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“How’s Lorraine doing?” he asks.

I like that he calls Mom by her first name, even though he hasn’t met her.

“She’s doing fine,” I tell him. “Hobbling about on her cast. We argue daily when I catch her doing things she’s not supposed to, like getting out of bed when she needs rest. But she’ll recover. It’s her dignity that took the biggest hit. She says falling down stairs and breaking an ankle is ‘old lady shit.’ She keeps bitching that next time it’ll be a hip, and I’ll have to put her out to pasture.”

I give him a look that I hope conveys how much shit that woman puts me through.

“Sounds reasonable. And like she hates being treated like a sick person.”

“Hey. Don’t you take her side.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says indulgently, in that silken-chocolate voice that makes me melt. “But maybe sometimes what she needs from you is space more than smothering.”

I gape at him. That might not’ve hit so hard if I didn’t get the feeling he wanted the same thing from me.

I compose myself. “Am I being smothering? I just offered to make dinner…”

His eyebrows pinch together. “What? No. I’m just saying… your mom may be battling an illness, but she’s a grown woman. And so are you. You can’t be there all the time. She probably doesn’t want you to be missing out on anything because of her, right? And you shouldn’t feel guilty for having a life, especially when you’re working so hard to try to support you both.”

“Hmm. How did you know I feel guilty?”

“It’s written all over you, Quinn.”

Great.

“Have you ever thought about getting in-home care? Someone to be there, cook for her, just make sure she has what she needs when you’re not there?”

“Of course. But I can’t afford that.” I don’t really know how to explain this to someone who’s never had to worry about money. “She took care of me for a long time, by herself. After my dad died. And now that I’m the one who’s the caretaker, I know that wasn’t easy. We never had a fancy life or a big house, but she worked hard. She sacrificed. All that. The least I can do is the same for her.”

He considers that.

“You don’t like asking for help,” he says, “because you’re a lot like her, right? You feel like you need to do it all yourself. And you want her to be proud of you for it.”

I study him. His perceptiveness is unexpected. “Since when are you so knowledgable on interpersonal relationships? I thought you were, like, a hermit.”

He scoffs. “Even hermits have parents.”

“So you’re saying you work your ass off to try to impress your mom, too?”

Whatever trace of a smile I just glimpsed on his face is now gone. “If I did… it would be a waste of energy.”

I stare at him. “You’re hard to figure out, Harlan Vance.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. I really thought you were a run-of-the-mill tyrant. Don’t go getting complex on me now.”

“Tyrant or hermit, which is it?”

“Can’t it be both?”

“No. Tyrants rule over people. Hermits lock themselves away from people.”

“Okay. Then I choose tyrant. Because you might seem to hate people, but youlovebossing them around.” His eyes narrow at me, and I wonder if I’m just earning myself a longer spanking.“And you are a frightening boss. I mean, I truly thought I was about to lose my job when I brought you that cake.”

“Which one? There have been so many cakes…”

“The first one. The one I brought to your office when I begged you not to fire me.”