James

 

 

It amazes me how much better I feel after just that short interaction with lovely, good-hearted Lorena and her daughter. I very rarely feel a spark this strong with anyone, and with a tiny bit of a star-struck crush shining in her eyes, Lorena’s almost irresistible. In other circumstances, I would have canceled everything and suggested that she and I spend a few days exploring this attraction.

 

I will have to be patient, though. Single mom, desperate circumstances, and me with an unwanted ex hanging around—it’s not a great situation to be in to try to get acquainted. And Lorena appears to be the shy type—which is charming, but also means it’s best to go slowly with her.

 

I hope Mom likes the idea of hiring her. I want to help Lorena without hurting her pride. I caught sight of those too-thin jackets and inadequate boots. They were using a military blanket as a shawl to share. I could fix many of those problems just with the contents of my wallet, but I want to be able to do it in a way that’s lasting, in a way that will help her help herself. Gentle-hearted single moms still have their pride.

 

Besides, it will be an excuse to have her around. And from the lightness I feel even as I walk up the front steps of Mom’s towering blue Victorian, having her around will be a very good thing for me as well as her. I’m humming to myself as I unlock the garland-draped front door and step inside.

 

“Oh, what did you get?” My mother greets me at the door, all smiles, and I have to gently keep her from poking into my shopping bags. She’s a tiny, chubby woman, whose face has that sweet Italian apple-doll look to it, her eyes magnified by big round glasses. “Come on, let me take a peek!”

 

“No, no, come on now, I got some last-minute stocking stuffers for all of you and I don’t want to ruin the surprise.” I give her a kiss on the top of the head as I bundle past into the hallway.

 

“Oh, all right. I just wanted to see what you got Mitch!” She trails after me as I make my way to the first-floor bedroom I’m staying in for the week.

 

“All right, all right, let’s go in my room and I’ll show you.” I need to get there anyway. The warm air stings my chilled skin comfortingly, but I know I’ll need to change out of my sweater in a few minutes. Andrea’s diva insistence on hothouse temperatures will cook me alive otherwise.

 

I step up to the door and push it open—and see Andrea waiting for me on my bed.

 

In gold lingerie, the mini-dress draped over my bedside chair, the gleaming silk teddy clinging to her robust curves. My idiot body reacts instinctively to the display. Right in front of my mother.

 

There’s a long, awkward pause as we stare at each other. Her seductive smile melts as I watch, as if it’s suddenly dawning on her that it’s the middle of the afternoon in a busy household and I might not be coming in alone. My poor mom, meanwhile, gapes next to me like she’s just walked in on the two of us fucking.

 

“I think you’re in the wrong room,” I say conversationally.

 

Andrea blinks at me, and then sputters, “What the hell are you doing?” as if it isn’t somehow obvious.

 

“Well, I’m coming in with my mom to wrap the gifts I just bought. What the hell are you doing?” God, this scheming idiot. Not only does she ignore my comfort level and try to use me, but she does the exact same thing to my poor mother. I have to put a stop to this.

 

“Oh, dear. I …. um …” Mom flaps her hands slightly and I turn to her at once, ushering her out of the room.

 

“It’s all right. She’s clearly drunk, so we’ll just leave her alone to pull herself together. We’ll use the breakfast nook,” I insist softly, and she nods, blushing to the roots of her white hair.

 

I shoot Andrea a glare over my shoulder. “Get out of my room. I’m keeping this door locked from now on.”

 

Andrea’s jaw drops and then she glares. She starts saying something snippy, but I ignore her and get Mom down the stairs, into the kitchen, and over to a seat in the big, octagonal breakfast nook.

 

“She’s just trying to repair your relationship,” my mother says weakly. But it’s clear that this time, Andrea has made her uncomfortable too. Were I nastier, I would probably say something about how she brought this on herself. As it is, I’m hoping this is the shock Mom needs to stop trusting my meddling ex.

 

“Mom,” I say quietly as I set the bags on the table and sit down across from her, “I know that you like Andrea and that you consider her a friend. But she’s also not the person that you think she is. I’m sorry.” I reach over and squeeze her chubby little hand, and wonder when she got so small and delicate. “We don’t have a relationship anymore, because we want two entirely different things out of a relationship.”

 

Also, she’s a horrifying bitch, and if I ever raised my hand to a woman it would be to toss her out of this house by the scruff like a bad dog.

 

She shakes her head. “She really wants to be with you, Jamie, she means it.”

 

“She does want to be with me. That much is true. And it’s also true that we were good together for a little while. But we’re just not compatible, and I don’t want to be with her. She doesn’t love me; she doesn’t want kids; and she uses people. Me, you, anyone she can get her hands on.” I look at her sincerely, and she sighs and looks down.

 

“If she doesn’t love you,” she murmurs, “if she just wants your money like you keep saying, then why would she try so hard to have you?”

 

“Because she doesn’t know when to give up, Mom. She hates losing, she hates being told no, and she hates being kept from having things she wants.” And I hate having to have this conversation. I’m so sorry, Mom.

 

She’s starting to look upset, so I reach into one of the bags and pull out the humidor, some tape, and a package of wrapping paper.

 

“Let’s take a break from dwelling on this mess. We’ll sort out what to do when emotions aren’t so high. Look here.” I unwrap the humidor, which is cedar inlaid with cocobolo and ebony. “This is what I got Mitch. Do you think he’ll like it?”

 

Her face lights up and I can see the relief in her eyes that I don’t plan to let these problems with Andrea ruin our Christmas. “Oh, that’s lovely. You know, I don’t think he has a humidor.”

 

“Well, I know he likes cigars, and they’re no fun when they dry out and die.” I start wrapping as we talk.

 

This is how Mom has been ever since my father died. The shock of losing her best friend of fifty years took something away from her besides just her spouse. She has a certain fragility now that she never had before. Too much conflict or stress and she wilts, sometimes taking to bed like a Victorian lady with weak nerves. I’ve learned to understand her limits and work with them.

 

Andrea, on the other hand, doesn’t give a damn. She’ll use and hurt my mother just like she tried to do to me, and blame both of us if she doesn’t get exactly what she wants, exactly when she wants it. And that right there is part of why she will never be right for me, ever.

 

We’re talking as I wrap everything from my bags that isn’t meant for Mom. I keep the jewelry box and the Tiffany earrings I bought to put in it hidden. My middle brother Aaron has a carsick four-year-old and will be a little late, she tells me. Mitch has decided last minute that he wants to do a turducken for Christmas dinner. I laugh at the whole idea and promise Mom that I’ll help him.

 

I notice pretty soon after I get Mom calmed down that Andrea is hovering at the kitchen door, arms folded, staring at me. She’s out of my mother’s line of sight, which I’m grateful for because she’s making things more awkward by the minute. I keep talking about cheerful, mundane things, ignoring her.

 

“Anyway, while I was in town my friend gave me a reference to someone who works as a companion and errand-runner. You said you were looking to hire an assistant.”

 

I cross my fingers mentally, watching from the corner of my eye as Andrea frowns and unfolds her arms, a line appearing between her brows. That’s right, you’re not worth fretting over for more than five minutes at a time. We have lives to get on with.

 

My mother bobs her head as she gets up to put the teapot on. “Oh yes,” she says cheerfully. “I hope it’s a young woman. I’d feel strange having another man in the house.”

 

“She’s a young single mother who has been working up here for a few years now. She needs the work, and I know you like kids, so when I found out about her I got her contact information.” I offer her the card that Lorena gave me. I already have her number in my phone in case it gets lost.

 

“That sounds promising. Do you know what she’s like? As a person, I mean.” She bustles around filling a tea ball with chamomile flowers, as Andrea slowly draws back out of the doorway, apparently satisfied that we’re not plotting to boot her out in the snow. Yet.

 

“She’s very kind, and her little girl is almost three and an absolute sweetheart. She’s a war widow.” I know that will get to my mother. Maybe it’s manipulative of me, but if it ends up with her getting some help and Lorena getting a job, I’ll live with that mild guilt.

 

“Oh, well then, certainly. Let’s give her a call tomorrow, once I’ve slept on the idea. I’m sure she won’t mind a Christmas Eve call if she’s hurting for work.” She brings out the honey pot and turns her back to keep puttering as I surreptitiously start wrapping her gifts behind the screen of the bags.

 

“Just so. I hope it’s a good fit.” For more reasons than one.

 

Andrea ambushes me after dinner as I’m trying to clear my head over a brandy in Dad’s old library. This time she has the sense not to barge into the room—but she doesn’t knock before pushing the door open either.

 

I ignore her for a moment, staring into the small fire I’ve gotten going in the grate as I think wistfully of Lorena’s shy smile. If only she were here, and not this shrew in model’s clothing.

 

“You’re being incredibly rude today,” she growls from the doorway.

 

I take a swallow from my brandy and look up. “You have lied to and used my mother to barge in on our holiday celebration in an attempt to regain access to my wallet, you gilded vulture. You also just embarrassed the hell out of my mother and me with that cheap ladies’ mag style seduction attempt.

 

“I don’t owe you politeness. In fact, I wish you’d fuck off back to New York City and go back to snorting coke with your boy-toys.”

 

Our eyes lock. I can see the rage in hers, and know that I’ve stepped over a line—but I just don’t give a damn any more. I’m tired of her bullshit, her thoughtless selfishness, and her manipulative whining.

 

“I can’t believe that you think that you can talk to me this way,” she says breathlessly. “All I want is—”

 

“All you want is a rich husband, and you’re not exactly being subtle about that. I am not what you are looking for. I’m not interested in a trophy wife. There are plenty of men who are, and some are more successful than I.”

 

I’m keeping as calm as I can, and for a moment she actually seems to be considering this idea. I press on, gentling my tone, trying one last time for reason. “Look, in all honesty, you really shouldn’t waste your time and attention on me. I’m sure a good number of wealthy men would be happy to have you.” And would never listen to you long enough to realize what a shrew you are. Go find some dumb, shallow ass looking for a hot young thing, and leave me be.

 

I take another swallow of my brandy. My attempt at diplomacy, when what I really want to do is take her to pieces verbally, wears on me. Yes, I would practically kill to have Lorena here in her place. I barely know the girl, and I already know that.

 

Unfortunately Andrea’s brief moment of clarity passes, and she falls back into her perpetual role of seducer, lips curving in a sly smile. “It’s you I want,” she purrs, slinking over, and I roll my eyes so hard that they ache. This time not even my dick is interested, even when she stands over me to give me a face full of her cleavage. “And I’m used to getting what I want.”

 

Instead of seeing Andrea, I see Lorena’s smile in my mind, her innocence, her courage in the face of exhausting effort and rough odds. We only spent an hour together talking, but it was enough time for me to know that she is far more my type than Andrea.

 

“Not this time,” I rasp, breathing through my mouth so Andrea’s perfume won’t overwhelm me.

 

“Aww.” She runs a ruby-tipped finger over my shoulder through my turtleneck, and I pull away. “Now, don’t be difficult. You don’t know what’s good for you.”

 

“Don’t patronize me,” I growl, but she just smiles lazily. I down the rest of my drink and get up, moving away from her. She follows. “This is reaching the point of stalking, Andrea.”

 

“Stalking?” She stops dead, laughing incredulously. “Do I make you feel threatened or something? Poor baby!”

 

Back when her opinion meant something to me, that would have stung like hell. But the little twinge I feel now is easy to push past. “Threatened? You are ruining my holiday with my family because I won’t get back together with you. I don’t know how much clearer I can be that I am not interested in anything with you. I’m starting to think I’ll need a restraining order to keep you at bay.”

 

I hate myself a little for being so nasty back, but it does the trick. She backs off, eyes wide with shock. She never expects much resistance from anyone, which makes her obsession with my stubborn ass that much more baffling.

 

She simply doesn’t seem to be smart enough to understand that she’s never going to win this one. She can’t get it through her head that making a mess of things for me won’t attract me back to her side. Ugh, what did I see in her?

 

She lifts her chin, lips wobbly and eyes bright, and then says in a snotty voice, “What you don’t understand is that I’m your best option. I have the connections. I can help you build your fortune, or I can ruin you.”

 

“No, you can’t,” I reply tiredly. I’m a billionaire producer with influential friends in multiple industries across the world. She’s a washed-up model who lost her shot at supermodel stardom because she was too fucking difficult for anyone to work with.

 

These days she can only manipulate people who are too trusting, like my mother. But every rich man in Hollywood seasoned enough to know the type, or connected enough to know her story, knows to avoid Andrea. She can’t use her body to drive her point home as well as she once did.

 

I was at a low point, lonely and distracted by tireless work, when she attached herself to me. Now she keeps clinging on, an angry parasite fighting to reattach. “Andrea, please. Stop embarrassing everyone, stop lying to my mother, and go home.”

 

She shakes her head as she withdraws from the room. “This isn’t over.”

 

“Yes, it very much is.” I look down at my glass and drain the rest of the contents—then pour myself two fingers more. It’s going to be a long night.