Perfect Chaos - Page 7
“See?” I say, detaching her from my chest and throwing an arm around her shoulder. “I’m alive.”
“One never knows these days,” she says as I start to walk us to our usual table. She holds my hand where it’s draped over her shoulder, clinging tightly. “You’ll work yourself into an early grave, just—”
“Don’t say it.” I cannot handle her telling me how my father did the same. It’s been eight years since he passed from chronic heart disease, and I still miss him painfully. Today has been shitty enough already, what with my betraying bastard business partner, without having to take a trip down Memory Lane.
“Well”—Mum accepts the chair I pull out for her and perches her backside neatly on the seat—“he worked too hard and didn’t take care of himself, and I worry you’re heading down the same road.”
I push her chair in and dip, kissing her cheek lightly. “I take care of myself.”
“Tyler Christianson, don’t lie to your mother.” She watches my every step as I round the table, taking up my own chair as I unbutton my jacket.
“I work out. Swim every morning. Golf, tennis.” Shit, I’m in the best shape a man could possibly be in, even if I do say so myself. And I will. It’s part of my job.
She rolls her eyes as she orders our drinks. “Speaking of tennis,” she goes on when the waiter has wandered away, “you’ve not been at the club for a few weeks.”
I peek up through my lashes as I arrange my napkin on my lap, finding her ready and waiting for my excuses. I’ve always been honest with my mother. Actually, scratch that. That’s not entirely true. Occasionally I’ve led her to believe I don’t have much time to date, rather than acknowledge the fast turnover of women in my bed. Or their beds. Whatever. The point is, I don’t care what people think of me or how I choose to conduct my life . . . except for my mother. Her opinion matters to me. I’m her blue-eyed boy. Literally. And figuratively. I refuse to tarnish that. But there’s a reason I haven’t been to the tennis club for a few weeks, and I’m not comfortable being honest with my mother about it. “I haven’t—” My phone chimes, and I glance down to see a text message from Imogen. I quickly clear the alert from my screen before Mum spots it. “I haven’t been to—”
Ding.
I glance down again to see another message, this time from Francesca. I promptly clear my screen and look back at my mother, who’s waiting for me to pick up where I dropped off. “I haven’t been to the tennis—”
Ding.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I grumble, stabbing a thumb angrily on the screen, just catching sight of yet another female’s name. Kelsey? I don’t even know who the fuck Kelsey is.
“Tyler,” Mother rebukes, horrified by my language.
Shit. I slipped up. “Sorry,” I sigh, swiping the text from my screen and glancing down at my Breitling. Six thirty. And so begins the bombardment of calls and messages from women across the land. I decide to switch off my phone before any more eager women jump on the Track-Ty-Down evening bandwagon. “I haven’t been to the tennis club,” I start again, giving my mother my full attention, “because I didn’t know if I could keep my hands to myself if that Ted bloke touched you inappropriately again.”
Mum laughs, truly amused. “Baby, he was simply showing me how to swing my racket without putting my hip out.”
I snort my thoughts on that. Of course he was. I know his game, the dirty old bastard.
“You’re being silly,” she tells me. “He’s just a friend.”
“Does he know that? Because I don’t mind telling him.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” She reaches over the table and teasingly slaps the back of my hand. “Stop being overprotective.”
I shift my hand, taking hers and stroking over the top of the wedding ring that still holds pride of place on Mum’s finger. “Someone’s got to, now Dad’s not here.” I momentarily fall into a depressed frame of mind before Mum squeezes my hand and snaps me out of it. I look up at her and force a smile. “Sorry.”
“Never be sorry for missing him, darling.” She takes her hand back and picks up the menu. “I miss him every minute of every day. But I have your gorgeous face to remind me of him.” She winks. “You’re more like him every day.”
Yes, visually, I’m a carbon copy of my father. The only slight difference is where his hair was blond, mine is mousier. Everything else I have is his, from my perfectly straight nose, to the lips women want to kiss and then steal for themselves. From my pale baby blues that women want to get lost in, to my big hands that women want to be caressed by. Yet my father saved all these amazing qualities and talents for my mother, and her alone. I, on the other hand, spread the love. Other than how insanely similar to him I look, and my work ethic that follows his, the likeness stops there. He was a devoted and committed man. I’m devoted all right. To my job. And I’m also committed. To playing as hard as I work.
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