“It’s a cold one this morning, Mr. Lindstrom.”

“It won’t kill you to call me Jal,” I told Thomas, although I knew I was wasting my breath. I'd had this conversation in one form or another dozens of times over the years. It always went the same way.

“Of course, sir.”

Grimacing at my driver, I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my coat, wishing for a pair of jeans, a sweater, and the battered leather jacket that hung in the back of my closet, safe from the greedy hands of those who might try to donate it to the less fortunate. I didn’t have anything against the general idea of donating itself. In fact, I'd given away hundreds of items of clothing over the years. What bothered me was the fact that anything deemed less than satisfactory for a Lindstrom was often relegated to the donation box, and my mother had suggested more than once that my favorite jacket was less than suitable.

As much as I preferred comfort over style, today wasn’t the day for it. As I settled in the back of the Bentley, Thomas shut the door, but I didn't get even a moment of peace. My phone buzzed, indicating I missed another call.

Blowing out a breath, I tugged the cell from my pocket.

Mom. Again.

Even though I was more than capable of handling everything I had to get done in the next day or so, my mother kept insisting we meet and go over everything. I was tempted to ignore her, but I knew what would happen if I did. She’d call again, and I could ignore those calls too, then she’d be in a lousy mood at lunch.

I’d just as soon skip lunch as well, but that wasn’t going to happen. Overbearing as my mother was, I loved her, and sometimes it was easier to play along with her games.

So we’d go have lunch.

She’d grill me and fuss and hover.

Then I’d go on and do things my way.

We’d both be more or less satisfied.

And my morning would be more peaceful if I got the call out of the way now. At least when I reached my destination, I'd be able to tell her I had to go and be honest about it.

So I called her back.

Her phone only rang twice before she answered. “Hello, Jal,” she said, her voice cool and cultured. Everything about my mother was cool and cultured, even when she spoke to me, her only son.

I could play the part too. Harold Lindstrom, Jr. had to be cool and cultured, or at least the world had to see that aspect of him. But my full name was like a suit I put on and took off at will. It was just a mask I wore. It wasn’t a part of me. I'd christened myself with a new nickname by the time I was twelve, and refused to answer to anything else. It'd taken my mother almost a year to give in.

She didn't particularly like that I didn't fit into the perfect little WASP boy she'd always wanted. Oh, I had the blond hair so pale it was the color of corn silk. Light blue eyes. Tanned skin. I was tall – six and a half feet – and athletic. Smart. Good looking.

But I still wasn't the child she truly wanted.

She loved me. I didn't doubt that. But love and approval were two totally different things. I doubted I'd ever get the latter from her.

“Are we still on for lunch?” Mom asked, interrupting my maudlin thoughts.

“Of course.” I couldn’t help but shake my head. It didn’t matter that we'd just made the plans twelve hours ago. Ginnifer Lindstrom was a control freak, in the fullest sense of the word. If my dad wasn’t so laid back, the two of them probably would have filed for a nasty divorce or killed each other years ago. Instead, he simply gave in and let her do things her own way.

“Excellent.” Affection underscored her words as she asked, “Are you nervous?”

Nervous. I thought about it, trying to decide if that was the right word to describe how I felt. I couldn’t exactly say I was nervous. Resigned? I guess that was more like it. Nervous implied that I was excited, or that I had doubts about how things might go. I wasn’t, and I didn’t. I knew exactly what was about to happen. I could almost write out a script for how everything would play out.

I doubted, however, she wanted to hear that I was resigned.

“Perhaps a little,” I lied.

“Everything will be fine,” she told me in a soothing coo.

“I’m certain it will.”

We spoke for a few more minutes, chatting about things that mattered very little to me, but always seem to hold so much importance for her. The latest charity dinner, who was going to be there, why I should attend. If I did, what I should wear, and who I should talk to. The way she made it sound, I was some awkward teenager who was likely to screw up a business deal by smarting off to the wrong person. Not that I had done so well with my trust fund after graduation that Dad had put me in charge of the family money.

When the car slowed, I glanced up and smiled. Thomas had gotten to know my habits after working for me for the past decade, which meant I hadn't needed to tell him to stop at my favorite little coffee shop. He didn't even need me to tell him what my drink of choice was. Once I was alone in the car, I stretched my legs and cracked my neck.

Mom, as if sensing my boredom, shifted topics away from the dinner. “What will you be doing today?”

“Taking a beautiful woman to lunch.” I deleted an email from somebody I had no desire to do business with, then shot one to my assistant and told her to make sure he got the message. “Before that, I’m going to stop and get a haircut.”

And coffee, although I didn’t mention that. I'd been coming to this coffee shop for almost two years, and it'd all started because I’d met the owner at a club and we’d shared a few hot nights twisting up the sheets. That brief flirtation had ended amicably, and she’d moved on to greener – and more interested – pastures. She was the marrying kind. But I liked the atmosphere and the coffee, not to mention the scones and Danishes she made by hand. Plus, she was just fun to talk to. She hadn’t treated me differently because of who I was, and I couldn’t say that about a lot of my relationships with women. Including my current one. It was satisfying sexually and socially acceptable, but fun?

Hell, no.

I'd never been able to find someone who both intrigued me and met my mother's approval. I'd given up on ever finding that kind of woman, so I was resigned to that too. Resigned to pretty much everything in my life at the moment.

While my mother prattled on, I brooded about that. Spying Thomas from the corner of my eye, I said, “I’ll have to cut the call short, Mom. I need to take care of some business this morning. Talk to you soon?”

She said goodbye, and I ended the call, but not because I had to make any more. I just didn’t want to listen to any more dull shit about a charity dinner or a party coming up that I really should attend. I loved my parents, and I couldn't lie and say I didn't love having money, but I didn't love the social obligations that came with our family name.

The door opened, and Thomas handed me a cup. I saw that he had one of his own and flashed him a grin. “Finally decided to try the place out for yourself, didn’t you?”

He handed me a small bag, smiling – a real smile, not that polite, professional one I usually saw on his face. “I did. I made my wife very happy with the cookies.”

“Make sure you try the pie sometime. The woman in there can cook like nothing else.”

“I’ll do that.” He went back around to his side and settled back into the driver’s seat, tucking his coffee carefully into place. I’d been nagging him to try the coffee at Sinclair’s since I’d discovered it. He’d finally cracked. At least enough to get a cup. No scones, but I wasn’t surprised. I’d never had a driver who had relaxed enough to share a scone and coffee.

I’d rather he focused on driving than eating anyway.

“Thomas?”

He started the car, but at the sound of his name, his eyes came to meet mine in the rear view mirror. “Sir?”

“You’re a married man.”

“Yes, sir. Five years.” He looked confused. We'd talked about his wife a bit, but nothing so specific.

“Are you happy?”

He looked a little surprised by the personal question, but he answered easily enough. “Yes, sir. Couldn’t imagine not having her in my life.”

I shifted my attention to the window but still kept talking. “How long have you known her, your wife? Did you…I guess you knew how you felt when you asked her to marry you, but did you know before that?”

“We’ve known each other since high school.” His voice had softened, and the affection in his voice was clear. I didn’t even have to look at him. “I knew the minute I saw her that I wanted to marry her. It just took me a while to convince her.” He chuckled fondly. “Like eight years.”

I imagined he loved her, or at least he thought he did. Love wasn’t something I put much stock in. Not romantic love. Familial, sure. That I understood. I just wasn’t sold on the idea of that sort of love. My parents got along well enough, but were they in love? I had no idea. I couldn’t see it, my controlling mother and my easy, laid-back father. Affection. Companionship. Lust. Those I all got. The other thing? Not so much.

“Come on, Thomas,” I said, shifting gears. “I need to get the haircut taken care of, and I still have some business to deal with before I meet my mother for lunch.”

By the time I finished my coffee, Thomas had pulled up in front of the salon a friend had recommended. It was a little fussier than I preferred, one that catered to both men and women, but I’d yet to find one I liked.

Besides, even though the place was nice, it still wasn't exclusive enough for my mother, which meant it was perfect for me.