Page 25 of Feast
“Good. It would be nice if you didn’t look like a zombie in my wedding photos.”
Her acerbic drawl made him grin. “Yes ma’am.”
“You’re pretty cheerful for a man who didn’t get much sleep,” she observed mildly, but the shrewd look in her eye remained. “Business is going well?”
“It is,” he said, thankful he didn’t have to lie. He knew she worried about him, opening his own business. “Thanks for giving me the start-up capital.”
“It was your money,” she reminded him.
He snorted. “Hardly.”
“It was,” she insisted. “Your college fund, your money. If you want to thank anyone, thank yourself for getting a scholarship so you didn’t have to spend it on school.”
He shook his head. “I know how much you sacrificed to put that money away.”
“It wasn’t a sacrifice,” she insisted. “And your father contributed, too.”
“Yeah, but I don’t care about him.”
Heather’s eyes went chiding over the rim of her glass. “Spencer.”
He shrugged, unconcerned. “It’s true.”
She put her glass down with a sigh. “I know, and I can’t blame you. Do you hate him?”
“No,” Spence said bluntly. “But I don’t love him, either. How could I? I’ve met him, what, twice?”
“Three times,” Heather corrected. “He saw you in the hospital when you were born, before he moved back to France.”
Spence didn’t think that counted, but he let it go. “I give him credit for not ducking out on child support, but it’s not like it was a financial hardship for him.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How do you know that?”
“I looked him up when I was in junior high,” he confessed. “Henri Montagne, heir to a French perfume fortune, international playboy, and bum.”
He shrugged when she stared at him. “I was curious.”
“You could’ve asked me.”
“I didn’t know if it would hurt your feelings to talk about him,” he explained.
“It wouldn’t have,” she said, then sighed. “And that’s probably a lie. But I would’ve answered your questions.”
“You always did.”
“That was my job,” she said, a calculating gleam coming into her eyes. “Being a parent is the best job ever, you know.”
Recognizing the change of subject, Spence scowled. “Don’t start on me.”
“My greatest joy,” she continued with a mother’s smile—loving and ruthless. “My biggest reward.”
“I’m not giving you grandchildren, Ma.”
“If not you, who?” she countered. “You’re my only child.”
“You’re getting two more tonight,” he pointed out, suddenly grateful to be gaining siblings. “Maybe one of them will make you a grandma.”
She looked delighted at the prospect, then pointed one elegant finger at him. “Don’t think that lets you off the hook.”