Chapter 34 Mama Knows Best
Mama Knows Best
Harlee
Iwatch the city slide by through the ride-share window, the Chicago River catching light like it’s wearing jewelry for no reason. My stomach flutters, stupid and happy.
Finally. An evening alone with August.
It’s been a few days of almosts, of timing that keeps missing on purpose. My school schedule. His mom in town. Work. Life. All of it trying to act like it’s in charge.
Tonight is supposed to be simple.
Just me and my man.
The car slows in front of his building, tall and glowing against the cold. The driver cracks the window and the wind bites like it has a personal vendetta.
“Thanks,” I say, unbuckling and grabbing my coat.
“Anytime. Stay warm!”
Chicago slaps me in the face with that dry November chill. I pull my collar tighter and walk toward the entrance like I’m not one gust away from looking undomesticated.
At the glass doors, I catch my reflection and do that thing I always do when I’m nervous: adjust a curl that isn’t even out of place, smooth my coat like it’s wrinkled, check my face like I could’ve forgotten it at home.
“One night with my man,” I whisper. “No pressure. Totally chill.”
Then my brain, uninvited: It’s not like you’ll meet his mom tonight.
My nerves don’t care what I say. They don’t speak English.
The lobby is warm, polished, expensive in that quiet way. I nod at the concierge and slip into the elevator, pressing my palm to my chest like I can physically press the anxiety back down.
The doors open to the penthouse floor. Quiet. Private. My boots echo on porcelain tile as I walk toward his matte-black door, the touch-panel glowing faintly like a heartbeat.
I fluff my top, smooth my curls again, and blow a kiss at the doorbell camera because I’m still me, even when I’m panicking.
Click. The lock disengages with a soft mechanical purr.
Only… it’s not August who answers.
It’s a tall redhead with perfect curls and green eyes sharp enough to cut glass, dressed in cream cashmere and dark jeans that probably have their own publicist. She’s standing there like she belongs in his condo. Like she owns the air.
I blink hard.
Did I… knock on the wrong door?
She looks me up and down, amused. “You don’t look like you brought Kung Pao chicken.”
My brain stutters.
Neighbor? Friend? Please don’t be a side piece. Please don’t be a side piece.
“Uh,” I manage, “hi. I’m here for August?”
Her brow arches. “I would hope so. You’re at his door.”
She steps aside, still smiling like she’s enjoying this. “You must be Harlee.”
Okay. So she knows me.
Not helping.
“That’s me,” I say carefully. “And you are…”
“Amelia,” she says, hand to her chest like that’s supposed to wrap it up.
Amelia.
My stomach drops.
Amelia as in…
She watches recognition hit me and her smile widens. “Augustus’ mother.”
Oh.
Oh no.
Full-body panic lights me up like a Christmas tree.
“Oh! Mrs. King, I didn’t…”
“Please,” she cuts in, waving it off. “Just Amelia. ‘Mrs. King’ makes me sound ancient.”
“Right. Amelia.” I nod too fast. “Sorry.”
She gestures me in. “Come on. Augustus is finishing a call.”
I step inside, trying to look like a person who belongs here and not like someone who’s about to trip over her own dignity.
His place is all sleek lines and soft lighting, the kind of calm that makes you whisper automatically. And somehow her presence makes it feel even more… grown.
“This is a surprise,” Amelia says lightly. “Since you’re not the takeout I ordered. But I wasn’t expecting to meet you like this. Augustus speaks highly of you.”
“Thank you,” I say, following her toward the kitchen. “He speaks highly of you too.”
She smirks, and I see it immediately. That’s where he got it. That smug curve like a secret.
“Coat?” she asks.
“Oh. Yeah.” I practically fling it off. Smooth, Harlee. Real smooth.
She hangs it with ease, then gestures to the barstools like we’re old friends. “Wine?”
“Yes, please.” My mouth is dry enough to qualify as a drought.
She pours like she’s been doing it forever, slides a glass to me, and settles across from me.
“So,” she says, casual but not careless. “How did you and August meet?”
Oh God.
The park. Chaos. Me acting like my life is a rom-com and not a math program with deadlines.
“We kind of ran into each other,” I say. “Literally. He wasn’t looking. I wasn’t either. It… escalated.”
Amelia’s eyes soften with fond amusement. “Sounds like him. Always moving too fast to see what’s in front of him.”
I laugh, relieved. “Yeah. That checks out.”
She tilts her head. “Did he ever tell you about his dinosaur phase?”
I nearly choke. “His what?”
“He had a T-rex costume,” she says, delighted. “Wore it for days. To bed, to school, to church. Roaring at everyone like he was fierce.”
“August?” I sputter, laughing. “The same man who owns six colognes?”
“The very one,” she says, raising her glass. “I think he believed it made him invincible.”
And just like that, the knot in my chest loosens. I can breathe again.
“That’s actually adorable,” I admit.
“It was,” she says, softer now. “He had a wild imagination. Still does.”
She lifts her wine. “Come sit. I’ve got pictures.”
We move to the couch. I tuck one leg under me and accept her phone when she hands it over.
“Everything’s digitized,” she says. “Easier to embarrass him this way.”
I swipe, and my heart does this weird little squeeze.
August as a kid in a cardboard clubhouse. August posing like a domino king. August on a stoop selling empanadas like he’s running a whole operation. Hair the color of regret.
“Oh, this is gold.”
“He dyed it for a girl,” Amelia says, deadpan.
“Please tell me you’re sending me this.”
“Already queued,” she replies, smug.
We laugh until my cheeks hurt, until my shoulders stop being up by my ears.
Then Amelia’s expression shifts, small and real.
“You’re part of his story now,” she says. “You know that, right?”
The warmth that spreads through me is immediate. Dangerous.
I swallow. “I’m tryin’ to be.”
“You’re doing just fine,” she says, squeezing my hand. “Better than fine.”
My throat tightens, and I’m saved from having to respond by a soft sound behind us.
Footsteps.
August appears from the loft, phone in hand, taking in the scene like he walked in on a conspiracy.
His eyes flick to me, to his mom, to the phone in my hand. Surprise flashes, then the smirk settles into place like it lives there.
“Ma,” he says, amused. “Are you corrupting my girlfriend with dinosaur stories?”
Amelia doesn’t even blink. “I was showing Harlee your breakdancing debut.”
August groans, dragging a hand through his hair as he drops onto the couch beside me. He immediately hooks an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in like it’s instinct, like he’s claiming calm.
“You just had to bring that one up.”
“It’s a classic,” Amelia says solemnly.
I crack up. August drops his head against my shoulder like he can hide from the past that way.
“Oh, I’m having a blast,” I tell him. “Didn’t know I was dating the king of cardboard breakdancing.”
“You’re never letting that go,” he mutters.
“Absolutely not.”
“Good,” he says, and his mouth tugs like he’s fighting a smile. “I’d be worried if you did.”
Amelia watches us with that satisfied, motherly gleam. Like she’s clocking something she’s been hoping for.
A knock sounds at the door.
Amelia perks up. “Dinner.”
“I ordered Chinese,” she says, already moving. “A little New York comfort.”
August shakes his head. “If her accent didn’t give her away, her obsession with takeout will.”
Amelia opens the door, and the scent hits immediately. Sesame. Garlic. Fried heaven.
“Please tell me there are veggie options,” I say, half-joking, half-pleading. “Someone promised to feed me tonight.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Amelia says over her shoulder, pleased with herself. “Vegetable dumplings, sautéed bok choy, garlic eggplant. Augustus told me you were vegan.”
That one lands. The fact he told her. The fact she remembered. The fact she planned around it.
I look at her, genuinely touched. “Look at you doing research.”
August watches us like we’re speaking a language he doesn’t understand. “When did y’all become best friends?”
“Since the first embarrassing story,” I say sweetly.
“She loved the dinosaur one,” Amelia adds.
“I feel outnumbered,” he grumbles, handing me silver chopsticks.
“We’re starting a club,” I tell him.
“As long as I still get to eat,” he says, and that’s when I know he’s fine. He’s pretending to complain, but his eyes are warm. Proud.
We unpack the cartons at the island, passing food back and forth, stealing bites like we’re a family and not three people who technically just met in this configuration.
Amelia glances at her watch eventually, standing and collecting her things with the same effortless grace she arrived with.
“I should go,” she says. “I have a full day tomorrow. Spa, caterers, and I need to drop off my donation for the gala.”
“Drop off. Oh, are you not attending??” I ask.
“I won’t be there,” Amelia says easily. “I’ve already made my donation for the silent auction, and I’m overseeing a few other charities while I’m in town. This night belongs to August. You’ll be there, yes?” she says to me.
August’s grin turns wicked. “She’s undecided. Still debating if I’m public-worthy.”
I roll my eyes, but my cheeks heat. “That’s not it. I’m just clearly the cooler one.”
“Backup options if she bails,” he teases.
“Like anyone else would put up with you,” I shoot back.
Amelia laughs, then her hand settles briefly on August’s arm, softening. “I do hope you come, Harlee. The night won’t be as fun without you.”
August’s expression shifts at the mention of the gala, like something deeper moves under the jokes. Amelia’s voice does too.
“It’s special to Auggie” she says. “And to me.”
Then, gentler: “Your father would be so proud. You look more like him every day.”
August’s smile fades into something quiet. Real.
“Thanks, Ma,” he says.
The air changes. Not heavy, just… honest.
I clock it again, that reminder that the gala isn’t just fancy clothes and cameras. It’s legacy. It’s grief dressed in tuxedos. It’s his way of fighting back against the thing that took his dad.
Amelia turns to me and pulls me into a hug before I can overthink it.
“Lovely meeting you, dear,” she says. “Let’s do this again.”
“Of course,” I manage, because my throat is tight.
August walks her out, and when he comes back, he drops onto the couch beside me like he’s been holding something in all evening and finally gets to exhale.
“I saw how you handled her,” he says. “That mattered.”
“Great as in… I didn’t scare her off?”
He huffs a laugh. “She likes you. Relax.”
“I thought she’d be intimidating,” I admit. “But she’s… cool.”
“She can be,” he says, arm sliding around my shoulders again. “But she stayed. That says everything.”
We sit there for a beat, the city humming outside, his place warm and quiet around us.
Then he tilts his head, reading me like he always does. “You’re thinking about the gala.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“If you’re not ready, it’s okay.”
“I want to go,” I say, because I do. “I just… It should be about your dad, the cause. Not headlines about who you’re dating.”
August clutches his chest dramatically. “You think it would?”
I give him a look. “We both know it would.”
He collapses back against the couch like a wounded Victorian man taking me down with him. “She wants to keep me a secret.”
“Oh hush, you know that’s not what this even remotely about, and you know it.”
“Fine,” he says, smiling like he already knows where this is going. “Tell me, mi vida. What’s the plan, then? You have just as much right to be there as any other James Wilde employee. You should go.”
I study him. “Are you saying that as my boss… or my boyfriend?”
His fingers lace with mine, slow and deliberate.
He lifts my hand, presses a kiss to my knuckles, unhurried.
“As both,” he says softly. “If nothing else, it’s good exposure for you.
This is a James Wilde–sponsored event. The donors our name alone brings in?
” His mouth curves. “It’s one massive networking room with champagne and a tax write-off. ”
I sigh, but I don’t look away. “That’s exactly the point.”
He nods once. “Okay. Then what’s the plan?”
I take a breath, grounding myself. “I go. Low profile. I’m there to support you, and I’m also there as myself. I network. I make connections. I don’t hover around you like a lost puppy or turn into arm candy.”
“And if people ask?” he prompts.
“I’m a friend,” I say. “Or your employee. Whatever gets me through the night without turning my life into a gossip blog.”
August watches me, quiet now. Not offended. Not pushing. Just listening.
Then, softer: “Okay.”
Relief moves through me so fast it almost makes me dizzy.
He leans in, lips near my ear, voice dropping like he’s choosing to be a problem. “Do I still get to eat your pussy afterward?”
I laugh, because of course he’d cut the tension like that. Of course he’d make it dirty and sweet at the same time.
“All night,” I say.
He snaps his fingers. “Sold.”
“God, you’re easy.”
“With you?” He smiles, slow and certain. “Yeah.”
He pulls me in and kisses me like he’s not in a rush, like he’s trying to memorize the calm. His thumb moves in a small circle on my arm, grounding me.
Outside, the city keeps being the city. Inside, it’s just us.
“You have no idea how hard it is going to be to not touch you the way I want to,” he murmurs.
“You’ll be fine. There will be plenty of distractions that night”
“I’ll find you.”
“You’re such a simp.”
“Only for you.”
He reaches for the remote, scrolling until he lands on a rom-com.
“You hate those,” I tell him.
“But you love them,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like my softness is his favorite thing to accommodate.
The screen glows. The world narrows.
The gala is coming.
But tonight?
Tonight is warm. Quiet. Real.
And for once, that feels like enough.