AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Only my mother could pop into a three-Michelin-starred restaurant to deliver her chef son a meal he probably had to microwave.
I took the stairs three at a time, Rhy at my heels.
“How is she doing?” I was foaming at the mouth. Now was a good time to admit to myself that I did give a shit. Lots of shits, if I was being honest. An entire fucking sewer.
“Your mom or Calla?”
I shot him a glare behind my shoulder. He grinned. “Pretty good.” He redid his man-bun as he took the steps. “The cut looks kinda nasty, though.”
“Your face looks nasty.”
“Supremely mature. Also a bit rich, coming from you right now. I could fill up an entire Olympic pool with your sweat. Chill the fuck out.”
“It’s hot in the kitchen.” Had we always had five thousand stairs?
“You’re used to the kitchen heat. It’s the Cal heat that throws you off-balance. Shit,” he snorted out. “You’re worried, aren’t you? I’ve never seen you this way before.”
I slapped the door open so hard the handle made a dent as it slammed into the wall. I didn’t know what I was expecting to see, but it wasn’t Cal, resting on the upholstered brown leather couch next to my desk with her head propped against the armrest, my mother sitting on a chair next to her, pressing napkins to her forehead. The napkins were red as fine wine. Naturally, it didn’t stop Cal from making a long, pointless speech.
“…all I’m saying is that objections at weddings exist solely to make the lives of overworked scriptwriters easier. Like, when did anyone ever oppose a wedding in real life? Also, the legalities of a marriage are established when you apply for a wedding license. Look, don’t get me wrong, the While You Were Sleeping objection scene was epic, no complaints here, but when you think about it—”
“You’re bleeding.” I rushed to her side and fell onto my knees by the couch, fingering the batch of sticky napkins on her forehead. She looked sleepy and beautiful and fuck, that was another reason I didn’t do relationships. Imagine caring for someone, then letting them wander the world, exposed to all kinds of shit? This girl was prone to dying from her klutziness. That she had lived this long was a miracle.
Cal’s enormous, cloudless-sky eyes peered back at me, soot-lashed and innocent.
“Duh. I was there when it happened.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or berate her. “Wow. You’re really pretty.” She touched my cheek dazedly. “I mean, you’re always pretty, but today you are extra pretty. Extraprettinery.”
Shit. I hoped she didn’t have a concussion.
“Does it hurt?” I croaked. Since when was I croaking? I was a grunter, a groaner, a bellower, sometimes. Not a croaker.
“Not really. But I think I’m getting a little woozy.”
“You’re anemic.” Oops. Was not supposed to know that.
“I am!” she said brightly. “Oh, that reminds me, I need to refill my iron prescription. I haven’t done that”—she scrunched her forehead, and the bleeding started again—“in three years or so. How’d you know anyway?”
She had mentioned it once during a sleepover at Dylan’s when she was fifteen. That was why I’d kept all those Oh Henry! bars everywhere. She was bound to faint if she didn’t take care of herself.
“Row…” Mom put a hand on my shoulder, and that was when I realized I was cradling Cal’s head in my hands like she was dying in my arms. Her forehead probably needed stitches. There was a shit ton of blood. “She got hurt, she isn’t dying.”
“Are you a doctor?” I bit out.
Mom blinked, surprised by my harsh tone. “Well, no…”
“Then spare me your medical assessments.” I twisted my head toward Rhyland. “Take Mom downstairs and call a doctor.”
“I can just drive her to urgent care.” Rhy ran his knuckles over his stubble. Right. Like I’d put her in the same car with a man who wasn’t me.
“No. Call a doctor. I don’t want her sitting around in a clinic the entire night.” After realizing how it sounded, I added, “She still needs to finish her shift.”
“Ambrose Rhett Casablancas,” Mom gasped. “You force this poor girl to work tonight, and you’ll be needing stitches too after I’m done with you.”
Cal cackled. “I could marry you right now, Mrs. Casablancas!”
“Thank you, sweetie. The constitution of marriage disappointed me once. Not interested in trying again.” That was the most she’d said about her marriage to my father in thirty years.
“Come on, Zeta, follow me. Row stocked up on the roséyou like.” Rhyland approached Mom, resting a casual hand on her arm. She flinched at his touch, scooting away. I had to work my jaw back and forth to avoid cursing.
