Chapter 2
“Momma!” Tabitha Jones gasped, glancing up from her laptop. “What are you doing here?”
Tilda Jones bustled through the door into Tabitha’s bright, sun-drenched office, her floral dress fluttering slightly around her knees and her panty-hose-covered thighs swishing audibly as she moved.
Her sensible shoes clicked on the hardwood floor, and the enormous faux-leather tote bag slung over her arm bounced against her hip with every step.
“I came to the city, dear,” she said, leaning in for a gentle, lavender-scented hug, “because I always celebrate your birthday with you.”
Tabitha pulled back, blinking. “Birthday?” she echoed, startled.
Her gaze flicked toward the enormous bouquet of cream and blush roses that followed her mother into her office, carried by one of the lobby receptionists who smiled as she set the huge bouquet on the corner of her desk.
Of course. Ramzi. He’d remembered even though she’d completely forgotten. Typical.
Suppressing a sigh, she turned back to her mother with a weak smile. “Momma, it’s wonderful to see you—but why didn’t you call? I could’ve made reservations at your favorite place.”
Bethany, Tabitha’s personal assistant, popped in with her usual energy and a grin that was far too smug to be innocent. “Ramzi sent me a message a month ago,” she chirped. “He asked me to make reservations for you and your mother at Luxe for twelve-thirty.”
Tilda and Bethany beamed at her as if they’d won a contest. Tabitha gave them both a tight smile and sighed, her shoulders slumping. “So everyone remembered my birthday but me.”
Tilda reached into her oversized bag with the dramatic flair of a game show host. “Happy Birthday!” she declared, setting a bottle of wine—wrapped in cheerful red tissue and a gift bag—on the edge of the desk like it was a sacred offering.
Tabitha braced herself. Last year’s “star-fruit” wine had nearly ended her ability to taste for a week.
She peeled the paper back and froze. The label read: Genuine Southern-Style Pickle Wine.
Pickle. Wine.
Was it brined? Fermented with dill? Carbonated into a monstrosity of some sort of…?
Her face didn’t twitch. She considered that a victory.
“Thanks, Momma,” she said sweetly, sliding the bottle back into the bag before her curiosity turned into nausea. She stood and hugged her mother, letting affection outweigh taste. “You’re the best.”
Straightening, she turned to Bethany. “And thank you for making those Luxe reservations. That’s perfect.”
“I know,” Bethany replied, already halfway to the door. “Better get moving if you want to make it on time. You know how Tom gets.”
Tabitha laughed lightly. Tom, the infamous ma?tre d, was a stickler for punctuality—unless Ramzi was the one walking in late. Ramzi could show up at closing time, and Tom would personally reopen the kitchen.
“You’re right,” Tabitha replied, brushing her fingers over her silk blouse and smoothing her skirt. She forced a smile. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her mother. She just hated birthdays. The whole ordeal always left her vaguely sad and overexposed.
Bethany caught her expression, smirked knowingly, and vanished with a cheerful wave.
Tabitha turned to her mother. “Give me a minute, Mom. Let me grab my purse.”
She moved around the desk, but something on her computer screen caught her eye. A notification. From Ramzi.
She barely had time to read the first line before—
“Leave your phone,” Tilda ordered with sudden authority. “It’s your birthday, not a board meeting.”
Tabitha rolled her eyes and tucked her cell phone into the side pocket of her Ralph Lauren tote. “You know I can’t do that, Mom,” she murmured, scanning the stack of papers on her desk one last time to make sure nothing urgent was being neglected.
Tilda grunted. “I know you’ll be on that thing the entire lunch if you bring it.”
Tabitha ignored the jab and reached for her blazer.
“I’ll ignore anything that isn’t urgent,” she promised, looping her arm through her mother’s as they stepped out of the office.
Though they were both on the shorter side, Tabitha—at five-foot-five—felt like a giant beside her mother’s silver curls and shuffling step.
The three inch heels had her towering over her mother’s five feet, two inch height in her sensible, beige flats.
Even as they moved down the hallway, Tilda was still grumbling. “That phone’s going to be the death of your manners,” she said, clutching her oversized tote like it held ancient wisdom instead of a backup bottle of pickle wine. “You don’t need to check it every five seconds.”
Tabitha kissed her cheek. “Thank you for coming into the city today, Mom.”
Ten minutes later, they were seated at Luxe—white linen tablecloth, polished silverware, and the ma?tre d’s spine as straight as a bayonet.
Tom hovered nearby, eyes sharp, posture stiff, monitoring the staff like a general preparing for battle.
Of course, his extra vigilance had less to do with Tabitha herself and everything to do with the authority and stature of her boss.
Ramzi.
Tom wouldn’t dare risk mediocre service knowing the Crown Prince of Uftar occasionally dined here. If Ramzi so much as hinted at disappointment, Tom would personally retrain the kitchen staff. Or exile them.
“Thank you, Tom,” Tabitha said with a polite nod, hoping he’d take the hint and disappear.
Her mother chuckled and opened her menu. “It’s nice to know someone’s looking out for my baby girl.”
Tabitha rolled her eyes again at the phrase.
Twenty-eight years old. High six-figure salary.
A house in her own name, a luxury car in the garage, and a job that required her to anticipate the next moves of a man who could trigger a global stock fluctuation with a half-sentence. But sure. “Baby girl”.
“I know, Mom,” she said, smiling as she glanced down at the menu. Not that she needed to.
Tilda snapped hers shut. “Don’t you sass me, Tabitha Jones!”
Tabitha blinked, confused. “I didn’t sass—”
Tilda leaned forward with a glare. “Today is your birthday. Twenty-eight years ago today, I was sitting in a donut shop, enjoying a perfectly fine maple bar—when you decided to ruin it.”
Tabitha sat back, lips twitching.
Tilda humphed as she continued reminiscing.
“I couldn’t eat that donut because you decided to come into this world early.
” She smiled fondly now. “I wasn’t ready!
I had plans! I had errands! But no, you had to be dramatic.
” Tilda’s lips flattened into a line of righteous indignation.
“And then you stopped. Started coming, then just… stopped.” She nodded her head for emphasis. “You wanted me to suffer.”
Tabitha stayed quiet, biting back a smile. She knew the routine. This tale had been told every year of her life.
“You came into this world just like you live in it—on your own schedule, with zero concern for anyone else’s timetable.” Tilda huffed and shook her head, her silver curls sparkling in the sunlight. “You gave me heartburn and missed your due date by a week.”
Then, just as suddenly, her mother softened. She reached across the table, placed her hand gently over Tabitha’s, and smiled.
“But it was the best twenty-four hours of my life. You gave me purpose.”
Tabitha squeezed her hand. “I love you too, Mom.”
She picked up her menu again, more for show than anything. She already knew what she’d order. She wasn’t hungry, and this wasn’t even her favorite restaurant. Luxe was stuffy, overpriced, and the food was pretentious.
But her mother loved it.
So Tabitha ordered the spinach salad and a glass of sparkling water while Tilda requested the grilled salmon, her go-to dish. She never made salmon at home—claimed it was impossible to do “right.” Luxe, however, made it exactly how she liked it.
Tabitha, meanwhile, quietly endured the smell. The things you did for love.
She waited until their menus were taken before glancing at her mother. “What’s Dad up to lately? Still puttering around in the wood shop?”
For the next hour, Tabitha smiled politely as her mother detailed every woodshop project her father had started but never finished, the miraculous recovery of the neighbor’s tomato plants, the church yard sale, and the rude new bank teller who “needed Jesus.” Tilda adored small-town life and most of its residents.
But not all.
There were two people they never mentioned. That was part of the unspoken pact they’d made years ago—and even Tilda respected it.
Until the salmon arrived.
“Are you coming home for the pre-wedding party?” Tilda asked casually, slicing into her fish.
Tabitha froze mid-bite. “I’m sorry?” she asked, nudging a mandarin orange slice around on her plate. She feigned confusion, but the question hit like a slap. Her stomach tightened instantly.
“Don’t even try it, love,” her mother said with a warning glance. “I know for a fact Stacy sent you an invitation.” Another bite of salmon. Another volley. “She hoped you’d be her maid of honor.”
Tabitha blinked. Her appetite—what little she had—vanished entirely.
“Why did you turn her down?” Tilda asked, eyes narrowing as her fork hovered in midair. “You and Stacy have been through everything together. Her wedding is the perfect time to show her how much she means to you.”
And that was the problem.
Stacy did mean the world to her. But even Stacy had understood why Tabitha couldn’t stand up in that wedding.
“Mom, you know why,” Tabitha said quietly, setting her fork down. She hated spinach. She hated her birthday. She hated this entire day. All she wanted now was to get back to her office and see Ram—
Well. Hear about the outcome of this morning’s meeting.
Her mother’s expression softened. She set her fork aside and reached for Tabitha’s hand, her fingers warm and familiar. “I know Martin hurt you, darling. But at some point, you have to move on.”
Tabitha blinked. That’s what her mother thought this was about? That she was still heartbroken over Martin?