“Hey, Mom,” I answer when I see it’s her, then pull my phone away from my ear when she screeches excitedly.
“Are you home right now?”
“I am. What’s up?”
“Oh my God, oh my God.”
“Oh my God, what?” I take my now-empty plate around the island, sure she’s going to tell me that another one of my sisters or cousins is pregnant, something that seems to be happening at an alarming rate.
“Turn on the radio.” She shouts the name of the station, and I frown down at my plate.
“Why?”
“Because Cohen is on the radio right now, talking about you.”
“He’s what?” My brows drag together.
“He’s talking about you. About how you are the one who got away.”
“You’re kidding me.” I let my head fall back to my shoulders. “Mom, I’m not going to listen to that, and you shouldn’t either.”
“It’s so sweet, honey.” She turns up the volume of the radio, and soon, a woman’s voice is filling my ear.
“So you’re telling me this girl you wrote an entire album about is refusing to even talk to you?” the woman prompts.
“I didn’t do right by her,” Cohen says, his voice sounding just as I remember it.
“Okay, I get that, but I think everyone would agree with me that she should at least hear you out. I mean, where is the harm in that?” she asks.
“That’s what I’m saying,” a man who sounds like Troy, Cohen’s best friend, says with a chuckle that grates on my nerves.
“So who is she?” the woman questions.
“I’m not going to put her name out there,” Cohen replies, which is something I’m thankful for, because the last thing I need is drama from this situation.
“Her name is a month,” Troy says, and my jaw tightens. Apparently, he’s still a dick—not surprising.
“Oh, a month, that’s fun! There are only a couple of months that people name their kids after,” the interviewer singsongs.
“Not in her family,” Brock inserts, laughing, and so do the rest of the guys.
“Mom, please, turn it off,” I order, unwilling to listen to more, and the background noise dies down, but I can tell she’s listening to it. “Do I need to remind you that you didn’t even like Cohen when he and I were seeing each other?”
“It’s not that I didn’t like him. I just… well, I thought you could do better.”
“And you don’t think I can do better than him now?” I turn around, then scream when I come face-to-face with Maxim.
“Are you okay? What’s going on?” Mom asks, worry clear in her tone.
“I’m fine.” I hold my hand to my chest. “Just got startled.”
“Sorry about that,” Maxim rumbles, and my mom gasps.
“Who’s that? Is someone there with you?”
“Mom—”
“It’s a guy. That was a guy!”
“Mom.” I laugh. “I need to get off the phone. I have to get ready for work.”
“You’re not going to tell me who that was?”
“No,” I say simply.
“You never tell me anything,” she pouts, and I laugh. “Fine, love you. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Love you too, and no more listening to the radio.”
“Whatever,” she grumbles and hangs up.
I set down my phone and look at Maxim. “I’m going to go up and get dressed. Our first appointment is in an hour.”
“Something going on with your ex?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest while leaning his hips against the edge of the counter, his eyes studying mine intently.
“Not on my end.” I pick up my still half full coffee and head toward the stairs.
“Is he the same one who left his number on your windshield?” he asks, and I stop at the bottom step and meet his gaze over the banister.
“One and the same.”
“How long has it been since things between you two ended?” The question seems casual enough, but his body language is screaming that it’s not.
“Years.” I frown. “Are you going to let me get dressed so we can leave, or are we going to play a hundred and one questions?”
“Go on. I gotta make a phone call real quick.” He pushes away from the counter and takes his phone with him out the back door.
I watch him through the glass for a long moment, trying to figure out what the hell that was about. Then, with a sigh, I head upstairs to get ready, because even if I had all the time in the world, I would never be able to understand men.
Chapter 4
April
JUGGLING MY BAG, my coffee, and my shoes, I frown at Maxim when he steps in front of me. “We have to go,” I remind him as he takes my bag and coffee mug. “Really, we should have left twenty minutes ago.”
“I’m not the one who jumped me in the closet.” He heads for the stairs, and my mouth drops open.
“I did not jump you in the closet.” I quickly follow after him. “You’re the one who came in there and attacked me,” I say, and he looks at me over his shoulder, his eyes darkening the way they had when he found me standing in my bra and panties amongst my shoes, bags, and clothes.