Page 128 of Point of Contention

Standing in the doorway, I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the doorjamb as she walked from one end of the room to the other.

She moved slowly through the section of mysteries and thrillers, paused to throw a curious look over her shoulder when she reached my self-help and non-fiction collection, then stopped dead in her tracks when she reached the romance shelves. They took up an entire wall, as my mother’s passion was always romance and mine began and ended there as well.

But I knew it wasn’t the books that had caught Rylan’s attention.

She sucked in a breath as she picked up a framed photograph of her favorite author signing a book for me.

It was her first book to hit every bestseller list that mattered, and we’d celebrated with lunch at what used to be Asiate, thirty-five stories above Central Park. I’ve looked at the photo so many times I’ve memorized the way the light shone through the windows, illuminating her face as she grinned up at me, her coal-black hair shot through with gray and falling in waves over one shoulder.

My throat grew tight from the memory so I focused on Rylan instead.

“Is this her?” Rylan whispered.

I didn’t answer; the book in the photograph made the question rhetorical.

Running her fingertips reverently over the glass, she whispered, “But she’s never done a signing.”

When she looked at me over her shoulder for confirmation, I shook my head.

“I don’t understand.” She returned her focus to the picture frame, shaking her head. “How…?”

I walked to another shelf and retrieved a picture frame tucked into the corner, then stood behind her, reaching my arm over her shoulder to hand it to her with one hand while the other snaked around her waist and I pulled her back firmly against my front. I needed to be near her when I exposed this part of my life. Of myself.

Such a huge, integral part of who I am.

Rylan remained quiet for some time, then she spun and stepped back until her butt hit the shelves. She looked at the photo, then back up at me. Her eyes widened as her gaze continued to flick between the photo and me, assessing what she saw, making sense of it.

Then she shook her head. “No way.”

I shoved my hands into my pockets and gave her a sheepish grin. I had my father’s eyes, but everything else was her. “Surprised?”

“Cabot!” She punched my chest and I stumbled backwards.

“Ow,” I teased, massaging my pec.

“Dude.” She paused, shaking her head again. “Simona Steele is your mom?”

“Did you just dude me?”

“Yes,dude, Simona Steele is yourmom!”

I nodded, even as the word flew unbidden through my mind. Was. Simona Steelewasmy mom.

She’d died three years back, an overdose of alcohol and painkillers long in the making. Years of loving a man like my father had driven her to self-medicate, and by the time I realized what was going on, it was too late to save her from herself.

Searching my gaze, Rylan frowned, then set the frames down behind her and reached for me. She slipped her fingers in the waist of my pants and tugged me forward. “What’s wrong?”

Locked in her gaze, I breathed deeply, preparing myself for such a private admission. She’d figure it out eventually on her own, no doubt, but whether she did that or heard it from me, there was a risk that the news would crush her.

She loved Simona Steele almost as much as I loved the woman behind the pseudonym.

“Cabot?” Rylan’s frown deepened, then her mouth opened on a silentoh. “She’s…” Her bottom lip trembled and I hated having to deliver this news.

But I swallowed hard, then gave her a single nod.

“She’s dead.” Tears welled in her eyes and my chest cracked open.

I pulled her into my arms and pressed my nose into her hair. “I’m sorry.”