Olivia

I’m still in my car, waiting for my heart to stop thumping in my entire body so strongly it hurts for me to wrap my hands around the steering wheel. My head goes back against the headrest. What the fuck was that? Why did I say yes? I look down at the address slashed across the pale yellow paper in a bold black cursive. Just because I said yes doesn’t mean I have to go meet Cheryl Vega and seal my fate. The smile spreads across my face without humor and without thought; who the hell was I kidding? The minute I opened the door to Rourke Vega’s office, I had stepped into it. It didn’t matter if I walked away, even if I never saw him again, he’d haunt me until my last breath.

My head falls on my steering wheel with a thump. Ow. Go, just go, you’re becoming senile in your old age. Why in the heck would Rourke Vega want anything to do with you when he’s straight up fucked Oscar winners and princesses and socialites who spend their whole day devoted to being beautiful? Okay, yeah, the idea is absurd. So it’s just me, just me feeling all goopy inside, just me wanting something I can’t have. Well then, that changes everything. It’s just my fat, round ass lusting after a guy who would laugh so hard he might break a rib at the idea of us getting together. Eh, it’s highly unlikely he’ll laugh even then.

Come on, don’t be a baby. I need a job and sixty grand, I definitely need that. Okay, I don’t need it, but to make it for doing six months of what I already enjoy doing, not doing it is crazy stupid. With the money I could stop working and go to school full time, maybe at least get my physicians assistant accreditation. So I might end the six months a little bruised and achy after spending those months lusting after a man I can’t have, there were women who spent their whole lives like that. Six months is nothing.

I start my car and back out of the parking lot, careful not get too close to the gorgeous white Bugatti Veyron I know belongs to Rourke Vega. There was a write-up on it in the newspaper when it first appeared in Austin and people wondered who owned it. Now there are twelve others in the city, but it was Rourke who owned the first one. He bought the Chiron last year, but he prefers his Veyron. A hysterical bubble of laughter escapes me; the man has his pick of million-dollar cars, and I have a ten-year-old Corolla I love dearly. The differences between us couldn’t be any clearer than that.

Checking the street, I pull out into the heavy traffic on Lamar. I know South Austin enough to be familiar with the general area of the address he gave me, but I key it into my navigation app on my phone because the roads get a little twisty in Austin.

Even in heavy traffic it only takes fifteen minutes to get to the house. It’s a pretty house, a mid-century modern in white limestone on the bottom half and dark green siding on the top. The lot it’s on is huge with plenty of space between the neighbors. I ring the bell and hear it echoing throughout the house. Since I’m aware Cheryl Vega is alone and using a walker to get around, I wait patiently for her to answer the door.

The door opens on a woman who was once probably taller than my own five foot six by a few inches, but now we are eye to eye, and it makes her sad. Not because she wants to be able to look down on me, but because she misses who she used to be.

My patients and their families accuse me of being psychic. I’m not. I’m really good at reading people, and after a while you recognize it because you’ve seen it so often. Cheryl is wearing a plain purple shirt in a fine jersey knit and white leggings that are sagging on her, telling me she’s lost weight recently. Her light brown hair is in a pixie cut that suits her. Bright brown eyes shimmer with gold flecks.

“Mrs. Vega, I’m Olivia Casey. Your son has put me through his trial by fire. I made it through, barely scorched, now it’s time for you take your turn.”

Cheryl Vega throws back her head and laughs. For a moment I see her as she was before the stroke, I’ll get her there again—well, between me and Patricia. Her hand is pressed against her chest as the other clings to a black rolling walker. “Isn’t he the most arrogant, charming pain in the ass you’ve ever met?

I nod as I can’t hold back my own laughter, even though I know it’s dangerous. “I’ve never met anyone like him, and I’m hoping I never do again.”

“Oh, there’s just one Rourke.” Her eyes wander over me piercingly. Interesting, she might not be his biological mother, but they have the same unsettling ability to make me feel they can read my mind. While her eyes are a light golden brown to his black, they still miss nothing. “Come in, dear.”

She backs away from the door, and my eyes wander around the huge open space. There is a thick, dark hardwood on the floor. The walls of the living room are a baby blue. The bright yellow in the kitchen and a large open dining room clash with the blue, and my eyes go down to the pretty soft velvet couches in sea blue. “You hate it.”

“I—it’s.... I don’t hate it, but it’s not easy on the eyes. You like blue, but there are varying shades that would have softened the room better.” I shrug. “It also doesn’t matter if I like it. All that matters is you do.”

With a sigh, she sits on a dark blue wingback chair. “Rourke said the exact same thing. Now he won’t help me fix it because he doesn’t want to admit he doesn’t like it.”

“We can change it if you like. I’ve watched thousands of hours of HGTV and love the idea of decorating with someone else’s money.”

Cheryl laughs. “I love the idea of redoing it. When Rourke knocked down the walls, the colors were so old they did kind of match. They were just barely annoying, so I lived with it for years. Until I had to redo the kitchen when I had a small grease fire. I moved on to the living room and it looks like this. It’s depressing.”

“A little, yes, but we can make it a fun project. I see you have a beautiful patio and pool. I love to swim. Can we go sit outside while it’s nice and warm without burning our skin?”

“Sounds delightful. What would you like to drink? I have these lovely sparkling waters, and some sweet tea.”

I love the water she offers me. “I’d love a sparkling blueberry water, thanks.” I take the fizzy can and follow her out to the patio. Okay, so she thinks the living room is depressing; that will have to be changed or she’ll keep to her room. “It’s so nice out today. Austin in February.” I smile with a shake of my head. “Although it does feel a bit humid already.”

“Hmm...I used to love spending time out here. Do you see the spray fans? Rourke had them installed for me when I mentioned a café I went to had them. I’m aware he’s a bit overwhelming for some, but I couldn’t ask for a better son. He spoils me rotten.”

The love she has for her son is in every line of her face. “I’m going to guess it was well-earned in his book.”

She waves me away as she rolls her eyes. “I did what a mother should have done is all. I’m actually a petty thief, I should have done more to get his biological mother involved in his life. It wasn’t exactly fair to him the way I refused to even consider her as being a part of his life. I was so happy to call him my own, but now, looking back, I can’t help wondering if one day he’ll resent me for my greed.”

“So you kept his biological mom away from him? Made it impossible for her to see him?” My eyebrows go up.

Her eyes widen. “No, I never. She just walked out of his and his father’s life. Left some piddly little note and never called or came by again. Even when we tried for years to get her to allow me to adopt Rourke, she wouldn’t respond to our requests.”

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nbsp; “Then you didn’t have anything to do with his biological mother not being a part of his life, and it’s time to move on from those thoughts because they do no one any good. If the woman had wanted to be there for her son, nothing could have stopped her. You’re his mom; let him take care of you. Just always remember to say thank you.”

She laughs. “Patricia was right about you. I’m glad you made it through Rourke’s trial by fire. You like him.”

Holy crap, I go so red my head swims. I’m a fish out of water again—my mouth keeps opening but nothing comes out. I struggle for air. “I—no, it’s...he’s. No. No.”

Tags: Fiona Murphy Romance
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