Mary made a thoughtful sound. “I’ll just bring up our calendar, Mia. Won’t be a moment.”

I crossed my fingers and prayed.

Please, please, please, please, please.

Mary clicked her tongue then muttered, “Just as I thought.” My heart sank. Then she uttered a happy, “You are in luck. The eighteenth of next month did have a booking, but the party has since cancelled. Shall I organize for someone to show you around?”

I couldn’t believe my ears. I all but shouted an excited, “No, just book it!”

Mary chuckled. “Okay.” She paused a moment. “And you’re booked. Now we just need some additional details. Do you have time to do that now?”

Sweet baby Jesus, I would make time! I looked over at the clock. The time read 5:59 p.m. I smiled, utterly relieved. “Yes, I have time. Thank you, Mary. You’re a lifesaver.”

Over the next twenty minutes, I gave Mary all the details she needed then thanked her profusely. Saying goodbye, I hung up the phone, stood, and then threw my fist in the air, whispering a triumphant, “Yes!”

I looked around the office and blinked. I was completely alone. Letting out a long breath, I logged off my computer, threw my purse under my arm, and started to walk out of the office. I noticed Addison’s door open and the light was still on. I thought I’d better fill her in on the new booking before I left. I stopped in the doorway, knocking on the doorframe, and started, “Mrs. Dietrich, it took a while, but we’re booked for the Des—”

That was when I noticed her, head bent, a hand at her forehead, red-rimmed eyes, and a tissue clutched in her hand. Her shoulders shuddered silently as she sniffled.

She was crying.

Addison Dietrich, bitch, boss, and dragon lady, was crying.

Addison stiffened at the sound of my voice. “Please leave.”

I was not sure what to do here. I shook my head then backed away. “I’m sorry for interrupting. We can talk about it tomorrow.”

I turned and started to walk away, but something stopped me. Walking into her office, I took two more tissues out of the box and handed them to her. She took them, avoided my gaze, and then asked an acidic, “What are you even doing here at this hour?”

“Working late.” I backed up a step, but stalled. I would surely go to hell if I didn’t ask the following question. “What’s wrong, Mrs. Dietrich?

“Nothing. I asked you to leave.” That she did. I knew when efforts were futile. I turned and moved to exit the office. That’s when she asked a faint, “Have you ever doubted yourself, Mia?”

I faced her and blinked, tilting my head in thought. “Of course. Everybody does.”

She laughed humorlessly. “Not me.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Maybe the old me, but not this me.”

I took a step toward her, speaking softly. “Begging your pardon, Addison, but they’re one in the same.”

Her face crumpled. I watched helplessly as two fat teardrops fell down her cheeks. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t like the person I’ve become.” Her breath shuddered. “I’m not this…this…this bitch.”

Well, this just got interesting. I no longer felt as though I needed an invitation. I sat across from her, passing down the box of tissues.

She went on, and I let her, because everyone needed to vent now and again. “I drove the only man I have ever loved into the arms of another woman by being this person.” Her lip curled. “I hate this woman.”

My response was surprisingly simple. “Then stop feeding her.” I tried my hand at humor to see how she would respond. I shrugged and widened my eyes. “You’re not the only one who hates her, you know.”

She amazed me by laugh-crying, “Oh, I know.” But she sobered quickly. “I don’t know how to stop being her. I’ve been her for so long that I can’t remember who I was before her.”

I stood and spoke gently, “Nicholas fell in love with that woman. She’s in there somewhere.” I smiled reassuringly. “You’ll find her.”

As I walked out the door, she spoke quietly, “Thank you, Mia.”

I left the office, speaking loud enough for only me to hear. “You’re welcome, Addison.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Quinn

I did a good job, I thought. I got to almost seven p.m. without calling her.

Now that I knew her, my days seemed to go slower and my body, now knowing the feel of hers against mine, craved her like no other. I missed the sound of her voice. I missed her laugh. Shit, I just missed her when she wasn’t around.

My mother was not a good woman, but if there was one piece of advice she gave me that stuck, it was: One day, you’ll meet someone who will consume your very soul. When you meet that person, you’ll know. And if that person ever tries to leave you, fight for them, because once they’re gone, life will become a chore.

It made me think that maybe she’d lost her person. Maybe he was my dad. Maybe that was why she treated me the way she did. She always told me I looked just like him. I hadn’t spoken to my mother in years. I had no idea where she was, whom she was with, or even if she was alive. I missed her some days. Others, I was glad she was gone.

Every time I ate French toast, I was reminded of her. We never had a lot of money, and Mom worked in diners as wait staff. She knew I loved French toast, and on the days she worked late while I was at home with only the TV as a babysitter, she would wake me up in the middle of the night just to see the smile I’d get at the surprise she brought me.

Her stomach would rumble as she watched me eat, but no matter how many times I told her to eat with me, she’d never take any. She told me it wasn’t her treat to share.

Something happened when I turned fourteen. My features started to mature. My face turned sharp and lost its innocence, and then I shot up a foot at a time, becoming taller and sturdier.

My mother’s love for me diminished. She started to look at me differently. Her hugs reduced, and then they were gone, leaving me craving affection and getting it from wherever I could. Namely in the arms of women older than me, who used me as much as I did them.

The love I had for my mom turned viciously into hate. How dare she treat her son like she had? She was a poor excuse for a woman, drinking heavily then putting her hands on the one person who loved her more than anything in the world.

I warned her. Once she had sobered, I told her that if she hit me one more time, I would hit her back. My warning went unheard.

The following night, Mom got her drink on. She was a lousy drunk, fuelled by bitterness and hatred. I moved to take the bottle from her. Her hand came across my cheek full-force. My anger spiraled out of control. I gripped her wrist and pushed as hard as I could. I watched in stunned disbelief as my mother stumbled backwards, falling to the ground with a thud. Breathing heavily out of my nose, I brought my arm back and threw the bottle of liquor at the wall beside me. The glass shattered and I ignored the way my arm stung, my knuckles seeping red.

I left that night. I left and never went back. I was fifteen years old. With only a backpack full of clothes, I hit the streets. I was an angry teenager on the loose, fighting my way through to my sixteenth birthday. I’d spent many nights on park benches, eating out of trashcans, and stealing clothes from people’s backyards.

One fateful night after a brawl, I was arrested. Who knew that would actually turn out to be a good thing?

The officer who arrested me spent hours trying to get something out of me—my name, how old I was, where I was from. I didn’t tell him anything, not at first, but then he told me about himself, about his sons, about his work, about how he was a foster parent to another young boy. He followed this up by feeding me.