Page 8 of Heir

But there was something about the way she looked now…

I was probably imagining things.

I looked away and shifted the car into park.

I got out of the car and waited for Mom and Kenton by the hood.

Her eyes glinted, and her lips twisted in displeasure.

So, there weresomethings I could read from her face.

Like anger, and disappointment, and displeasure, and judgment.

The last one was especially hard.

It seemed she had judged me my entire life, and no matter how much I tried to do things her way, I always seemed to fail at it.

“Why aren’t you wearing the heels I bought you?” she asked, coming up to me.

She meant the expensive hooker heels. I didn’t say that, though.

I tilted my head back to look at her, trying to gather my thoughts before I spoke.

I was sure the tall gene must have skipped a generation with me because while my mom was a wispy five-foot-ten woman who looked like she had done some modeling as a teenager, I barely peaked at five-foot-two.

“They were the wrong size,” I finally said.

She frowned. “Are you sure?”

I nodded. “Yup.”

I wouldn’t remind her that she had been buying my clothes for most of my life when I still lived with her.

One of the first things I did when I got my first paycheck after moving away from her was to buy three outfits that showed who I was.

Three pairs of cheap ripped jeans that I still owned and three dark T-shirts.

They were something I would have never worn in front of her.

Her lips pressed together in a thin line, but she didn’t say anything. She moved away from me when Kenton got close and grabbed his arm. They walked ahead of me to the front door, and I tried to adjust the dress, pulling it down further, feeling safe that I wouldn’t be exposing my boobs to anyone because of the cardigan.

A man who looked like he could audition for the role of Alfred inBatmanopened the door as soon as I stepped onto the porch.

“Welcome. Mr. Gallagher is expecting you,” he said in a polished American tone. He didn’t exactly sound British, much to my disappointment.

We went in, and Mom took off her sweater, eyeing me. “Do you want to give Henry your sweater?”

I tightened my grip around it before I really thought about it, and when her eyes narrowed. I let go of the soft fabric and offered a demure smile, shaking my head slightly.

“I’m cold.”

“Gemma. Really? We’re in spring in California. Are you cold or are you just uncomfortable with your body? I told you to follow the dietary restriction I set up for you.”

She shook her head, and I blinked at her in shock. Heat moved through my cheeks, and I tried hard not to look at Henry. I didn’t want to see the judgment in his eyes.

He cleared his throat, and Mom turned to him, her face again set in the polite and affectionate smile she always took on whenever she looked at someone who wasn’t me.

Breathe in, breathe out.

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