Page 6 of Sugar

Money doesn’t change anything.

Chapter 1

Stud, Attorney at Law

MADDIE

“Are you listening, Mads?”

Shit.

I hadn’t been.

Looking up from my phone, I gave my mom my attention. “No, sorry. I was texting Greer.”

“We’re literally driving to her house right now,” she pointed out.

I shrugged. She should be used to it by now.

I expected her to give me shit, but rather than exasperated attitude, she began sniffling. “I guess I need to get used to talking to myself. By this time tomorrow, you’ll be gone.”

“You’ll still have Dad to talk to.”

She pulled her attention from the road to shoot me a sharp look. “Like I said.”

It was a fair point. My dad was great. Better than great. And he adored my mom in that nauseating way that made me cringe.But he was also prone to distraction, and almost everything said to him required repeating.

And a text message follow-up.

“You can always talk to Huey, Dewey, and Louie. They’re great at keeping secrets,” I tried.

She rolled her eyes.

It was a valid response.

I’d won the trio of goldfish with Wren and Greer from a sketchy carnival during junior year of high school. Since separating the fishy pals would be rude, we’d opted for them to live at my house with the assumption they would die within the week.

They were still swimming.

My mom liked to complain about being abandoned with fishy duties she never signed up for, but she was the one who’d replaced their tank with a massive one so they would have more room to stretch their fins. Not to mention, all the decor that kept showing up inside of it.

I used that against her. “Actually, maybe I’ll transfer them into a smaller tank and bring them?—”

“Don’t you dare,” she snapped, proving that she was more attached to them than she let on.

When the look of heartache didn’t clear from her face, I gently reminded, “It’s only a short drive.”

“I know.”

“Once we’re settled, you can have one of your sangria brunches with the OGs, then Dina’s driver can haul you to visit.”

She laughed. “They’re not always sangria brunches.”

“I know.” I paused before adding, “Sometimes, they’re mimosa ones. Or Bloody Mary ones.”

My mom swatted at me, but my joke worked, and her tears slowed. For like half a second. “What am I going to do without you at home to annoy me?”

“Mom, this is the fourth year we’ve done this.” I doubted the logistics would make her feel any better about her favorite—and, fine, only—child going away again.

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