what answer I was gonna get to my ‘what’s going on?’ question—a letter of recommendation for the new job she planned to get, for instance—but I asked any way. “Can I get you anything?”

She plopped her laptop and phone on the seat beside her and took a sip of her coffee, mulling it over. “Your permission would be awesome.” Her eyes turned into razor blades. “Your permission to beat him within an inch of his life.”

Jesus.

I knew that whatever came next wasn’t gonna make me a happy camper, but I decided to just cut to the chase. If I was being honest, these moments, when the chips were down and clients were doing or saying things that raised my blood pressure; these moments were why I did this in the first place. I was a fixer. I came alive under pressure.

“The beginning...” Simone took a deep breath. “Okay. So, my best friend is in town from Seattle. She was always the partier of our group, and even though our staying out until 3am nights are behind us, she couldn’t come to the city and not go to Roulette.” Simone exhaled. “So we went to Roulette.”

I arched my brow expectantly, already wishing that I’d been more specific. “This is a great story so far, but Rich-”

“I’m getting there,” she assured me, taking another swig before she perched the cup on the edge of my desk, like she was cutting herself off. Her petite frame shuddered like she was in one of those massage chairs, so turning off the caffeine supply was probably a good thing. “We head to Roulette and we’re having a good time, the DJ is spinning all our favorite tracks, then some famous person shows up and all the fame hungry people are breaking their necks, trying to see who it is. Hoping to get that magic nod or finger point so they’re let into the VIP section. Unfortunately, my friend is one of those fame hungry people, and she’s yanking me towards the crush of bodies with their phones out. And what do you know! Our very own Rich O’Connor is in the center of the flashing lights. And my friend isn’t the kind of girl you don’t notice. So I’m pulling at her, trying to explain that he’s one of our clients, but Rich looks right at us, grins like an idiot, and tells security to let us through.”

I frowned, sure that he’d be on his best behavior with my assistant in his immediate vicinity, but then she swiped her coffee and gulped the rest of it down.

“He didn’t recognize you, did he?”

“Nope!” Simone chirped, shaking her head. “I didn’t take it personally, because he was so wasted that I doubt he'd recognize his own mother. And when I tried to re-introduce myself, he made it clear that the only thing he wanted me to do with my mouth was put it on his...or other parts of his body.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose so hard I was surprised I didn’t draw blood. I literally saw red. “Simone, I am so sorry.”

“Oh,” she chuckled, but there wasn’t a drop of humor in it, “Don’t be sorry yet, I haven’t gotten to the good part. My friend wasn’t quite as wasted as Rich and I made the mistake of telling her that he was one of our clients, and she climbed on top of the nearest piece of furniture and announced that Rich was working with me because he’s an asshole.” Simone picked her cup back up, but she’d already drained it. “Naturally, the dig sobered him right up. Unfortunately, he was still drunk enough that he felt that false sense of invincibility. That desire to overcompensate.” She reached for the tablet, powering it on with swift, decisive jerks of her finger. “I want to get this right. And I quote, ‘Would an asshole invite the chick that he ashamed to meet up in person so I can apologize to her face to face?’”

Dear God. “He didn’t.”

Simone squeezed her eyes shut. “The club ate it up, of course. I got out of there as quickly as possible and prayed that he’d forget or that no one else recorded or tweeted what he said.”

I grunted at her naïveté, but the defeated look on her face, combined with her handing over her tablet, told me that she knew that was wishful thinking.

I scrolled past the red headlines and tapped the play button, watching the slurred declaration with my own two eyes.

I couldn’t even finish it.

I tapped the X to close the tab altogether. “First off, I want you to know that he’s going to apologize to you. Personally.”

“That’s not necessary.” And the disbelief that flickered in her brown eyes told me she wasn’t gonna hold her breath, twiddling her thumbs until the impossible happened.

I didn’t say another word. I turned to my phone, leafing through my contacts list, finding his number.

“Leila, you don’t have to-”

“Yes, I do. When I’m not with you, you’re my representative. Disrespecting you is disrespecting me. And even if you didn’t work for me and you were just minding your business while some famous butthole molested you, I’d still be calling him up, demanding he apologize.” I looked her dead on. “It is not okay.”

She blinked at me, her eyes glassy with emotion. “Thanks, Leila.”

I punched the speakerphone button, waiting to hear Rich’s deep, likely hungover voice. Every moment the call wasn’t connected and we were put out of our misery dialed up the drama in the room. By the time he finally answered, the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

“Who the hell is this?”

I clenched my teeth. Said a quick prayer for strength. “This is Leila Whitmore, here with my assistant, Simone Ritter.”

Silence. “Who?”

I exchanged a wary look with Simone, who was gripping the arms of the chair so tight that her knuckles were bleached white.

“Don’t dig yourself any deeper, Rich. I heard you had quite the night. Before we get to cleaning up your mess, you owe Simone an apology.”

The speakerphone crackled, like he’d found a candy wrapper and was gonna try the age old “bad reception” trick. “Simone?” He sniffed. “Simone...” He trailed off like he was mulling it over.

I hated to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he’d made it clear that he would need a minute. He probably rarely made note of names at all.

I’d make sure that he never forgot Simone’s.

“Last night, you made inappropriate advances towards her.” Simone’s eyes rounded, like I was calling her up on stage.  I flashed her a supportive nod. “She’s here now and ready for your apology.”

Rich let out a yawn that made my patience tank plummet to E. “Last night. I was out at Roulette, right? I’m asking because clearly you two remember the night better than I do.” Just as I was about to remind him that now wasn’t the time for jokes, he snapped his fingers. Remembering her. Or done pretending that he didn’t. It ultimately didn’t matter, because he didn’t sound remorseful. “That frigid little blonde is your assistant?”

“That frigid little blonde has a name,” she lashed out, lunging towards my phone. “I thought I had the night off, but I spent the night babysitting you and keeping your hands off of me. It was quite the feat.”

“Yikes,” Rich whistled. The background noise was like nails on a chalkboard as he adjusted or tossed the phone to the side or whatever he found more pressing than apologizing. “If you’re offended, I am officially extending my most sincere apologies.”

If you’re offended? And that was just the tip of the iceberg. There wasn’t a drop of sincerity in that half assed apology.

“Rich...” I growled, five seconds from reaching through the phone and choking him.

“It’s okay, Mrs. Whitmore. He’s not the first spineless man I’ve met, and I doubt he’ll be the last.” She rose slowly, her face dropping to below zero. “Do you need anything else?”

My heart ached for her—and my blood boiled. I wanted to make him say the words, say it until he meant it. Say it until I could take that flash of defeat that rippled in Simone’s eyes and snuff it out forever.

But I could see something else in Simone’s eyes now. A strength that told me that this was what she needed. It was the ultimate comeuppance for a man like Rich. To be taken down to size—and to walk away because he wasn’t worth the time and effort.

“Thank you Simone.”

She booked it out of the office so fast that I was surprised her stilettos didn’t leave scorch marks.

“A ‘spineless man’.” Rich let out a guffaw like he’d just heard something funny. “You should keep her around. I like her.”

“I am keeping her around,” I laid into him. “It’s you that I’m contemplating throwing out of the airlock.”

“I go out, have some fun-”

“That’s your first mistake!” I interrupted, taking him off speaker because I couldn’t stand to hear his voice echoing around the room. “You don’t go out. You can’t mend your drunk, obnoxious image by going out and being drunk and obnoxious.”

“Clearly you missed the part where I told that waitress chick that I’d apologize to her, in person.”

I found my stress ball hiding in between my stacks of folders and it was just in time. I was dangerously close to losing my cool. “In addition to not going out and making a fool of yourself, you are not authorized to make any declarations, meetings or photo ops in the spirit of rehabilitating your image-”

“I essentially did your job and all I’m asking for is a ‘thank you’-”

“My job?” I snorted. “You think your Patrón infused request is doing my job? Let me tell you something. What you did Saturday night is prove that you need help—and you made Whitmore and Creighton look like fools because no one in their right mind would put you in a room with that woman. You haven’t learned your lesson. And I know that for a fact because everything you said then and everything you’re saying now is proof that this is still 100% about you.”

This time, he didn’t interrupt me. He didn’t try and charm me. And luckily for him, he didn’t throw out any further insults. At this stage, with him actively sabotaging our efforts to get him out of this mess, no publicist worth her salt would question me if I told him to find new representation. We stood on the precipice...and it wouldn’t take much to push us either way. I refused to let Rich O’Connor break me.

I can do this.

I can do this.

I can do this.

“Alright.” I found his folder in the stack, but I didn’t need to look at it. Based on what Simone and Rich shared, I knew what needed to be done. “How soon can you get to the office? I’ll have my people on standby to sober you up, wardrobe, makeup, the works. We need to make a video and you can apologize for your antics and your comments before the waitress reaches out and-”

“It’s too late for that.”

I tightened my grip on the stress ball, cradling the receiver between my ear and shoulder. “You know what it’s too late for? Interruptions. I know you’ve worked hard to get to where you’re at and I am trying desperately to believe that there’s more to you than what you dish out, that this is all some cry for help...and I’m here. I’m trying to help. Simone was trying to help. You need to let us do our job. And that includes finding-” I flipped open the folder and found the waitress’ name. “Marissa St. Clair before she takes you up on your offer.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Rich was probably still in bed, sleep in his eyes, complete with morning breath—with a shot of Jack in his hand. Something truly absurd to go with the fact that he was so deluded, yawning as he told me that we were utterly screwed. “She called last night. We’re gonna have a little chat tomorrow morning.”

*

“I KNOW THIS LITTLE lunch was my idea, but you could at least pretend you want to be here?”

I squared my jaw and forced a smile on my face. It should have been easy enough since I’d spent the entire day grinning and bearing it. Trying to explain to the man who was currently the bane of my existence why going rogue had consequences for us all. Feeling what little goodwill Rich had earned during his last interview dissipate as I read headlines, tweets, and comments from all the people who couldn’t wait for the waitress he’d blown up at to take him down. Nearly chipping my teeth as I grit them, trying and failing to talk Marissa out of this sit down. It was a runaway train, and I could hear in her voice that she couldn’t wait to put Rich in his place.

And the cherry on top of this train wreck day? An early dinner with my mother-in-law.

One look at Alicia’s face and I regretted not canceling. It had been over a month since she’d darkened our doorway. During our last visit, with things going awkwardly but tolerable, she unwisely tried to pick Hope up. I’d never seen my husband move so fast, scooping her up and announcing it was her nap time. I was familiar with the Whitmore death glare, but the look that had narrowed her dusk colored eyes was one devoid of hope. It made me feel sorry for her, despite the fact that her choices, and the poison that coursed through the waters of her relationship with Jacob (and me) was 100% her doing.

Sorry enough that you agreed to this little shindig. Serves you right.

Alicia gently tucked a blonde lock behind her ear. Her dyed stands looked freshly so, which didn’t surprise me. Alicia Whitmore was not a woman who stepped outside without looking like something fresh off the society pages. Her makeup accentuated her striking beauty, her piercing eyes nailing me to my chair. I took in the cheekbones that I saw every day, the Whitmore angles that cut aristocratic lines into Jacob and Hope’s faces. Rosy red lips that she pursed as she drummed her nails impatiently on the table.

“What time will they be arriving?”

I took a hearty gulp of wine. It was barely 5 pm, but if I was gonna make it through this, I’d need all the help I could get. “They?”

Her eyes became navy slits. “They. As in, the nanny and Hope? As much as I truly enjoy your company, I certainly didn’t make the trek to the city to catch up with you. I was under the impression that I’d got to see my granddaughter.”

I dropped my hands to my lap, wishing I still had that stress ball. Only Alicia Whitmore could insult and ask you for a favor in the same breath.

“Alicia, we appreciate all the gifts you’ve sent Hope. And the visits-” I paused, adjusting in my seat. “While they end with one or all of us storming out, they are good while they last.” I met her steely glare. “I want Hope to know both of her grandmothers.” I left out ‘even if one of those grandmothers is a sociopath’. “We just aren’t comfortable-” I stopped mid-sentence since the nerve beneath her eye was ticking. I didn’t know how to tell her that Jacob and I had an agreement—she could visit with Hope, but only in our home, and only if both parents were present.

Motherhood was turning me into a sap. I wanted to rip the bandaid off, remind her of all the awful things she’d done—to Jacob, to me, to people she claimed to love—but when it came down to it, I hesitated. She hadn’t done a thing to make amends, but the mom in me felt for her. I couldn’t imagine a world where my child would want nothing to do with me. To be a grandmother, but unable to watch my grandchild without supervision. “You need to give us some time.”

Her lips curled into a snarl. “I beg your pardon? Hope is a year old. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen her-”

“Seeing her at all, after everything, is a privilege...not a right.” I raised my chin. Any goodwill, any dwindling sympathy, evaporated.

“Our definitions of privilege differ. I don’t feel privileged to have to go through a committee to even see her. Then I have to cross my fingers, hoping the odds are in my favor if I want to pick her up. Hold her. Spend some time with her without her parents hovering like I’m a sex offender. I’m not a murderer-”

“That we know of.” I knew I wasn’t being helpful, but it just rolled off my tongue.

Alicia snatched her hand to her chest, anger flaring in her cheeks. In her eyes. “Well, you tricked me into this little lunch, but I’m not going to sit here and be insulted.”

She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, despite the fact that we hadn’t ordered yet. I had half a mind to let her have her little temper tantrum, enjoy my glass of wine, then go home and cuddle with my little girl, but I pulled out my phone instead. My photo and video library was filled with more adorable shots of Hope than I could count, so I just went with a video I shot this morning before work.

The minute she heard Hope’s signature squeal, Alicia stopped gathering her things. She went utterly still, like an electric jolt was coursing through her. Love flashed across her face like a thunderclap.

I didn’t say a word, handing her my phone. She cradled it like it was something fragile, her eyes falling to the screen.

Since the only audio consisted of squeals and baby babble, I narrated the happenings since I’d watched it at least six times since I recorded it. “Jacob made her scrambled eggs, which is her favorite, as you can see from the fact that she’s covered in it.”

“Jacob cooked?” Alicia glanced up at me, her eyes colored with shock.

I saddled her with a look. I knew that Alicia could probably count the times she’s cooked on one hand, too. ‘That’s what servants are for’ was essentially her motto. “Well, we don’t have a chef on hand. We do most of our own cooking.” And by ‘we’ I meant my husband because I would have fed Hope scrambled eggs with a sprinkle of egg shells.

“I’m well aware of your distaste for employing help, Leila.” She replayed the video, a smile drifting across her lips.

My heart twinged when I realized that her shock wasn’t because we were doing what poor people do, cooking and cleaning all by ourselves.

She had no idea that her son could cook.

I thought back to all the meals he made for me, the meals he made for Hope, and the joy that radiated from him. That radiated in every bite.

I felt sorry for Alicia all over again.

She didn’t know her son...and at this rate, she wouldn’t know her granddaughter, either.

The waiter returned, an older man who made the mistake of spilling a drop of wine on the tablecloth when he poured Alicia’s glass earlier. She pointed out the stain he left and the poor man looked like he was going to cry, quit, or possibly be arrested when he poured the entire bottle on her lap.

He cautiously turned to Alicia, brandishing the wine bottle. “Another glass, ma’am?”

“So you can embarrass yourself again? No thank you.”

“Alicia!” My eyes bulged before I turned to the man, ready to apologize because it would be a cold day in hell before she said those two words.

“Embarrass myself?” the man repeated slowly.

Alicia tapped the screen to pause the video. “I don’t believe I stuttered.” When she raised her eyes, I wished that she didn’t. They were filled with malice as she gave him a vicious once over. “Based on looks alone, you’ve either been doing this a long time or you’ve only recently entered the prestigious field of customer service. At any rate, pouring liquid into a glass without spilling it is the only thing that is required of you, and yet—that proved too difficult.”

The man looked stunned.

I was stunned. I shouldn’t have been though, since Alicia made no secret of how little she respected people who worked in the service industry. But I still couldn’t reconcile this cold woman with the woman who was just cooing over Hope’s video.

Alicia let us both know she was done with the conversation, picking up the video where she left off. The man looked like a deer in headlights, the whites of his eyes gleaming like the top of his bald head.

Anger whipped in my gut like a python I wanted to feed my mother-in-law to, but I found my voice. “I apologize for her rude behavior.” I pushed my glass towards him. “I’d love one more glass of wine, thank you.” And I’m gonna need it, along with one hell of a prayer if I’m gonna make it to the appetizer.

He poured my wine and didn’t spill a drop before he hustled away, avoiding eye contact.

“Why do you do that?” I asked vehemently. “Does it make you feel better about yourself if you make other people feel like they’re less than you?”

Alicia lifted the phone to her face. “She looks just like Jacob when he was that age. He was such a beautiful child. Well-” She brought it in for a closer look, her mouth dipping into a frown. “Minus that curly hair. And she clearly has her mother’s mouth.”

I almost brought my hand to my mouth, blushing. Angry that the question that flitted through my head was, What’s wrong with my mouth?.

The moment of self consciousness only lasted a split second before I snatched my phone from her talon-like grip.

Alicia didn’t look remotely miffed. “I hope you’re not teaching my granddaughter your bad habits.”

“And what bad habits do you plan to teach her? How to treat people like shit if they don’t make as much money as you? How to take advantage of people? How to take the blessings in her life for granted? How to become such a good liar that you convince yourself that you’re still a decent human being, when you actually sold your soul to the devil for a fancy house that you live in all by yourself?”

Naturally, Alicia’s comments didn’t draw a single eye, but I felt like every person in the restaurant was scowling at me. One of these things did not belong, and it was me.

I took a swig of my wine and tried to breathe my way out of my fury. Out of my feelings of being duped, yet again. What did it matter if she gushed over Hope’s videos and pictures if she still treated people like crap? There was enough ugliness in the world. I wouldn’t knowingly expose my daughter to Alicia’s poison.

“This little dinner was a mistake.” I gathered my things, the sense of de ja vu not lost on me. If I was smart, I would have let her storm off earlier. “Next time you wonder why we don’t trust you with Hope, maybe you can think back to today and how horribly you treated that man...for no other reason than ‘because I can’.” I tucked my phone in my purse. “That’s who you are.”

“And I suppose you’re St. Leila.” Alicia replied coolly. “Hosting benefits and having dinner with ex boyfriends is very saint-like.” She shrugged her silk clad shoulders. “I’m not judging. Jesus had dinner with whores.”

I went rigid, but words managed to escape from my lips. “What-you-”

“There’s not a single charitable event that takes place in this town that I don’t know about.” She flipped her platinum colored hair with a haughty chuckle. “And anything that has the Whitmore name attached to it goes to the top of the queue.”

My eyes shot to my wine and I polished it off, fighting the memory of the dinner. Dashing Corbin’s face from my mind. “Then you know the evening was a success. And my ex, my dinner, and my life, is none of your business.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, dear. Despite Jacob’s histrionics, he will always be my son.” Her nostrils flared withe emotion. “You’re new to this whole ‘Mom thing’, so let me illuminate you. When you married my son and said ’til death do you part? You married me too. And Jacob may not want me to be an active part of his life, but I will be his mother until I draw my last breath.” Her voice turned dangerous. “And you will not make a fool out of him. Not for anyone, including some unwashed, rockstar hippie with 5K he saved up in his piggy bank.”

My throat tightened. Anger, embarrassment and shame locked their tight fingers around my windpipe. “Corbin Wolfe is an ex. He’s my past. Jacob and Hope are my future.”

Alicia slid back from the table. “For your sake, I certainly hope so.” She rose to her feet. “I don’t think we should continue this charade of a dinner, so I’ll excuse myself. Surely you can cover my glass of wine.”

I had more to say, to let her know that whatever she thought she knew was wrong, but she got the last word.

“And to think—I thought this would be a waste without Hope. I’m glad we had this talk, mother to mother.”