Page 4

Chapter Three

Nathan

“Can you get pregnant at sixty-four?”

I look up from my desktop monitor, across my large, gleaming walnut desk and pin the one woman who means the world to me, with a shocked and mildly disgusted look. “Mom, come on—”

“Don’t look at me like that, Nathan, I’m just asking for a friend,” she says, or rather tries to say, with a straight face while polishing off the last of her buttered croissant.

“Of course you are.” I snort.

She only shrugs, fluffing her glossy, dyed black curls, not bothering to deny the fact. “Are you done, darling?” She motions to my half-eaten breakfast and cooling coffee.

“Thanks.” I nod, and she clears our leftovers, dumping them in the bin before returning to drop gracefully in her seat. She watches me expectantly while I appear to busy myself with the reports I’m leafing through.

I don’t usually have breakfast, and she knows that, but I wasn’t going to say no to her dropping in on me with food and conversation after almost a month of not seeing her.

She’s been in Paris for the last month, launching her latest skin care product, and has only just returned yesterday.

Caitlin Murphy-King is the poster child for a person’s physical looks not reflecting what they’ve been through.

She’d eloped at eighteen and married William King, a farmer. They’d sold everything to buy land in the citrus and grape belt of California, then settled in the small town closest to it: Valencia.

Unfortunately, their farm fell on hard times, and my father had to sell out to the Blackwells, a wealthy family filled with generations of farmers.

Tragedy struck again when my father died of bone cancer shortly after, leaving his young wife to fend for their toddlers by herself.

She worked two jobs during the day while enrolled in night school. Each day, her determination to succeed grew stronger. Now, she manages her own skincare and make-up line.

Ever since her new relationship began four months ago, sex, libido, and relationships are suddenly the only topics that she seems capable of discussing with me. Then, she inevitably ends up nagging me about my own relationship, or lack thereof.

“Nathan…pregnancy at sixty-four?” she pushes, clearly not taking the hint that I’m too busy for this.

I sigh. “It’s not medically impossible, though highly unlikely. Why are you even thinking of that right now? And don’t give me the whole ‘asking for someone else’ bull.”

“Fine,” she admits. “It’s because I had a bit of a scare while in Paris. Nausea, bloating, achy breasts, the like. What was I supposed to think? And you know Lyle is insatiable, I mean, than man can—”

“Jesus, Mom, spare me the details!” My breakfast is already threatening to come back up.

Her familiar, musical laugh soothes me in a way only a mother’s can. “I can’t believe how prudish you can be sometimes, Nathan. You’re supposed to be the expert here, explaining how these things work to the rest of us mortals.”

“I deal with cancers, Mom, not doling out safe sex advice to randy seniors who are related to me,” I say with bland seriousness.

She tries to look insulted, but the edges of her mouth twitch upward. “Can’t blame me for trying though. At least one of us is thinking of carrying on the King lineage.”

I don’t even bother to respond, knowing that this line of conversation is a field of landmines. I simply return to the pathology reports on my desktop computer.

“I mean, anything is possible with hormones these days,” she continues. “And like they say, if you want something done right, you should consider doing it yourself. Lyle’s all in, too.”

“Knock yourself out, Mom.” I actually marvel at how she keeps finding new ways to spin the nagging-for-a-grandchild/find-a-wife conversation. She’s nothing if not inventive, I’ll give her that much.

“I mean it, Nathan. I feel like I could really do it. I only need the right doctor to help me.”

She asked me three months ago to introduce her to one of my gynecologist friends just for a chat and check up, and I’d wondered why she needed it at the time since she had no worrying signs and kept up to date with her Pap smears.

Good thing I listened to my gut and declined, telling her to find one by herself. I’d hate to have to deck that friend of mine who helps my almost sixty-five-year-old mom to get pregnant again.

When I say nothing still, she continues, “And since you won’t help me, I’ll have to turn to Jackson. I know he’ll find me a great gynecologist.”

She’s referring to my employee, the eccentric head of the remissions unit, and one of her favorite people in the world.

“You will do nothing of the sort, Mom,” I warn.

She rolls her blue eyes in mock frustration. “Fine, I’ll ask someone else, but just know that I’m serious.”

I look at her, letting her know that I don’t believe her ruse. I know her true goal is for me to be the one who has a child, but I’m just not ready for that step right now.

To be honest, I’m not sure if I ever will be, but no matter how many times I try to tell her that, she doesn’t seem to understand.

I’ve found that it’s better to just let her play her games. “I can see that you are, Mom, which is why I wouldn’t dream of getting in your way.”

“Anyway,” she huffs, changing the subject. “How’s the crew here? Everyone okay?” She’s referring to the tight-knit staff who work at the Fount.

Hospitals can get depressing, but my staff more than make up for it by operating like one big family, both in LA and across our other centers in the country.

Of course there’s rivalry, and small feuds are never in short supply as with any family, but I feel very lucky to be heading such amazing people.

“We’re doing awesome, Mom. We win more than we lose.”

The thousands of dollars that go into preaching prevention and screening on TV and social media is money well-spent.

It ensures that people come get checked out earlier and the disease is caught when the options aren’t as limited.

“You know, Nath, your father would be proud of the man you’ve become,” she says while a wistful smile crosses her lips.

“Thanks, Mom, that means a lot.”

“Of course. In any case, it’s been great seeing you. I need to run, I have a meeting in”—she checks her Rolex—“half an hour.”

“So, are we doing dinner at my place next month or yours?” I ask.

We’re both usually so busy that unless we deliberately plan to have dinner together once a month, we could go months without seeing each other.

As she rises up from her seat and collects her things, she sends me her classic, narrow-eyed “mom” stare. “Yours, Nathan. And Lyle is coming, too.”

“Sure, no worries. You know I like the guy, I’m just not too keen on seeing his tongue down your throat during dinner.” I stand to see her out, my hand going around her slim shoulders.

“I’ll try and behave this time.” She laughs, and I know it’s not a promise.

“And I’ll try and remember to have a bag handy so I can throw up in it.” I smile in return.

Just before she leaves, she turns back to say, “Nathan, I kept thinking about it while in Paris. You should get aggressive advertising for the project you told me about. It’s an amazing idea.”

She’d been with me last month when I first received the proposal from Guardian Angels Network. I’d been unable to contain my excitement about such a genius concept and immediately told her about it.

“I agree, it’s brilliant. I’m already working with a team who will sort out all the logistics.”

An image of Tess Blackwell appears in my mind, and my chest squeezes tight.

She’s always been a gorgeous girl, but the Tess I saw last week was fucking karma. If I had to draw my dirtiest fantasy, it would be her.

Sexy, confident, and smart as hell. I know she recognized me with the flicker of emotion I caught in her gaze the moment we were introduced. But she’d continued her pitch without another glance at me.

“That’s wonderful, Nathan. Be sure to keep me posted.”

“Will do.” I bend to kiss her cheeks at the door. “Love you, Mom.”

“I’ll give Lyle a nice kiss for you,” she teases.

“Whatever.” I smile in spite of myself. I’m happy that she’s found love again, but hell, she’s my mother. It’s always going to feel a bit strange watching her gush over her man like a teenage girl.

And speaking of teenage girls…

Tess, the girl who used to hang on to my every word, has turned into an industrious and capable woman.

A woman who, to my utmost shock, got me harder than I remember ever being, forever eradicating my ability to think of her as innocent.

And given my reaction to seeing her again last week, she’d better run.

I wonder what that bastard John Blackwell will do if he ever finds out that his daughter will be promoting his worst rival.

One who rose from working on one of his family’s orchards to owning ninety percent of those orchards now.

A fact that is most likely lost on Tess. Otherwise, why would she come to the Fount? To me?

Or perhaps she knows and just doesn’t care.