Page 200 of The Doctors Will See You Now

“Yep,” she answered with a proud smile.

“I should’ve known when you tried to get me here at nine this morning and wouldn’t budge past ten thirty.”

She smirked. “What can I say? I’ve missed my little Harlow.”

“What have my favorite girls been gabbing about since you stepped in the door?” Jean-Pierre asked as he set the fruit onto a platter.

“Oh, you know, the usual,” I said with an annoyed sigh. “Mom is trying to get me to move back in with you guys, and I’m trying to explain to her that I’m too old to move back home,” I teased, and my mom laughed in response.

“She’ll never stop asking until you do it,” he responded through a chuckle, and my mother flashed a glare in his direction, which only made him laugh more. “Don’t shoot the messenger,” he added with a cheeky grin. “I’m merely telling her the truth. And you know that I’d love for Harlow to come live with us again.”

“See?” My mother’s eyes met mine. “Even your stepfather thinks it’s a good idea.”

“That’s because he knows it would make you happy, and we both know that man lives to make you happy.”

“You’re right,” he chimed in and glanced at my mother with his heart in his eyes. “Your mother is my world.”

She giggled as she walked toward him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Love you,” she whispered and he grinned.

While they had their typical little lovey-dovey moment in the kitchen, I walked around their apartment, taking in the place I used to call my full-time home.

Their SoHo pad was gorgeous, and extremely spacious for New York City’s standards, and it had always been a place I adored. Large, floor-to-ceiling windows highlighted the open floor plan, and the space was filled with midcentury modern décor and various paintings they’d collected over the years.

It was one hundred percent my mother and her European husband.

She’d always been a painter at heart, and after she’d divorced my father, she’d run a gallery in Manhattan. And it was where she’d met Jean-Pierre. He loved art and she sold art and, well, the rest was history.

Her eccentricity and his open-mindedness about life had connected them, and it was their love of art that had started the foundation of their relationship. Hell, the entire wall above the sleek, white sectional sofa showcased over fifty vintage paintings from various artists they loved, including a few of my mother’s paintings.

As I continued to look around their home, my fingers found a small marble nude sculpture of a shapely woman and traced the clean lines of her stone figure.

Art was life for them. It was in their blood.

And I often found myself a little envious that they’d created a life for themselves that revolved around their passion.

Deep down, I wanted that kind of life for myself. The kind of life that didn’t revolve around writing gossip columns, but doing something that gave me purpose.

Medicine.

I internally scoffed at my brain’s detour toward my past aspirations. Sure, becoming a pediatrician had been my original life goal, but the time to accomplish that had long since passed.

God, how had my life gotten so off track from where I’d originally thought it would go?

Brent, my mind whispered, and I sighed internally. I hated blaming my life’s choices on someone else. My ex hadn’t exactly helped me achieve what I’d wanted out of life, but ultimately, I’d been the one to make the decision not to go to medical school right after graduation. I’d been the one who’d given up the internship opportunity that would have most likely set me up for a successful path into med school, not to mention an even more successful career as a physician. Now I spent most of my time blathering about which male celebrity gave the best oral based on his eye color and a random groupie named Candy.

Fucking hell, I hated dwelling on the past.

“Breakfast is ready, Harlow,” my mother yelled, thankfully pulling me from my depressing thoughts. “Come sit down and eat,” she said as she finished setting the dining room table with white plates.

Grateful for the reprieve from my internal monologue, I made my way to the table and sat down beside my mom and watched as Jean-Pierre set the last plate of food onto the table.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he said with a grin and sat down across from me.

My eyes turned into saucers as they took in the numerous platters of delicious food sitting in front of me—fresh croissants and strawberry jam, crepes with bananas and Nutella and homemade whipped cream, and enough cut-up fruit to feed an army.

Jesus Christ. Between breakfast here and lunch at Hot House, I wasn’t finishing off this day without packing on a few extra pounds.

“Holy moly, this is a lot of food. Do you think maybe we should skip lunch at Hot House?”