Chapter 20 #2
“Mom,” Ramona says. Adrenaline spikes through her, almost more powerful than the sickness. “What the fuck?”
She hasn’t seen her mother in…she mentally counts. Over six months. The brunette dye has grown out, or more accurately, DeeAnn’s bleached it back to blond, with honey highlights. No longer caring to emphasize any family resemblance, Ramona guesses.
The shock of DeeAnn Wilder here, in the flesh, sparks too many complicated emotions. Relief that she seems to be doing okay, aside from the clear frustration on her face. Fury that she handled Ramona’s career like she was a product.
Grief.
Because somewhere deep inside her is a girl who still longs for her mother—the kind of mother that DeeAnn used to be, before the fame warped them all.
DeeAnn clutches a tiny Burberry bag that’s much too impractical to fit anything. “You haven’t been answering my calls. I’ve been giving you all the space you need, but there comes a time when simple common courtesy has to win out.”
“I’m sick,” Ramona says, rubbing her hands along her arms. “Why are you here?”
For a moment, she entertains the ridiculous idea that DeeAnn is here to apologize. To grovel.
“I need a reason to see my daughter?” She steps closer, wobbling on platform soles that make her almost as tall as Ramona.
Scrutinizes her in a way that makes her feel like tiny spiders are crawling all over her skin.
“You’ve been sick for a month? That’s why you haven’t called back?
Because you should probably see someone, if that’s the case. ”
Nick stiffens next to her. She really doesn’t want him to see this: her mother, treating her like a child. She watches her scrutinize Nick, too, but Ramona doesn’t offer an introduction. DeeAnn doesn’t deserve to know who he is.
“I don’t have the energy to do this right now. Can’t we have the lawyers handle it?” Ramona’s curiosity is entirely unpiqued. This is probably another plea to come back to music. Or maybe she’s running out of money. If it’s anything about Zander…well, she really doesn’t have the energy for that.
A long time ago, her being sick might have meant something to DeeAnn.
A movie marathon and a long bath where DeeAnn stayed and kept her company, babbling about her time as a CSI corpse and how Ramona could do so much more than she ever had.
And back then, Ramona only wanted to make her mother happy. Proud.
That was years before the insistence that thousands of fans paid good money for a Ramona Wilder show, and she really wanted to cancel because she had the sniffles?
“Ramona Jane,” DeeAnn says. “You aren’t going to at least let me in? Let’s do this inside, like civilized people.”
“No.”
Nick’s palm lands on her back. Soft. Steadying.
“You need to leave,” he says to DeeAnn, drawing up to his full height. “This isn’t a good time.”
DeeAnn whips her head over to him. “I don’t know who the hell you are, but I am her mother.”
“And she doesn’t want you here. This is her house. Her property.” His tone is firm, but not aggressive. Level. “I could go inside and get a copy of the deed, if it’s not clear. Or call up her lawyers.”
Fuck, if that isn’t hot, seeing him tell off her mother.
“Ramona,” DeeAnn says, as though waiting for her to intervene.
“This isn’t a negotiation,” Nick says. “She’s sick, and she hasn’t eaten, and she needs more rest. We’ve got this all under control here.”
An extended beat. She hasn’t eaten might be too much ammunition for DeeAnn. Good, she could stand to skip a few meals, she imagines her mother saying.
DeeAnn surveys him through narrowed eyes, then finally snatches her car keys from her purse. “Enjoy her while you can. She’ll get bored of you sooner or later.”
With that, she gets back in the car, leaving Ramona shivering on her driveway with a stinging in her eyes. Even now, even after all of this—she can’t let Ramona have a single shred of power.
“I never asked if you wanted anything to eat or drink or even showed you where the bathroom is. I’m being a terrible host.” She’s shaking, feeling about three inches tall. Enjoy her while you can. As though Ramona is something that only lasts for a short period of time. A piece of rotting fruit.
With the back of her palm, she wipes tears from her face.
Suddenly, two strong arms come around her.
“Hey,” Nick says, drawing her close. “Come here.”
Just like when they were at the apartment, she buries her face in his shirt and inhales.
Grabs handfuls of the fabric, gasping against it as a sob sticks in her throat.
He holds her tight enough to block out the rest of the world, and there’s that lovely comforting Nick scent managing to break through the congestion.
Cedar and peppermint and kindness. So she breathes him in, like if she just gets enough of him in her lungs, all of this will be okay.
That crushing loneliness she’s felt for longer than she can remember—maybe she sees it in him too, and that’s why this magnet is drawing them closer and closer. The universe pushing two lonely people together.
“You know what?” Nick says as he rubs her back in gentle circles. “Getting sick is very normal. You’re absolutely killing it.”
She laughs at that, like he knew just what to say to make her feel better. He’s still here. He’s still here, and he smells this good, and he doesn’t believe any of what her mother said. “Thank you,” she says to his heartbeat. “You didn’t have to—but thank you.”
Back inside, they heat up some of her premade meals and bring them over to the couch.
“We can talk about it or not talk about it,” he says while they eat. “Whatever you want.”
“I’d like to not talk about it, if that’s okay.”
He squeezes her ankle. “Of course.”
Being around DeeAnn feels like all her worst childhood nightmares come to life. It’s humiliating for him to have witnessed, but the fact that he’s not running away—that he’s doing the opposite—it’s almost too much for her to handle.
She can’t recall the last time anyone took care of her who wasn’t on her payroll. And even then, it didn’t feel like this.
—
“Down to 99.5,” Ramona says, removing a thermometer from her mouth as Nick dries his hands on a towel.
He washed the dishes despite her telling him the cleaners would be here the day after tomorrow, and she thanked him for about the dozenth time.
She undoes the cat clip in her hair, her scalp aching as she claws her fingers through it before putting it back up.
“Does my hair look as gross as it feels? I haven’t had the energy to wash it. ”
Nick just watches her for a long moment, gives a slight twist of his mouth—not answering her about how gross her hair is, but seeming to debate what he’s about to say. “I…could wash it for you. If you want.”
And that is not an offer she ever expected to receive from someone who doesn’t work at a salon.
“Just—if it would make you more comfortable,” he continues as she struggles to find words. “You could wear a swimsuit. We wouldn’t be…showering together.”
God, it does sound nice. Awkward, maybe, but nice.
“Okay,” she finds herself saying, voice sounding far away, if only because her pulse is thudding in her ears. “I’d like that.”
She spends far too long deciding which swimsuit to wear. In the end she goes with a simple black bikini with the most ample ass coverage of anything she owns, which is still little more than a slim triangle, and ties a robe over it.
Then she opens her bedroom door and leads him into the en suite. If he’s put off by the jade marble or the sprawling custom vanity, he doesn’t say anything.
“Probably easiest if you sit in the tub?” he suggests.
She nods, suddenly shy. Despite having given her two orgasms, this man hasn’t seen her naked, and even if she’s wearing a swimsuit, it’s still more of her skin than she’s shown anyone in quite some time.
When she drops the robe, it seems like he doesn’t know where to look.
She watches him struggle to keep his eyes on her face, until she steps into the tub and he lets out a shaky sigh.
She doesn’t feel very graceful as she lowers herself, crossing her legs and leaning her back on the outer edge to give him access to her hair.
At least this way she can kind of shield her stomach.
And this swimsuit does make her tits look great.