Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,124

personal credit card?”

“Because this isn’t personal. It’s business.”

The room feels alive with sexual tension and dark undercurrents. This is intensely personal, but he’s also right in a way. It’s also business—and if I earn that money through my own work, then it’s fair game. As fair as any painting I’ve sold. “Seriously, though. You weren’t even going to call the historical society?”

“And do what?” Christopher asks. “Throw a tea party?”

“As you can see, we need your help,” Sutton says, his expression sardonic.

In that moment I know I’ll be spending some time in Tanglewood. Not only because it will help my mother. Despite what I said before, I do actually care about the company’s success. Christopher and I have too much history for me to be apathetic, no matter how much I want to be.

He could have learned every number in the textbooks at Emerson, but they didn’t prepare him to face off with the righteous Mrs. Rosemonts of the world.

And it turns out that Sutton is good with rope, at least in an abstract sense. With every word he pulls the knots a little tighter. He tugs me a little closer. I’m not sure how I let him ensnare me this way, but already it’s hard to see my way free.

Chapter Five

BASICALLY POISON

“When are you coming home?” Mom says after picking up the phone.

I cringe a little at the word home, but I’m careful not to let my feelings enter my voice. She has more things to worry about than whether her daughter, fresh out of college, wants to live in the spare bedroom. So much has changed in the four years since the will reading, but in other ways everything is the same. “It’ll take longer than I thought.”

She sighs. “Christopher isn’t going to bend, baby.”

“He might,” I say, because there’s no point in explaining the whole thing about the library. It will only stress her out. “Actually he’s being more reasonable. I think if I stay a couple more weeks, we might have it worked out.”

“I don’t need the experimental treatment,” she says for the millionth time. “I don’t want that. I only agreed because you were so adamant. My herbalist has a whole plan laid out for me, to make sure I stay in remission.”

“Mom, you know what the doctor said. A good diet can help you stay strong and healthy, but it’s not going to keep the cancer from coming back.”

“I’m convinced it was all that coffee I drank. I never realized how toxic that stuff is. You aren’t still drinking lattes, are you? It’s basically poison.”

I don’t bother arguing with her, because the poison that caused her cancer changes every week. It was whatever they put in the facials or the chlorine in the gym’s pool. I think in a weird way it helps her feel in control of what’s happening to her body, being able to place the blame on something specific.

“No lattes,” I say, ignoring the empty coffee cups strewn around the hotel room.

“Good. I never want you to go through this.”

Worry is a hand around my chest, because mostly Mom doesn’t complain about how she’s feeling. She tuts and fusses and worries but she never just yells, this fucking hurts. I wish she would actually; it seems like that would be cathartic. This is the way she tries to help me, but the doctor was very clear on her chances for staying in remission. Which are high.

“I actually need you to do me a favor,” I tell her, feeling guilty that I need this from her. There’s only so many times I can wear paint-splattered clothes to the office. “Can you throw some clothes in a box and overnight them to me? I didn’t pack enough.”

“Oh,” she says, sounding relieved. She likes it when I need her. “I can do that. What do you need, more jeans? A few bras.”

“Nicer things, if you can find them. Some evening clothes. And there’s this black skirt somewhere in the back. No pressure, don’t spend too much energy on it, okay?”

“Evening clothes,” she says, proving her mind is just as sharp as ever even if her body has wasted away to half its size. She’s always been fashionably slender, but now she’s painfully skinny. “What are you doing with Christopher that you need evening clothes?”

“I’m visiting Bea tomorrow night,” I say, glad to have some excuse. “You remember her? Beatrix Cartwright. The daughter of the famous concert pianist.”

“Of course I remember her,” Mom says. “I’ll