Bram, on the other hand, stays in frequent contact with him and occasionally updates me on his status. Last I heard, he’d followed his latest business venture—a profitable cellular company—to London and appeared to be making waves in the European market.
As far as I’m concerned, Neil is and always will be the father in my life.
“How’ve you been?” he asks and grabs a stack of dishes from the cabinet. “I’ve been following the buzz on your exhibition, and it sounds like everyone is loving your latest works.”
“I can’t complain,” I say and take the dishes from his hands. “What about you? Everything going well with you and mom?”
“Retirement is treating us well, and your mom’s found a new hobby.”
“Oh yeah?”
He nods. “Yep. Making lists of things for me to do around the house.”
I chuckle. “Sounds like she’s keeping you busy.”
“Yeah.” Neil smiles. Hell, he always smiles when he talks about my mom.
“All right!” Bram hollers from the dining room. “It’s time to eat!”
“Jesus, Bram,” my mom chides. “Do you have to be so loud?”
“I’m a rock star, Mom,” he teases. “We’re supposed to be loud.”
“Yeah, well, in this house, you’re my son. And right now, you’re too loud. We’re not trying to call the whole fucking neighborhood to dinner.”
Neil and I walk into the dining room just in time to hear my mom dropping f-bombs. The three of us men grin and steal glances at one another.
“Don’t even say it,” Della threatens. “Just keep your opinions to yourselves, sit your asses down, and enjoy this delicious meal I’ve cooked for you.”
I set the plates on the table and do as I’m told, sitting my ass down in one of the dining chairs. Smartly, Bram and Neil do the same.
Eager for the pot roast, carrots, and mashed potatoes with fresh biscuits, we all dig into the hot meal, and it doesn’t take long for me to remember why I love my mom’s cooking so much.
Eventually, once we’ve showered Della with enough “this is delicious” compliments, she softens around the edges and is back to her sweet-as-honey self.
“So, Mr. Rock Star,” Neil pauses and looks at my brother with a cheeky grin. “How was your concert the other night?”
“Good. It’s a shame you and Mom couldn’t make it.”
“We wanted to be there, sweetie,” Mom chimes in. “We tried to get back from Barbados in time, but our flight kept getting delayed.”
Mom and Neil have spent the last two years of retirement being world travelers, scheduling a trip to a new destination every three months or so.
“It’s okay,” he reassures, and a mischievous smile stretches across his face. “Ansel made it, and he brought someone with him…”
I toss a glare in my brother’s direction.
“Oh, really? Like a date?” my mom asks and Bram nods.
“Yep.”
“But Ansel doesn’t date…” Immediately, she turns her curiosity to me. “Who did you bring with you?”
“Don’t get all excited. She’s just a friend.”
Bram’s smile turns challenging. “Her name is Indy and she’s beautiful, and Ansel is completely smitten.”
“I’m sorry, but did we somehow end up back in time? Because I swear to God that’s exactly what ten-year-old Bram would’ve said…”
He just smirks. Such a fucking shit-stirrer.
“You know,” my mom says with a wistfulness to her voice. “I knew there was something different about you, Ans. But I just couldn’t put my finger on it.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mom. There is nothing different about me.”
This is exactly why I didn’t want to bring up Indy at dinner.
For one, I’m not in a relationship with her. And two, my mom gets far too excitable over any relationship prospects for her sons. If she could marry us off and get grandkids out of the deal, she would’ve done it five years ago.
Sometimes, I wonder if my track record of never dating and being seemingly incapable of falling in love with a woman has fed into this. Sometimes, I also wonder if my DNA—specifically, those genes that came from my father—have fucked up my ability to commit to anyone.
I’ve never been interested in progressing things past a short fling or one-night stand.
Until now. With a woman who’s unavailable.
“Yeah, there is…” My mom pauses, and her knowing gaze searches my face. “There’s a lightness to your eyes, and that signature scowl of yours is practically nonexistent.”
“Do you want to know what she looks like?” Bram asks, but he doesn’t give anyone time to respond. “She looks exactly like the girl in the painting that people are going so crazy over.”
My eyes skitter to Bram, and he smirks, mouthing the taunting words, I figured it out.
Fucking nosy prick, I mouth back.
“Ansel’s painting? The painting with the pretty, blue-eyed girl?” our mom asks, and my bastard brother keeps this insane conversation going.
“That’s the one.”
Della’s gaze shoots to mine. “Is she the girl in your painting?”