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“What are you doing here, Faye?”
My mother offers a cool smile, one guaranteed to set my temper boiling and she knows it. “Can’t a mother take an interest in her child’s fundraising? Two in one week. I’m very impressed. But Magnus, dear, you know it’s going to take more than a few charities to show you have heart. And who is that? Not your usual icy sex-pot types.”
“Can one be both ice and hot?”
“She looks human.”
“You’re a real laugh, ma.”
Her eyes narrow. “What are you up to? You have three weeks left.”
“I know exactly how much time I have and just leave Zoey out of it, okay?”
“Zoey.” My mother says the name like she’s tasting it. “She looks not only human, but someone who could have those earrings in minutes, if you get my drift.”
I do and I’m getting really pissed off. Actually, I’m pissed off at a lot. My mother for elbowing in and attempting her version of matchmaking. My dead father for this bullshit. Zoey for not selling like a good girl. And Zoey again, for making me like her and respect her.
Being at my own charity crap, even if the charity people don’t know it, is pathetic. It makes me look like I’m doing exactly what I’m doing.
“Look, Zoey—”
“Pretty name for a pretty woman.”
I resist the urge to swear. “Listen, leave her alone.” I take a breath. This shit is getting more complicated by the second. “She’s another charity. I’m helping her, but the catch is she doesn’t know who I am.”
My mother just looks at me, her expression giving nothing away. “You like her.”
“Not like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know what.”
“Hmmm….”
People need to stop fucking saying that to me. “Catch is, she doesn’t know who I am and wouldn’t accept my help if she did.” The help being me saving her from a life of barely scraping by. Putting it like that. I’m a saint. “She doesn’t like our kind.”
“People?”
“Rich people.”
She’s about to say something, but changes her mind. “Good luck, Magnus, but this isn’t as easy as you think it is.”
And then, before I can ask her what the hell that means, she turns and breezes off.
I go to return to Zoey and honestly, I don’t want to be here anymore. Where the hell is she?
With a groan, I spot her. She’s talking to the staff, and I find myself watching her as she flits about, making small talk to different people, pointing at the art, and as I sidle up, she’s talking to someone who’s clearly old, old money and telling them how fabulous this all is and how the art is an absolute steal at three times the price and how it’s also not only helping the less fortunate but a tax write off.
And, against my will, I find myself smiling. Zoey is just so Zoey. She’s sweet, she’s smart, she’s pushy without people knowing it, and I’m pretty fucking sure she’s just made that old woman part with a huge amount of money.
When she turns, I go to her. “Have you donated all your money yet?”
Her cheeks turn pink and I make another calculation in my head to give her extra when I get her building. I can afford it.
“You know, I think I’m ready to go. Unless you want to introduce me to your mother?”
I take her to a nearby Mexican diner. Over tostadas and fries and a couple of Tecate beers—which aren’t bad for a non-beer drinker like me—I realize I’m having a good time.
