Page 15 of Mr. Aster
Sebastian’s curious expression instantly darted my way, probably wondering if my mother had suggestedpregnancyyoga for any other reason than for me to know she’d be gone all day.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, shamelessly allowing the man’s mind to wonder. “Love ya, Mom.”
She gave me a quick kiss on my cheek, then floated out of the kitchen like the bohemian butterfly she was.
I’d grown weary of her walking around on eggshells because of this prick. I didn’t like this fake version of herself that she’d adopted once this man stormed into our home, making his insults and demands.
“You’re pregnant?” he asked, shockingly sitting at the counter with me.
Three barstools away, of course.
“Wouldn’t you love to know?” I answered, taking another sip before my coffee became officially lukewarm and disgusting.
He eyed my coffee. “Well, if you are, you should probably reduce your caffeine intake,” he arched an eyebrow at my offensive-to-pregnant-women coffee mug.
“Last I recall, you aren’t the father of my child, so I would appreciate it if you kept your opinions about my activities to yourself and stayed focused on your task at hand.”
He grinned. “I’m glad you and I got off to a decent start this morning after yesterday’s nonsense,” he offered, taking another sip of his coffee. “However, the longer the sun stays up, the quicker that all seems to deteriorate with you.”
“No,” I said. “I’m also happy we weren’t enemies this morning; however, you seem quite opinionated about everything.”
“How so?” he questioned.
I gave him a look of question, “How so? Well, for starters, my mom invited me to yoga, and the next thing I know, I’m ordered to watch my caffeine intake as if I’m carryingyourchild.”
“I didn’t mean that,” he offered. “I just think it would be wise, for the baby’s sake, of course.”
“Well, the unborn child I’mnotcarrying appreciates your concern,” I said with a laugh. “The real issue here is your reaction if Iwerepregnant. Why would you feel it necessary to tell some pregnant woman you don’t even know what she can and cannot drink?”
I could see him growing flustered, and I understood why. It was easy to see that no one had ever questioned this man without feeling stupid for doing so. However, I didn’t feel stupid for speaking up about his behavior because he was being rude.He was intrusive and opinionated, and we didn’t know each other remotely well enough for him to speak to me about such a personal thing, real or not.
He was the co-owner of this place, and that was it. He didn’t own me, and whether my parents believed it or not, he didn’t own them either.
“We come from two different worlds, Ms. Burke,” he said, intentionally using formalities. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand that I was merely being friendly with my suggestions. My late wife was terrified to do anything that might harm our daughter while she was pregnant, and I’m afraid I allowed those memories and old habits to surface when I wrongly assumed you were carrying a child.”
His comment immediately disarmed me, and I instantly regretted making the man explain himself to me. I didn’t feel bad about calling him out, but the sadness in his expression when he spoke about the memory of his late wife carrying their child broke my heart. I damn near pulled a Martina Burke and hugged the man to chase away the grief I saw manifest for a few seconds, but thank God I had control over my emotions, unlike my mother. I’m sure that if I would’ve made a move to comfort him in any way, he would’ve shaken me off him like a bad dream.
“I’m sorry,” I managed after searching for the right response. “I heard she was a lovely woman.”
“How would you have heard that?” he questioned. He didn’t soundtoodickish, but there was a hint of irritation in his voice.
Because I write columns about you rich folks, and I’m trying to decide if I even want to consume myself with thoughts of you to write about your ass. And yes, you would hate to know I am the Billionaire Gossip columnist…
“Oh, I’m friends with the Mitchells,” I said, and I wasn’t lying. I met Avery Mitchell at a gala I’d attended two years ago.
She was a blast to hang around. Now and then, Avery and I would get together for lunch dates when I was in LA, and I’d even gone out to dinner with her and her friends for a few girls’ nights. We weren’t best friends, but we always had a good time when we got together. I even wrote an article on her husband, Jim—Mr. Mitchell—about how he’d successfully warded off an angry CEO trying to tear down many of Jim’s subsidiaries to cover up his own misdeeds.
Jim was a very private person, but since Avery and I were friends—and she insisted he allow it—he welcomed me into their home for the interview. He was a good guy, direct and polite, but that was pretty much my extent of friendship with the Mitchells.
“Jim didn’t seem remotely interested in my family and even less concerned about my personal life,” he responded. He was probably trying to catch me making things out to be more than they were when it came to knowing Jim Mitchell.
“That’s not surprising,” I answered. “However, word gets around, and because of that, I heard that your wife was a lovely woman, and her early death was beyond tragic—you know what?” I stopped myself, hopefully while I was ahead. “I was just trying to pay you a compliment.”
A compliment? Compliments are for outfits, not dead wives, you idiot!I scolded myself. As if the subject wasn’t touchy enough, I justhadto talk about his dearly departed wife.
His brow furrowed and he frowned with distant, dark eyes.
“Allow me to make myself very clear, Ms. Burke,” he said, his tone icy and prickly, “I do not now, nor will I ever, need acomplimentfrom you or anyone else,” he looked intently into my eyes. “I appreciate your kind words about my late wife, and while it is my fault she was brought up in conversation at all, I prefer not to speak about her with people who didn’t know her and those whom I do not know at all.”
