“Sure am trying.” He bowed his head in fake modesty.

Mom gave him one last peck on the cheek. “Well, you’re succeeding. I’m making pasta and meatballs. You boys are going to be my little helpers.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He flashed me an eager grin. And just like that, it was like when we were kids all over again.

For him, anyway.

Mom made the best meatballs and pasta in the universe, a fact I would defend with my last breath, no matter how fucked-up my relationship with her was.

I was half-French from my dad’s side, half-Italian from my mom’s. My height and size were from my mother’s family—the Bozzelli men towered to six-five on average and were built like tanks. I also got the olive skin from her. But I had Dad’s hair and pale green eyes.

The recipe definitely worked in my favor back when I was still in the business of conquering women as an Olympic sport.

“I’ll let you two catch up in the kitchen.” East clapped both our backs, already retreating back to his room. Not only was he a shithead, but he was also a traitor—leaving me with her, knowing that I avoided her at all costs.

“I’ll go buy some wine and bread. Give me a shout when dinner’s ready.”

Stuck in the kitchen with Mom with nowhere to hide, I listened to her small-town gossip. When she realized she’d been talking for twenty minutes straight without getting any type of response, she stopped, still stirring the tomato, basil, and garlic sauce in the pot.

“But enough about me. Who was that friend you spent your birthday with?”

I was sitting at the kitchen table, cutting lettuce into miniscule pieces for the salad. “Just a chick.”

“She must be special to acquire your friendship.”

I hated when she did that. Acted like she gave a shit. My mother wanted me to meet someone. Become someone else’s problem. Guess it was inconvenient for her to check in on me daily to see I hadn’t offed myself/killed someone/started a cult.

In her eyes, I wasn’t above doing all three.

“It’s just someone from work.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Yes,” I drawled. “Don’t know many people without a name.”

Even I had one. Never mind that my parents had named me after a fucking cardinal direction.

Downplaying my relationship with Grace wasn’t lying per se, but it didn’t feel right either. Whichever way I looked at it, we were tight. Definitely tighter than I was with Reign or Max or any other oxygen-wasters on campus who thought I was their buddy. The fact I wouldn’t shy away from riding Texas’ ass like a cowboy didn’t help matters.

I was considering dropping the food truck gig to avoid her altogether.

Mom bit down on her smile, childish glee radiating from her.

Half an hour later, food was ready: salad, spaghetti with meatballs, garlic bread, and red wine. The last two were Easton’s courtesy. The three of us gathered around the creaking table. Mom rushed the grace part so we could tuck in, and I was finally able to somewhat relax.

The doorbell rang.

We all glanced at each other. East knew better than to invite people over when I was around. I was notoriously misanthropic.

“Who could it be?” Mom asked around a bite of pasta.

“Only one way to find out,” I muttered, pushing my chair back and walking to the door. Our peephole wasn’t working. Some punks filled it with wax before we moved in. I had no choice but to open the door and trust it wasn’t an assassin sent by Kade Appleton. Recently, I had a weird feeling I was being followed.

It wasn’t.

The person who stood at the door was far less welcome than a serial killer.

Grace.

What was she doing here?

She wore a stripy long-sleeved shirt, skintight jeans, and her timeless FILAs. Her ball cap was screwed on top of her head, lowered down, serving as her invisibility cloak.

“Hey.” She smiled at her feet. Both my dick and I gave her smile a standing ovation. I wondered how many brain cells I was going to be left with by the time this chick was done showing me all of her mundane facial expressions.

“What’s up?” I clipped.

“You forgot your wallet in the truck. You weren’t picking up your phone, so Karlie called to let me know. I thought I’d swing by and drop it off.”

She took out my wallet from her back pocket, handing it to me.

“She asked me why we were there in the first place, why it smelled like cleaning products. I told her we went in to get slushies and spilled some. I think she bought it.”

Then, I think she’s an idiot.

Also: Goddammit. How had I not noticed my wallet was missing before? Oh, that’s right. I was too drunk on watching Grace masturbating to care where my fucking limbs were, let alone my wallet. Then my mother treated me to clothes and groceries (albeit with the money I transferred to her earlier this month). I hadn’t had to take out my wallet once today.

I plucked it from her hand and moved to close the door in her face.

“Thanks. Catch you later, Tex.”

“Westie?” Mom called out behind my shoulder, peeking outside to see who it was. She rested a hand over my shoulder. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

Fuck. My. Life.

Both women sized each other up in the way females did, grinning simultaneously, as if unearthing some rare secret. Grace did a little wave. I almost forgot that behind the sarcastic minx I wanted to shut up with my reproductive organ was a polite, Southern belle just ready to burst out at the first sign of a worrying momma.

“Howdy, ma’am. I’m Grace Shaw.”

“Caroline St. Claire, West’s mother. Such a pleasure.” Mom ditched any attempt to act like a civilized human and jumped Grace’s bones in a suffocating hug. Texas, of course, returned the favor, squeezing her right back.

I opened the door all the way, even though if it were up to me, I’d rather slam it in both their faces.

“Why, you must join us for dinner!” Mom exclaimed. It didn’t take a genius to do the math. Texas was The Chosen One whom I’d spent my birthday with.

She was my so-called redemption.

Antidote to my poison.

The one Mom had been praying for.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose.” Grace blushed, batting her eyelashes and tucking her chin down. She was hiding her scar. Smart girl. If Mom saw her face properly, the shit show train would officially get off the rails and head straight off the cliff.

My mother and Grace in the same room was my idea of a nightmare, for too many reasons to count.

“Nonsense! We would love to have you. Westie doesn’t have very many friends, and I’m dying to hear more about his life on campus.”

Mom was now pulling Grace into the house, even when the latter dug her heels at the door like a cat approaching a full tub. Caroline St. Claire would lock the poor girl in a glass room, if it meant making sure she’d dine with us.

Texas shot me a sorry look. It was the first time she was here. She looked around, her aqua eyes big and exploring. I normally didn’t feel embarrassed about where I lived. And it wasn’t that Grace’s house was going to hit MTV Cribs anytime soon. Still, I hated that my brokenness, my poorness, was right up in her face.