Page 20 of Blush Crush

She releases a long breath, which is her version of counting to ten. Then she crosses the room and takes my face in both hands the way she used to when I was small, tilting it down to hers. She smells like the same perfume she’s worn my entire life and I feel like a little kid again.

“You are my oldest,” she says. “And I love you more than you will ever understand.”

“I know you do.”

“But I am going to need you to bring a girlfriend to this wedding.”

I step back, freeing myself from her grip. “Mom?—”

“Hear me out.” She holds up a finger. “Whitney is getting married here. Carol and I are both going to be crying all day, because that is what we do at weddings—we cry. And everyone is going to be looking at you to see how you’re doing. And I cannot spend my entire day reassuring people that my son is fine?—”

“I am fine. I’m happy Whitney is getting married.”

“—when he shows up alone to his ex-girlfriend’s wedding at his own winery.” She says it all in a rush, like she’d been holding onto the words for a while.

“I don’t need a girlfriend to prove I’m fine. I am, in fact, completely fine.”

“You are also completely single.” She raises both brows. “Same as you always are. Like you were last Christmas. And our anniversary party. And Easter. And before that?—”

“I see where this is going.”

“I just don’t understand.” She throws her hands up and moves to the other side of the room, which I’ve learned means she’s gearing up for the full speech. “You are handsome. Successful. You have your dad’s blue eyes and my beautiful skin tone. You’re funny and handsome and rich. Any woman would be lucky?—”

“I date plenty of women, Mom.”

She makes a sound that is not quite a scoff and not quite a laugh but somewhere deeply unimpressed in between. “Those are not women. Those are revolving doors.”

I open my mouth and promptly close it. She’s not entirely wrong, but I’m not about to confirm that.

“All I’m asking,” she continues, her voice dropping back into something gentler, “is that you give someone a real chance.That’s it. Not a ring. Not a baby. Just—” she presses her fingers together like she’s pinching the word out of the air—”a chance. Show up to Whitney’s wedding with a woman on your arm, and I will not say another word about it.”

“This sounds like a trick.”

“Take the deal, Cole.”

She looks at me with the very calm, very patient certainty of a woman who has never once in her life not gotten her way.

I drag a hand down my face. “And if I show up with someone who seems like she’s a girlfriend, you’ll leave it alone? And you won’t interrogate the poor girl?”

“It’s called making conversation.”

“Not the way you do it.”

She waves a hand. “That’s just how I talk.”

“Why can’t you just let me be?”

“Maybe I would if you gave me some grandchildren to spoil.” She says it lightly, but her eyes carry something softer underneath it—something I recognize as the quiet grief of a woman who just wants her family whole. “I’m not asking for much. Just this one thing.”

I look at her for a long moment, guilt permeating my stubbornness. “Fine,” I relent.

Her face breaks into a smile so swift and satisfied it’s almost suspicious. Like she knew I’d say it before I did.

“Don’t look so smug about it.”

“I’m not smug. I’m just happy.”

“You’re both,” I mutter, already heading for the door.