Page 318 of The Doctors Will See You Now

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?”

“Nope,” my mother responded without hesitation, and before I could stop her, she grabbed my plate and started filling it up with a more than healthy serving of everything.

“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. That’s enough, crazy food lady.” I took my plate from her busy hands before she could dish out crepe number three for me. “I’d like to be able to get into my apartment tonight without needing a crane to get my ass into the elevator.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, sweetheart.” She scoffed. “You’re nearly too thin as it is. A few extra pounds would do you good.”

I sighed, and Jean-Pierre grinned at me from across the table.

“So, what’s new with you, Harlow?” he asked in an attempt to steer the conversation away from my mother trying to overfeed me.

“Not too much.” I shrugged. “I saw Kinky Boots with Dad a few weeks ago.”

“Was that the show he met Nicole at?” my mother asked.

“Yep.” I took a bite of Nutella and whipped cream and crepe goodness and moaned out loud. “Jesus, these are good. My compliments to the chef,” I said with a raise of my fork toward Jean-Pierre, and he grinned.

“Thank you. I’m happy you like them.”

“Do you want another, sweetheart?” my mom asked, and I rolled my eyes.

“Uh, no. I think I’m still good with the one and half I have left on my plate.”

“Tell me more about Scott,” my mother demanded, and my brow furrowed in confusion.