Shameless - Sybil Bartel Page 0,67

my phone onto the glass coffee table before sinking into the soft leather sofa.

Shade’s cabin didn’t have a glass coffee table or a white leather sectional. It didn’t have a modern décor designed by an expensive interior design firm who made everything look expertly ‘beach chic’ in a palette of whites, grays, tans and pale blues. Shade didn’t even have throw pillows on his sofa.

He had a panic room, perimeter security, and his hall closet had a shotgun.

My closet had Louboutins.

And I hated it.

All of it.

Including the two suitcases sitting in the front entryway mocking me. Restless, I stood to go unpack them, but a knock sounded at the front door.

My heart jumped even though I knew there was no danger. I was in a secure building and the keycard access had been changed while I was in rehab. Only my father, Fallon and André Luna had access.

Not wanting to see any of them, I padded barefoot to the entry and steeled myself before opened the door.

My stepmother, Fallon, stood flawlessly poised with a guarded expression, but when she saw my hair, she blinked. “Hello, Summer.”

Her sultry voice was a perfect blend of cultured upbringing and understated seduction. I’d envied it my whole life. As a famous supermodel, she was stunning, even more so now that she was in her late thirties, but I’d always wondered if my father had fallen for her voice over her beauty.

“Hi.” I stepped back so she could come in.

In high-heeled, jeweled Jimmy Choo sandals and a silk, cream colored dress, she gracefully walked past me. As classy and polished as she’d always been, her subtle perfume trailed after her like a talisman of her impeccable blend of beauty and wealth.

An insecurity I’d felt my entire life around her surfaced, and yet I still yearned to reach for her like a child reaches for her mother. But no one in the Amherst household embraced.

I couldn’t even remember a single hug I’d received from my father. Leo Amherst had hardly ever been around when I was growing up. And on the rare occasion he’d grace us with his presence, he was always in work mode, conniving or manipulating whoever was on the other end of his ever-present cell phone. When he’d finally set the phone down, he’d busy himself with Fallon behind closed doors.

I used to resent my stepmother when I was younger. I blamed her for taking my father’s attention away from me. Then I’d caught Leo groping a poor young caterer in the kitchen one Thanksgiving, and I realized he treated her worse than his only offspring. Leo’s general shittiness probably could’ve bonded us, and maybe if I’d told her about the incident in the kitchen that year, it would have. Or maybe it only would’ve made her divorce him sooner. Regardless, I’d never said anything because she’d always felt like an island to me. Hell, maybe I was too.

Turning to face me, but not sitting, Fallon glanced at my hair. “Your natural color looks lovely.”

That was the thing about Fallon. She was kind to a fault, which only made me feel a thousand times guiltier for everything I’d put her through. “Thanks.”

Her already quiet voice became quieter with compassion. “How are you?”

Covering embarrassment, I smirked. “I’m clean, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Her complexion perfect, her hair naturally blonde, she dipped her head as she nodded without comment.

Then we stood there in awkward silence for a moment before I blurted out what I should’ve said the second I opened the door. “I’m sorry.”

Remaining perfectly still, only her gaze met mine.

Not having any of the stillness or elegance that Fallon had, I waved a nervous hand between us. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. I know you never signed up to be an instant mother to a kid who was a breathing reminder of your husband’s infidelity. You didn’t deserve me being a horrible person to you. You deserved better. I’m just—” My voice broke and I tried to clear the sudden lump of regret in my throat as tears welled. “I’m really sorry.”

“I was practically a child myself. I didn’t know how to raise a baby. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better stand-in mother.”

My tears spilled over. “You were my only mother.” But I’d never called her that, not with any seriousness or respect. “You deserved better from me.”

“Maybe it was you who deserved better,” she quietly countered, her own eyes filling with tears.

Hearing the forgiveness from her I didn’t deserve, a