Tailored for Trouble (Happy Pants #1) - Mimi Jean Pamfiloff Page 0,51

His outside was rough and intimidating. But once you took the time to know him, you found yourself at the mercy of his charms. Then money and ambition poisoned the man I loved—I think that’s what eventually stopped his heart. And now Bennett will find himself in an early grave, too, if he doesn’t stop behaving like such a workaholic ass who’s got something to prove to the world. Do me a favor Taylor? Promise me that you’ll succeed where I failed—you’ll make him see what he’s doing to himself is wrong. He can’t pay for his father’s mistakes. He has to let go of the past. He needs to move on with his life and settle down. It’s the only thing I want.”

Let go of what exactly? And what had his father done? And why do I feel like this woman has already checked out?

Taylor then remembered Bennett mentioning that his mother had been “off” lately. In fact, he’d mentioned it twice. “Mrs. Wade, are you…uh, sick?”

There was a long stretch of silence. “You see there? You’re smart. Just perfect for my Bennett.”

She hadn’t answered the question, but it wasn’t necessary.

“Promise you won’t tell him, Taylor. He’s got enough on his shoulders right now and Bali is at a critical point—his legacy. Do everything you can to help him see it through. Even after I’m gone in a few months. Can you do that, child?”

She only had a few months to live? And Bennett didn’t know? Oh God. Taylor did not want to keep this sort of secret, but denying a dying woman her one wish…Well, that wasn’t something Taylor could ever do. “Yes, Mrs. Wade. I will do everything I can.”

“That’s a good girl. Now call me Linda. Or better yet, Mom.”

Poor Mrs. Wade had already married her off to Bennett. Chances of that happening are slim to when pigs fly. Rocket ships. “I don’t think—”

“I never had a daughter,” Mrs. Wade added, “and it would give me some peace in my final moments.”

Taylor sniffled, not realizing she’d been standing outside the revolving lobby doors of the Ritz-Carlton Tokyo, crying. God help me. This woman is so insane and so sweet. And in a very, very bizarre way, Taylor imagined her own mother would’ve been similar. Her father rarely spoke of her mother, and only Marcus, the oldest, had any real memories of her, since he’d been almost seven when she’d died; but Taylor knew two things without question: One, her mother had been the love of her father’s life. He’d never so much as looked at anyone else after she died. And when Taylor was growing up, though her father always did his best to keep a smile on his face, she often caught him staring off, lost in his own thoughts.

Taylor liked to believe he daydreamed of her mother, maybe imagining her there with them, laughing and crying and breathing the same air. Yet, he never looked sad. Which led her to her second point: Her father had no regrets. It simply was who he was, and probably the reason he had raced cars. He lived in the moment and knew that there were never any guarantees, but there’d always be surprises. Taylor was one of them. The fourth child and an “oops.” It had taken a long time for her to accept and forgive herself for having caused her mother’s death, but if her brothers and father could forgive her, then so could she. No doubt about it, though, not having a mother gave her a deep appreciation for moms. Something about not having one made them all so special.

“Yes, I’d be happy to call you ‘Mom,’ Linda.” Anything to make her final days happier.

“Thank you, dear. And one last thing.”

“Ye-yes?”

“When he pushes you away—and believe me, he will—like a drowning man fighting for air—you push back. You hang on. He’ll come around.”

“O-okay…”

“Have him call me as soon as he can. Good night, dear.”

“Good night…” she gulped. “Mom.”

CHAPTER 9

After hanging up with Mrs. Wade, Taylor went inside to the reception desk and asked about getting to the hospital. Honestly, Taylor had no clue where it was, and jumping into a taxi willy-nilly made her feel uneasy. She didn’t know the city that well nor did she speak the language.

The reception clerk, a young man with short black hair, suggested calling St. Jude’s first to check on Bennett’s admission status. He pointed out that they might not let her see him or give her information considering