Better With You (Better Love 2)

She laughs. “Oh, it’s not mine, but I know Odette loves the idea of Riggs out here putting it to use.”

“Is she up?” Riggs asks, and I note the hint of excitement in his voice.

“She is.” Ms. Beth’s smile is still present, but it’s different now. I can’t quite place it.

Riggs quickly washes his hands and takes off his apron, then turns to me. “I’ll be right back, okay? If she’s up for visitors, I’ll come back for you.”

“Yeah, sure.” I smile awkwardly. The nerves I feel all of a sudden are intense and strange. He takes off around the corner, leaving me with Ms. Beth.

“So, you go to school with Riggs?”

“I do. We, um, both entered a cookie contest a few months ago.”

“Oh, yes. The one he won with Odette’s recipe?”

“That’s the one.” I bristle.

“She was so proud.” Ms. Beth laughs. “She talked about it for weeks.”

Hearing that, my animosity regarding the cookie contest fades, and I’m surprised to find that I’m not even that mad about it anymore. I don’t know when it happened, but my anger has tamed, and now it’s just a dull annoyance.

“Riggs says she was a pastry chef. Studied at Le Cordon Bleu.”

“Mhm. She wasn’t just a pastry chef; she was the pastry chef. She was the executive pastry chef at Temetum.” She waits for my reaction, but I don’t have one. I just nod lamely, because I have never heard of this Temetum place.

“Wow,” I force out with a smile. She sees right through me and laughs.

“It’s okay. I didn’t know what it was until I started working for the Stantons. It’s not exactly in my price range.”

“Yeah, I’m more of a two-dollar tacos and frozen margaritas kinda girl,” I say with a smirk.

“Mmmm, me too. Temetum is the only three-star Michelin restaurant in Chicago. People pay a pretty penny to eat there, and when Odette was the pastry chef, she won the James Beard Outstanding Pastry Chef award and the national ACF Pastry Chef of the Year award.”

“Wow,” I say again, but this time I mean it. “I had no idea she was such a badass.”

Ms. Beth nods. “The baddest.”

Riggs comes back into the kitchen, then, and his smile kicks up butterflies in my belly.

“You wanna come meet my mom, Barnes?” I must look terrified, because he and Ms. Beth both laugh at me. “She’s mostly harmless,” Riggs jokes.

“Your mom is culinary royalty, Riggs,” I hiss. “Why didn’t you tell me that? I’m covered in flour and curdled milk. There’s no way I can meet her like this.”

I start frantically brushing at the white spots on my jeans. Even wearing an apron, my clothes look like I just went to an orgy in a crack house. White powder and mysterious looking wet spots cling to the fabric and I am freaking out.

“It’s fine,” Riggs says, and he places his hands on my shoulders, halting my brushing. “She’s spent her life in kitchens. Guarantee she’s seen worse than this.”

I huff. “Not from you. You look perfect.” His grin grows, and I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean, asshole.” I flash an apologetic glance at Ms. Beth. “Sorry.”

“Oh, it’s fine.” She winks at me. “I knew what you meant.” Hm.

“C’mon, Barnes.” Riggs hooks my arm in his and starts walking me down a hallway off the kitchen. “She’s gonna want to sleep again soon.”

I drag my feet. Stupidly, I think if I walk slower, I’ll have time to calm my nerves. But that’s impossible with Riggs’s giant strides and how my heart beats faster and faster with every door we pass. When he slows, I squeeze my eyes shut and give myself a pep talk.

She’s just a person. Pastry Chef of the Year or not. Riggs Stanton’s mom or not. Billionaire Queen of the Castle in the Sky or not. She’s just a person.

When we walk through the door, I hear a soft whirring and a quiet, rhythmic beeping. I see the big four-poster bed in the center of the room before I see the tiny body sitting up in it. The room is grand. Whites and greys with expensive, elegant accents. There’s even a damn chandelier and a wall of windows overlooking the sparkling skyline.

But then I notice other things.

The origami stars that hang from the canopy beams above the bed.

The large, white bookshelf teeming with books.

The canvas photos of Riggs on the walls.

When I finally gather the courage to look at Mrs. Stanton, she’s smiling softly at me, her head slightly tilted to the side and her eyes curious but warm.

My first impression of Riggs’s mom is that she is small. I knew she would be from the photos I’ve seen, but she’s much tinier than I expected. Odette DuPont Stanton is petite and delicate, but from what I’ve learned, she’s also a force.

Or she was.