The Boy
The boy in the garden is no more than four. He is a handsome child, with bright brown eyes and the silkiest of dark chestnut hair. His black shirt is neatly pressed—thanks to the housekeeper—and his blue denim pants are tidy as well, except for a streak of dirt from the yard where he wrestled with his twin.
He takes hold of his mother’s soft, manicured hand with his own, sticky with sweat and candy from earlier. She flinches and tries to pull away. When he doesn’t let go, she yanks her hand from his grip and stares at her palm with distaste. She takes out a handkerchief and wipes it.
His gaze rises to her face.
“’Ommy?” he says when she ignores him.
She sighs. “It’s Mommy, not ’ommy.” Her voice is impatient.
“I love you!” he declares as though he isn’t bothered by the correction, looking up at his beautiful golden mother with a cherubic smile.
She shakes her head. “What did I say about manipulation?”
“What’s ’ano’olation?”
“Manipulation,” she corrects him again. “When you say things like ‘I love you’ to get the other person to say it back. Manipulation. Putting pressure on someone.”
The smile on his face slips. He just wanted her to know how much he loves her.
“You’re being needy,” she continues. “Needy children are the worst. Why are your hands so grubby?” She opens and closes the palm he held, then wipes it again.
He looks down. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
She doesn’t acknowledge him. Instead, she wrinkles her nose and disappears into the mansion.
The boy remains standing in the garden, unsure and alone.
Chapter One
Lucas
I do not make a habit of reminiscing about my exes. Nor do I make a habit of stalking our former haunts.
So it is with the greatest annoyance and puzzlement that I find myself back in Charlottesville, Virginia. I have nothing there—no friends, no business interests. Well…there’s that house. I should put that on the market and move back to Seattle permanently, but somehow I can’t bring myself to do so.
For fuck’s sake, just sell the place and get the hell out of here. Cut all ties.
Rain water drips down my jet’s windows as the plane slows on the tarmac. The cabin crew hands me a spare umbrella.
My assistant had my Mercedes dropped off at the airport yesterday before starting her vacation. I claim the car—no luggage this time—and run a rough hand over my face. My left leg aches. I should probably move to someplace where the sun shines all year long.
Instead of going to my own home to soak the throbbing limb in hot water, I drive to the duplex, park across the street like a fucking stalker, and watch the sad little building through the rain-blurred windshield.
She doesn’t even live here anymore, but somehow I keep coming back. Like a damned boomerang.
The bitch kicked you to the curb when you were at your lowest. Fuck her.
Yes. Fuck her. Forget she exists. Get myself a hot chick to fuck so I can move on. Scarred or not, I am young and rich. It’s no problem to get a willing girl.
The duplex’s exterior could use a fresh coat of paint and a bit of landscaping, but the management company won’t do anything until the place looks like a dump. They know just as well as I do that college kids don’t care all that much about curb appeal.
The scuffed blue door stays stubbornly shut. It was raining when we had our first real date and she let me pick her up from her place.
; In my mind’s eyes, I see the door opening, Ava stepping out with an umbrella. She’s in a long-sleeve shirt and old jeans with frayed hems and stitches, and her feet are encased in a pair of black boots she bought on clearance at a department store the year before. I quickly put an open umbrella over her to shield her from the icy raindrops and lead her to my car. I don’t want even a drop to touch her soft, warm skin.