With a rueful smile, I trace the seam of her lips with my thumb, then lower my head to kiss the quivering away. It’s the sweetest kiss we’ve ever shared, and something inside me shatters when I finally pull my mouth away.
I take a step toward the front door, then pause to flash her my best Ben Barrett grin, and hope she can’t hear the sound of my heart cracking open in my chest.
“Ben?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry,” Maggie whispers.
“Don’t be. I’m the one who should be sorry.” I grip the doorknob with one unsteady hand. “Goodbye, Red.”
31
Ben
“The prodigal son returns!” my mother declares as I trudge into the front hallway of my childhood home.
It’s nearly one in the morning, but I’m not surprised to see Mom up and about. She’s the ultimate night owl. I can’t even count how many times I’d slithered home in my youth at three in the morning thinking I orchestrated a successful sneak-out—only to find my mother baking cookies in the kitchen.
In fact, as I kick off my shoes and walk toward her, the scent of baked goods floats into my nostrils. Mom’s long red apron and the white flour sticking to her dark hair confirm she was baking up a storm prior to my arrival.
“You should have told me you were coming to visit,” my mother chides with a shake of her head. “I would’ve baked another batch.”
“Sorry, I probably should’ve called.” I remove my leather jacket and toss it aside, then step forward to embrace my mother.
“It’s so good to see you,” she says, tightly returning the hug.
I kiss the top of her head, link my arm through hers, and we stroll through the oak swivel door leading into the kitchen.
After receiving my very first million-dollar paycheck, I’d offered to buy Mom a new house, but she refused. She loves the small bungalow she raised me in, and I have to admit I like it too. It represents a warmth and coziness my life lacks these days.
“To what do I owe this visit?” It doesn’t take long for my mother’s blue eyes to fill with suspicion.
“Just felt like coming home, I guess.” I round the counter and flop onto one of the tall white stools. “It was sort of a last-minute decision.”
“Every decision you make is last-minute, Benjamin. You’re nothing if not spontaneous.”
Well, she has me on that one. My impulsive nature is how I ended up with Maggie. I forced my way into her apartment—and her life—without even knowing why I was doing it. And look how that turned out—I cost Maggie her job, her dreams and her privacy.
Spontaneous is often just another word for fucking selfish.
“So, what have you done?” Mom asks. She pours a glass of milk and sets it on the weathered cedar counter in front of me.
I frown. “What makes you think I did something?”
Chuckling, she slides two huge oven mitts on her hands and removes a tray of chocolate chip cookies from the middle rack. “You’ve got guilt written all over your face,” she tosses over her shoulder. She sets the baking tray on the stove to cool. “And please don’t tell me you got another tattoo. You have enough.”
“No tattoo.” I release the sigh lodged in my chest. “I met someone, Mom.”
Gaping, my mother turns to face me. “Seriously?”
I nod glumly. “Seriously.”
“And?”
“And I like her. I might even love her a little.”
“Victoria’s Secret or Vogue?”
“Neither. She’s a civilian.”
After another second of bewilderment, her eyes light up like a string of Christmas lights. As a huge grin stretches across her face, she whips off her oven mitts. “Tell me everything,” she orders.
So I tell her. About Maggie. About the hotel room mishap that threw us together (though I leave out the details of what happened during that room mishap). I finish with the entire paparazzi mess and Maggie’s request that I leave, ending with, “So basically, I screwed up her life.”
Then I groan and reach for the milk in front of me, feeling like a little kid again as I sip the cold liquid.
“You didn’t screw up her life,” my mother soothes. “It will all settle down sooner or later.”
“Yeah, until the next scandal hits. Maggie doesn’t want to be part of my lifestyle. She doesn’t want that kind of attention.”
Mom assumes that knowing look of wisdom I’ve grown used to over the years. “The only reason you receive that kind of attention, sweetheart, is because you go out looking for it.”
My jaw drops. “I do not.”
“Sure you do.” She shrugs at my indignant reaction. “You date floozies, Ben. And when you date floozies, the media likes to take pictures of you with your floozies.”
“Stop saying floozies,” I grumble.
“Don’t sulk, sweetheart. You know I’m right. You do flashy things with flashy women.”
Fine, maybe my mother has a point. There are plenty of other celebrities, actors far more famous than me, who don’t find their faces splashed across the tabloids every week. I don’t go out and solicit the attention, but I can see Mom’s point. The women I date are gorgeous, glitzy, and demanding to be noticed. Women like Sonja, who may as well be wearing a sign that reads “NOTICE ME! TAKE MY PICTURE!”