Midnight Sommelier - Anne Malcom Page 0,34

with tears I’d rarely seen from her. “I think I need you a lot. You and the boys. I think I need that. My family. To help me through this mid-life crisis, or whatever the heck this is.”

“You’re welcome here for as long as you want. Forever. We can be the sister spinsters who drink wine and talk shit about everyone that isn’t us.”

She smiled. “Sounds like a plan.”

It had been one week since that night.

You know, the night of the two-hundred-dollar wine, my son getting into a fight to protect a girl’s honor, me sucking face with the hottest man I’d ever seen up close, including my husband.

A week of hating myself for that thought.

For fantasizing about that kiss.

For keeping it a secret from Alexis. From my boys.

In between all that self-hatred, I still had to do my mom duties. The ones I’d been neglecting for a year.

I had one in the ‘win’ column at least. Ryder loved the car. I could barely get him out of it—he’d sleep in it if he could. The picnic, the party, it had all gone down well.

Not thinking about Zeke and the kiss had not gone well. Like, at all.

“Of course,” I muttered as I pulled onto my street and saw the sleek black Jag parked in the driveway.

My mother-in-law had been trying to schedule a time to meet up and “discuss things.” I had been trying my best to avoid her calls and delay such a meet-up. It seemed her patience had run out.

It also seemed my luck had run out, because exactly as I pulled into my driveway the roar of a motorcycle sounded from the house next door.

I shouldn’t have found that hot. Those things were dangerous and loud. But I did find it hot.

My mother-in-law, who had gotten out of her car on my approach, did not find it hot. Her face screwed up underneath her large Chanel sunglasses and her diamond and gold adorned hand went to her chest.

She wore haughty distaste better than she did her Ralph Lauren blazer.

I made a conscious effort not to look in the direction of the roaring motorcycle, no matter how badly I wanted to catch a glimpse of Zeke on that thing. No, I was far too afraid that something would show on my face, something Josephine would see, and figure out I’d besmirched her beloved son’s memory by sucking face with a man who drove a motorcycle.

By the time the roar of the motorcycle had dissipated with Zeke’s departure, I had gotten my shit together and made it to my mother-in-law.

“Josephine, this is a surprise,” I said, leaning in for that terrible double air kiss that she thought made her cultured and European but really just made her look like a rich asshole.

“How did that ... miscreant get past your Homeowner’s Association?” she said in response, still scowling at the house as if there were a burning tire in the yard instead of the well-maintained lawn.

I glimpsed over—it was safe now that Zeke had left. “He’s a miscreant because he rides a motorcycle?” I asked.

She moved her scowl to me. “That is not the kind of person that lives in this neighborhood.”

I gritted my teeth. As much as I wanted to argue with her and call her a classist pig, she was still my boy’s only living grandparent. She loved them. She was a connection to David, despite the fact they were nothing alike.

“Why don’t you come inside for some tea?” I asked.

She pursed her lips, most likely already preparing to hate the quality of my tea or the cups I served it in or whatever. But she nodded once.

She followed me into the house, and I knew her practiced eye was looking for signs of my failing as a mother, a woman, and a human being. In my eyes, the house looked immaculate, like it used to when I was Instagramming all day long, portraying a lacquered version of my life.

The entryway table held a large vase of fresh flowers. The surface was dusted, the mirror above it sparkling clean. The rugs that covered the gleaming hardwood floor were freshly shampooed. The air smelled of lemon and lavender thanks to the expensive diffuser I’d turned on before leaving the house.

The boy’s shoes were put away in a wicker box by the stairs.

Our marble counters gleamed. The farmhouse sink was free of dishes. Countertops had no clutter, only our expensive coffee machine,Ankarsrum mixer, and large glass jars full of