Page 56 of Borrowed Pain
"Why significant?" I asked.
"It means she doesn't see this as only a work problem," Marcus concluded.
Miles's face flushed. "Can we focus on the actual crisis?"
The intercom buzzed again. Backs straightened, and everyone cast expectant glances toward the door. Even Charlie scrambled to his feet, tail wagging.
"That'll be her," Matthew said.
My hands turned clammy. Seven years of federal service—briefing senators, testifying before Congress, facing organized crime—none of that prepared me for meeting the woman whose approval might determine my future.
The door opened, and Ma McCabe stepped in carrying two canvas bags. She was smaller than I expected—barely reaching Miles's shoulder—but she commanded the space like a general reviewing troops.
"There's my boys," she said, setting the bags on Matthew's table. "And their boys."
The brothers moved toward her in birth order—Marcus first for a quick kiss, then Michael, who lingered for her to pat his face and murmur something that unclenched his jaw. Matthew received a more extended hug, while Alex, James, and Dorian received warm acknowledgment of earned family status.
"Ma," Miles said when his turn came, voice cracking on the syllable.
She cupped his face, studying him intensely. "You haven't been sleeping."
"I've been—"
"And you've lost weight." Her thumb traced the hollow beneath his cheekbone. "When did you last eat real food?"
"Ma—"
"Don't Ma me, Miles Timothy McCabe. I can see your ribs through that shirt."
She quickly shifted her attention and focused on me. Every muscle tensed.
"You must be Rowan Ashcroft." She approached with measured steps, and I caught a light lavender scent. "I've heard about you."
"Mrs. McCabe." I extended my hand. "Thank you for coming."
Her handshake was firm. "Call me Ma. Everyone does."
"I'm not sure I've earned that privilege yet."
She released my hand and moved toward the grocery bags. "Has anyone fed these men actual food, or have you all been surviving on adrenaline and caffeine?"
"Ma, we don't have time for—" Miles started.
"We have time for whatever I say we have time for." She began unpacking containers with field medic efficiency. "Crisis management requires fuel. Brains don't work on empty."
A rich aroma of garlic and herbs began to fill the loft. "Sit," Ma commanded, gesturing toward the table. "All of you."
She served generous portions of lasagna on mismatched plates. When she reached me, she paused. "You look like you haven't been eating either."
"I eat," I said, aware of how defensive that sounded.
"Hmm." She set the plate before me. "We'll see about that."
The food was extraordinary. I took a bite and nearly groaned with pleasure.
"Better?" Ma asked, settling into her chair.
"Much better. Thank you."
