The Wrong Man (Alpha Men 3)

“Mum? You there?”

“Are you thinking of adopting the dog?” she asked, her voice casual.

“Uh, no. My lifestyle doesn’t lend itself to having a pet, you know that.”

“I know you’ve always wanted a dog.”

“I haven’t. I never once said that I wanted one,” he protested indignantly.

“You were always such an accommodating child. You didn’t want a dog because you thought I didn’t want a dog.”

“But you didn’t want one. Did you?” He frowned—this conversation was becoming confusing.

“Of course I didn’t, we were always moving. Imagine the inconvenience. But I never said as much—in fact, I once offered to get you one because I thought you were lonely. You didn’t have any friends.”

“Hard to make friends when you’re never in one place for long,” he muttered. Then immediately felt terrible about the words. “I’m sorry, Mum. You always made things fun. I didn’t need friends.”

“See? Accommodating child, even now. Trying to make your Mimsy feel better. You did need friends, but you never complained, you never acted out, you were always an absolute sweetheart. And we did have fun. It was the least I could do, considering how abjectly I failed you in other aspects.”

“Mum . . .” He was absolutely shocked by her words, not entirely sure where this was coming from.

“A boy needs a dog, Sam. Maybe you could make room for Trevor in your life.”

“I’m hardly a boy anymore, Mum.”

“Tell me about this Lia.”

“What?”

“You mentioned her quite often during your narrative of adoption fairs, old-man poker tournaments, and family cookouts.”

“She’s . . .” His mind blanked and he swallowed before shrugging helplessly, despite the fact that his mother couldn’t see the gesture. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Sam, I’m your mother. I carried you in my womb, watched your nannies change your nappies and burp you, supervised your first bicycle ride, endured the horrid braces and pimple stage of adolescence along with you . . . I’ve known you for thirty-four years, and not once have you referred to a woman you were interested in by name.”

“I’m not interested in her. Not in that way.” His mother laughed at that. “And I also mentioned her sisters. Why would you make that assumption about her and not about them?”

“Your voice changes when you say her name.”

“That’s such a cliché.” He snorted. “Are you turning into one of those old women who try to hook their sons up with any random single woman? You trying to marry me off? Looking forward to becoming a grandmimsy, are you?”

“You bite your tongue. I’m not old, I’m mature. And my grandchildren will call me Catherine.”

“Mum, not sure how to break this to you, but unless you have some other kid stashed away to give you these imaginary grandchildren, you won’t be getting any.” The words lacked conviction, even to his own ears. He kept thinking about Lia, teasing him with the possibility of an accidental pregnancy while knowing full well there had been little to no chance of it happening. He hadn’t been as resistant to the idea as he would have expected.

His mother laughed again.

“Is she pretty?”

“She’s lovely,” he answered without thinking, and then winced. His mother remained absolutely silent in response to his words, and that in itself spoke volumes.

“I see,” she said eventually, her voice uncharacteristically solemn. “I think I’d like to meet her.”

“Mum, I’m coming home in a couple of weeks’ time. Alone. I don’t know what you’re reading into my words, but I assure you, it’s erroneous.”

“You always were a stubborn boy.” She sighed. “Sweet and accommodating, but so stubborn when it came to accepting good things. I had hoped you would outgrow that tedious air of martyrdom you sometimes liked to adopt.”

“Got to go,” he lied. “Love you, Mimsy.”

“Calling me Mimsy doesn’t count when you use it sarcastically, Sam,” she protested, and he grinned despite himself.

“’Bye, Mum.” He chuckled.

“Take care of yourself, Samuel.”

After the call ended, he sat for a long while and thought about it. Did his voice change when he spoke about Lia? It made sense that it would, considering what happened to him when he thought about her. Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. He got, well, the only word he could think of to describe it was excited. Every part of him—including the most obvious one—got excited. His breathing increased along with his heart rate; he had the ridiculous urge to grin like an idiot all the fucking time. And lately he found himself on a knife edge of anticipation whenever he knew he would see her. What would she say? What would she do? What would she be wearing? Would her hair be tied back or left to fall around her shoulders? How many times would she correct his behavior? What ridiculous breakfast art would he find himself eating next? When would she say something unintentionally funny? How long before he could make her smile? Before he could make her sigh his name?