My Grumpy Billionaire

“But…” She sniffles delicately.

“And if he takes too long, you’ll simply get yourself another man. It’ll break Fabio’s heart, but then, he should’ve known better.” I need a drink.

“It’s so hard to find a man who respects you.” She sighs and gently brushes a tear away.

I don’t think Fabio ever respected you. He respected your bank account and your connections.

Mom confuses need with respect, and doesn’t understand that respect can’t be bought. It has to be given because you did something worthy. Because you’re a person of accomplishment.

I keep that to myself, since saying it would only up the ante in her drama. I made that mistake once, and will never do it again, especially since I want to be able to leave in the next twenty-four hours. My head hurts and I don’t have much tolerance left for her scenes. She used up most of her annual quota in January over an ex-boyfriend “cheating” on her at an orgy they attended together.

“Will you take me to the masquerade party tonight?” she asks.

“Me?” My patience is fraying rapidly, like a stray thread being pulled from a sweater. “You want me to be your date?”

“I intended for Fabio to, to…” She swallows, and her breath hitches. “I can’t possibly go alone. It would make me look silly. Trivial, even. And you’re almost the right age.”

I don’t bother to point out that I’m her son, not a boy toy of almost the right age. She’s beyond listening, too lost in her role.

She should’ve been an actress.

“I don’t have a mask.” This will hopefully let her know I’m not interested in attending the ridiculous event. Ideally, she’ll find some easily influenced fool to accompany her, and I can fly back home to California and sleep in my own bed tonight.

“Don’t you worry about that.” Her tone is a dulcet now-I-have-you that never fails to make my stomach clench. “I have the mask Fabio was going to wear.”

“Is it new?” I’m not wearing a used mask, especially when it belonged to my mother’s two-decades-younger ex-boyfriend. He might have worn it while they were fooling around, and I’d rather eat roadkill sushi than ask my mother about the specifics of her sex life.

“Of course! You know I don’t believe in wearing the same thing twice. Now, please?” She bats her eyelashes. “Pretty please?”

Rolling naked in a field of broken glass would be preferable to attending this idiotic masquerade. But she’ll go into hysterics if I turn her down.

For once, I wish I’d taken after Quasimodo. Then Mom would never ask me to be her plus-one to parties, since she has “an image to maintain.” But no. I got Mom’s features—just more masculine and refined, according to my brother Huxley. Of course, he said that mainly because he wanted me to model for an overpriced mid-tier scotch his ad agency was peddling.

“There’ll be lots of great drinks,” Mom says with a smile, like I’m a broke college kid who can be bought with free booze. I’m a college professor, damn it.

“Fine.” I’m smiling, but my teeth are clenched.

She claps her hands once, like a teenager excited before her prom, and the tears vanish. “Perfect! Let me just go get ready!”

This damn trip can’t end soon enough.