Page 33 of My Ex’s Dad (Scandalous Billionaires #1)

Chapter seventeen

Warrick

Y ou can’t just quit your job without expecting heavy fallout.

I sent my notice to HR like every other person in the world instead of going to my parents.

My dad is the CEO, but because of the way my grandpa structured the company, no one gets to be a majority shareholder.

Even if my dad was, I wouldn’t have given my notice to him and spat in the faces of everyone else there, letting them feel like they didn’t matter.

No one is going to change my mind, but instead of flipping the middle finger to a place that’s only ever been good to me, filled with people who work hard and are likable, I wanted to give two weeks so the company wasn’t scrambling, and my departure didn’t cause anyone undue stress.

You know, the mature thing to do.

Though, according to my mother, it’s the end of the world.

When she let herself into my house this morning—major note to self: Change the damn door pad code—I was expecting her.

I gave my notice yesterday at five, right before most people in HR leave for the day.

I figured it would take at least a few minutes for it to reach my father and that he’d have to work up his courage for a few days in order to tell my mom.

I was wrong. Apparently, he took all night.

It’s five-thirty in the morning, and I’m up early because I want to get a workout in before I shower and have breakfast with Amalphia.

We’ve been doing that every day for the past few weeks.

I was never more than a grab a banana or an apple and a cup of coffee and hustle my ass out the door to get to the office early so already long days don’t turn into leaving the office at eight or nine kind of guy , but I’ve found that I’m actually a breakfast guy.

I can’t wait until my two weeks are up, and I’m free to set my own schedule. I want to have all the breakfasts with her.

I want to have her for breakfast.

I want to take my time.

Anyway, my mom launches straight into the tirade I was expecting, and she ticks all the items off the mom guilt list.

I’m an ungrateful son. (Untrue.)

I’m leaving them in the lurch, creating a hole that can’t be filled. (Untrue.)

I’m throwing my life away. (Untrue.)

I should have let them know first before I humiliated them like this. (Possibly true, but the end result would have been this conversation happening a few days ago instead of right now, playing out exactly the same way.)

It’s amazing that I can hear anything above my mother’s shrill ticking off of all my past, present, and future failings, but my ears pick up the gentle woosh of the sliding door opening and closing in the kitchen.

I thought Amalphia was asleep, but either she was up for the morning and was unexpectedly walking into a bomb blast, or she heard the screeching outside and came to rescue me.

I try to cut my mother off, but there’s no stopping her. Literally. She doesn’t even falter when I open my mouth.

From the kitchen, the fridge opens and closes. A few more seconds pass, and the low buzz of the espresso machine kicks on. My mother appears not to notice. She’s far too intent on her tirade, which isn’t stopping. The words just keep coming, flowing like the coffee Amalphia is making in here.

Even if she doesn’t fully understand the situation here, she would only need to hear the baseline level of my mother’s strident tones and calculate the hour to know that coffee is needed. Badly.

My mouth practically waters at the thought of that rich espresso with the foamy steamed milk on top. They just somehow taste better when Amalphia makes them.

“Mother…”

She ignores me, pacing the room, wagging her fingers at me, and recounting all my past failures, sins, and grievances.

If I used her first name—Cora May—it would stop her in her tracks.

Reginald only calls Candice by her first name.

I figure that’s her preference, but my mother has never been anything other than mother to me, hardly ever mom, and to everyone else, Mrs. Beanbottom.

I have never heard anyone call her Cora May, not even my father.

Not once, and I’m digging deep here, searching through a lifetime of memories.

Amalphia appears cautiously in the doorway. She’s holding two mugs, and she looks like an angel. Firstly, because she is. Secondly, because…coffee and the thoughtful care behind it.

We’re in the sunroom. I had the misguided notion that it would be soothing for my mother.

Amalphia’s done a great job with the plants.

They’re thriving. She’s even repotted several and transplanted babies out from their parent plants, so the amount of pots in here has nearly doubled.

In addition, she’s meticulous when cleaning the glass.

She’s constantly dusting imaginary motes and specs, so the place is immaculate.

It’s so early that the sun hasn’t even risen yet, but when it comes out, it’ll be glorious through all these windows.

This room, which I once considered strange and useless, has become one of my favorite spots in the house.

We usually eat breakfast here, sitting on the teak and black leather mid-century modern Danish chairs, watching the first golden rays creep into the sky.

Sometimes, we talk about everything and nothing.

Other mornings, we just sit in silence, drinking coffee, happy in the glow of each other’s presence.

Amalphia’s purple glittery top catches the light, sparkling like a disco ball.

Her flared jeans with the huge bottoms, patterned with light-washed mandalas and an array of tiny dots, fit her perfectly.

I love that, early in the morning, before she’s tamed them, her curls are wild.

They’re a frizzy riot around her face now.

She’s never complained about having curly hair, and she shouldn’t.

Frizzy or perfectly teased out, her hair is stunning.

I adore her hair.

I adore everything about her.

My girlfriend .

My mother blinks. She blinks again. It’s the sparkles dancing around the room. She’s trying to figure out where they’re coming from.

Crossing her arms, she goes deadly silent and angles to the side in order to look over her shoulder.

“Uh, hey,” Amalphia says, but I can tell by the way she taps the toe of her flip-flop on the floor that this is going to be the last tame statement my mother gets if she doesn’t stop her rant.

“Ahh, it’s the help,” my mother snorts, dismissing Amalphia with a flick of her fingers. “Kindly remove yourself. We’re having a conversation.”

Amalphia giggles. She bites down on the inside of her cheek very obviously to try and stifle it, but it only grows until her nostrils flare, and the cups of coffee slosh dangerously close to the brim.

Even if she’s feigning confidence, she doesn’t let my mother see that she’s unruffled.

She passes me my favorite pottery mug, the black one with the iridescent bottom.

Her expression is purely for me. Given the fact that she thinks I hung the stars, there are whole galaxies in her eyes, but there’s also the soft assurance that if I didn’t, it’s okay. It’s okay to be exactly who I am.

My mother lifts her right brow dangerously high.

She gets them waxed so they’re arched to already extreme levels, and any facial lift is strictly villainous.

She does it to cover her wide eyes but also as a way to intimidate.

She’d never, ever flip someone off, but I count that brow as an unspoken how dare you defy me.

Amalphia takes a sip of her coffee and sighs in pure pleasure. Even with my mother standing right in front of us, it hits me right in the nut sack.

She’s not afraid to face my mother, but her words nearly knock me over. “I’ve heard a few things about you that would lead me to gather that you’re not a very nice person, but holy, there’s nothing like confirming it in a minute. Congrats. You’ve just broken the record for rudeness.”

Before things trend any further in the direction of a flaming hot trash pile, I clear my throat. “Amalphia isn’t the help. She’s my girlfriend.”

My mother’s other eyebrow joins in on the arched terror. It’s exceptionally rare that my mother gives the screaming eyebrows, but when she does, you know you’re in for it.

“I mean, yes, she also cleans for me,” I clarify, though I feel like I shouldn’t have to. It’s the eyebrows. They’re making me talk.

I’m still paying Amalphia because she wanted to keep doing everything the way she was before.

It’s important to her that she has meaningful work.

I straight-up offered to cover the cost of her college tuition, urging her to apply.

She did, but she also insisted that I would do no such thing.

If she were going to accept anything from me, it would only be in the form of a paycheck that she worked hard for.

She got her acceptance email last week. I’ve never seen anyone so ecstatic or so frightened.

I told her that I had no doubt she’d get in.

She responded to that with a, “Well, yes, but that’s only because it’s the arts, and they’ll take anyone.

” Since she doesn’t know what she wants to do yet, she’s taking a variety of introductory classes that can be used as electives later for pretty much any degree.

It’s immediately apparent to both of us that my mother really hates that idea.

It’s not Amalphia’s fault. Even if my mother picked out a wife for me herself, a wife who was utterly perfect in every way and got the Cora May stamp of approval, my mother would no doubt still be able to find endless faults with her soon enough.