The Good Mum

He rubbed his face. Felt the rasp of razor stubble and a small speck of drool at the corner of his lips. He wiped it away, closed his eyes and wondered what he was going to do next.

He was back in Boston now, but Fleur was dead and it wasn’t home to him anymore. He wanted to leave town as soon as he possibly could. As soon as he was satisfied that Gram was okay, that he didn’t need to do anything on her behalf. That was his one job this morning. His one small focus on the present reality.

He heard someone softly clear her throat beside him. He opened one eye, just enough to notice a woman sitting to the side of him, so close their knees were almost touching.

“Hello,” she said, giving him a bright smile.

He felt himself frown. How long had she been there, her brow creased in concern, watching him?

As he stared at her, she swallowed. A door opened off to his other side, and the woman’s gaze flicked nervously in that direction. He turned, too. The woman who owned the place—he was in a salon, he reminded himself, waiting for Gram to get her hair set so he could take her to lunch—stood in the doorway.

She gave the slight woman sitting beside him a short, pointed look—similar to the way that Fleur had communicated with the underlings in her medical practice.

Aidan glanced back to the seated woman, just to see what she would do.

She gave him another nervous smile.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked her.

“I...understand you’re here for a haircut.”

“Who told you that?” he said, confused.

Her smile faltered. “I assume your grandmother arranged it with Ilana. My name is Ashley.” She smiled again as if under the assumption that this so-called haircut would be happening.

He rubbed a hand over his face again. Maybe his father was right—Gram really was slipping. The sooner he solved the answer to his question, the sooner he could leave Boston. “What do you think of my grandmother?” he asked. He’d forgotten the woman’s name already, but that didn’t matter. “Have you seen a change in her lately?”

“I...” She gave him a blank look.

He shook his head. She obviously had no idea if his grandmother seemed to be suffering from dementia or not. She probably didn’t even know his grandmother. Gram didn’t often talk to people outside her inner circle, especially now that she was in her mideighties. He should have realized that to begin with, but his brain was still feeling the effects of the long flight, followed by the shock of returning home.

“Never mind,” he muttered.

But she didn’t take a hint. She actually scooted closer to him, tilting her head and giving him a charming smile, which he hated. Because since that day nearly a year ago in Afghanistan, when Fleur had been caught up in a war-zone bombing, nothing could melt his heart.

“My sister is a doctor, too,” the woman said in a confiding tone. “I know how stressful her life is. I promise not to take long. I’ll have you ready before your grandmother even finishes with her appointment.”

She didn’t get it. A haircut was the last thing on his mind. It was absurd that Gram had even thought to arrange it.

He stood abruptly. “No,” he said in a clipped tone. “Thanks,” he remembered to say, just to pretend that he was still human. He took a step to make his getaway, but she jumped in front of him.

He blinked, shocked. He was even more shocked when she placed her palm on his chest. His top two buttons were undone, and her palm landed partially on his bare skin.

He stopped short. Her eyes widened as if she was shocked at herself, too. At her own audacity.

He stared directly into her eyes. She was shorter than him by a few inches. Her skin was almost translucent and looked as smooth as porcelain, like a doll’s. She had long auburn hair pulled back from her forehead. Every emotion played clearly across her dainty features, and at the moment she appeared terrified of him. Her hazel eyes were round, the pupils slightly dilated.

Something about that made him pause. He wasn’t a monster, and...she seemed so vulnerable. He’d thought he was a mess these past months, but she didn’t seem as if all was well with her, either.

He gave her some space, waiting for her to speak.

Swallowing, she removed her hand from his chest, but held his gaze. Aidan had been told that he didn’t have the best bedside manner in the world. He’d never cared before.

“My son is a cancer survivor,” she explained hesitantly. “Childhood leukemia.”

She had a son? He didn’t know why, but this surprised him.

“What’s your name again?” he asked her.

“Ashley.”

“And your son?”

She swallowed. “Brandon. He...wants to be a doctor when he grows up.”

He crossed his arms. His whole damn life he’d been expected to become a doctor, like the rest of his family. “Okay.”

“And...” She bit her lip. Those vulnerable hazel eyes still desperately latched on to his. “What’s your name?”

Dr. Lowe, he almost automatically said. But now that he was home, he wasn’t going to be a doctor anymore. “Aidan,” he answered.

“Well, Dr. Aidan, my son wants to become a cancer doctor to children—an oncologist—to help other kids the way he’s been helped. He still visits the hospital—he wants it so badly. He got the opportunity to attend a private school here in Boston, close by, and we’ve just uprooted ourselves and relocated to this neighborhood so that he could take advantage of the scholarship. This week is, well...it’s his first week in his new school and my first week in a new job.”

In his fogged mind, he put two and two together. “You’ve been ordered to cut my hair, haven’t you?”

She had the grace to laugh at their predicament. “Silly, isn’t it?”

The fact that his grandmother was ordering people to cut his hair was out of character, for sure. But he didn’t think it was a sign of dementia. The fact that he even had to consider that his grandmother could have dementia gave him a small moment of sadness.

“I’ll take good care of you,” Ashley said quickly. “I promise I’ll make it as fast and painless as possible. No chatter.” She smiled at him, putting her finger to her lips.

He stared back, determined not to look at those lips. They were tempting, and he didn’t want to be tempted.

“I’m sort of debriefing,” he said. He felt a sudden wave of anger and pain, and he almost faltered on his feet. He was very much debriefing.

And he doubted that even standing here talking to her was a good idea.

* * *

ASHLEY WAS BEFUDDLED as she watched the look on Aidan’s face move from wariness and confusion to anger. But there was no mistaking his feelings, because with a grimace of pain and a short shake of his head, he stood and walked away.

Without even pausing. Without even looking back at her.

She froze for a moment, her heart sinking, staring at Aidan’s retreating back. With a defiant gesture, he raked his hand once through his wild tangle of dark curls, as if he couldn’t have bothered about anyone in the salon, and then he opened the street door and left. Not a backward glance.

Ashley stood, shaking, her mouth opening and closing, debating what she should do. To do nothing was not an option—her new life depended on her doing something. Ilana would at some point want an account of what had happened, and if she decided that Ashley had been in the wrong—that she’d angered a client’s grandson and failed to sweet-talk him into going along with his grandmother’s wishes, then Ashley’s employment would be jeopardized, fair or not.

She couldn’t let that happen. How to fix it?