Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
He waves a dismissive hand. “Your parents are easy.” A ghost of a smirk. “Count me in.”
A buzz of euphoria hits me hard upon hearing he’s willing to step right back into the line of fire—not for the food, but for me.
“Dinner’s at—”
A woman’s voice cuts in—abrasively loud. “There you are.”
Ronan and I turn, and I’m shocked to see Vivienne Barnes walking our way. She’s surprisingly put together, her pale blond hair smoothed into a glossy wave, oversized sunglasses framing a face that could be beautiful if it wasn’t pinched tight with irritation. A cream wrap clings to her shoulders, the perfect complement to a high-end handbag in the same shade.
Ronan’s posture changes in a blink—shoulders taut, jaw hard. He moves three steps to intercept her. “What are you doing here?”
“You’ve been ignoring me,” she complains, not even sparing me a glance. She’s too loud and heads turn as people walk by.
Ronan lowers his voice, I’m guessing in the hopes her tone will match. “I’ve seen you every night this week,” he says between clenched teeth.
It’s an accurate reminder to his mother that she doesn’t have things right, whether that’s intentional or because she’s under the influence. I can’t tell, to be honest. She’s not slurring her words and she’s walking fine. She looks like a London socialite. But then she removes her sunglasses, and there… Her eyes are glazed, pupils large. It’s obvious she’s on something.
Ronan looks around before his regard comes back to his mom. “How did you get here?”
“I had my driver bring me here just so I could get five minutes with you.”
I can tell Ronan is struggling to stay calm, but he has no choice… too many people around. “Now is not the time, Vivienne. I’m in the middle of free practice.”
Those were apparently the wrong words, and I can see the change come over her. It’s like proverbial claws come out and she practically shrieks at him, “This is the thanks I get? I come here to support you”—she waves her sunglasses around wildly—“at your racing thing, and you ridicule me. What son does that to his mother?” she cries, looking around at the crowd. “Tell me… what son does that?!?!”
I’m stunned to inaction for a moment, horrified on Ronan’s behalf. There’s a growing number of eyes in our direction—crew, a couple of lingering reporters.
Ronan looks panicked, his words clipped. “Not here, Vivienne.”
She crosses her arms, handbag dangling from her wrist. “You’re my son. I’ll see you wherever I please.”
She’s drawing attention. A couple of journalists have their phones angled like they’re pretending to check messages. Ronan’s clearly weighing whether to walk away, but I step forward before he makes the call.
“Ronan, your press conference starts in a few minutes.” Ronan blinks at me, almost in a daze, and Vivienne turns her eyes on me. I can feel the coldness. “They just called your name,” I lie because there’s no such announcement made for these things. I level a pointed look that says Trust me.
He hesitates, eyes flicking between me and his mother, then gives a small nod and steps back. He tosses a thumb over his shoulder as his eyes land on Vivienne. “They’re waiting on me, but we can talk later.”
I’m already turning to Vivienne, stepping into her line of vision so she’s no longer staring at her son. I bestow a warm, curious smile. “We met earlier in the week, Mrs. Barnes. I’m Francesca Accardi.”
I can tell she’s having difficulty recalling me, but I don’t give her time to search the memory banks. I glance down at her bag. “Is that a Hermès Birkin?”
Her head tilts just enough to let the compliment land. “It is. Limited release. Do you know handbags?”
“A little,” I say lightly, taking a chance that she’s pliable and loop my arm through the crook of hers. I start walking in the opposite direction Ronan just went and his mother falls into step beside me as I steer her down the paddock lane. “That shade’s impossible to find. You must have incredible connections.”
Her expression softens slightly as she launches into a description of the boutique in Paris where she acquired it, the champagne they poured while she browsed, the dinner she had afterward. I keep the questions coming—fashion, travel, anything that keeps her focus on me instead of her son.
Eventually, when she’s talking about a gown she wore to an event in Monaco, I slide in, “So, what brings you to Silvercrest on a free practice day?”
Vivienne frowns in confusion and for the first time since meeting this woman, I have empathy for her. Whatever her addiction, she’s not in control of anything and that has to be scary. “Well… I’m here to support Ronan, of course,” she says, with the confidence of someone who thinks that’s a perfectly reasonable answer.