Reunited With The Billionaire

He grabbed his jacket and keys and hurried out to his truck. There was only one thing that really needed doing this morning, and he damned well was going to do it.

* * *

GINA MONROE SAT at the old maple table in her kitchen, elbows propped on its scarred surface, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of herbal tea. On impulse, she’d taken the day off from her job as a teacher at the local elementary school. Now she watched with satisfaction as her daughter tucked into a stack of blueberry pancakes she’d sworn she could never finish when Gina served them to her ten minutes earlier.

Wendy forked up a mouthful dripping with maple syrup and melted butter. Gina smiled at the look on her face.

“Good?”

Wendy chewed, swallowed and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “No,” she said, straight-faced. “I’m just making a pig of myself to keep you happy.”

Gina grinned and thought how wonderful it was to have her little girl home again. It was the same thing she’d been thinking for the last two days.

“Seriously, Mom, these are incredible.”

“Well, we had a great blueberry crop last summer,” Gina said modestly. “Your father couldn’t keep away from the pick-your-own place just north of town.”

“Is it still there?”

“Mmm-hmm. And Daddy bought boxes and boxes of berries. I made blueberry pie, blueberry tarts, blueberry vinegar, blueberry liqueur—”

“Whoa. Blueberry liqueur? That’s a new one.”

Gina smiled as she rose and went to the counter. “Your father gave me a course in herbal cooking as a birthday gift last year.” She spooned some fresh herbs into an infuser and filled her mug with water from the kettle. “More coffee for you?”

“Yes, please.”

She topped up Wendy’s cup. “I have some pancakes left. Would you like a couple more?”

Wendy groaned and held up her hands. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“Just one, maybe?”

“Honestly, I’m full.” Wendy pushed back her chair. “I’d almost forgotten what an American breakfast was like. That was absolutely delicious.”

“I’m glad. Oh, don’t get up, sweetie. Let me get those dishes. You just sit there and take it easy.”

Wendy shook her head, collected her dishes and took them to the sink. “That’s all I’ve been doing since I got back.”

“It’s all I want you to do.”

“I’m not an invalid, Mother.”

“Well, of course you aren’t. I just enjoy fussing over you.” Gina made a face. “And now I’m in trouble.”

“Huh?”

“You just called me `Mother.’“ She took two cake plates from the cupboard and put them on the table. “That’s always a danger sign.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mom.”

“See? Now I’m `Mom.’“ Gina smiled as she took out forks and arranged them on fresh napkins alongside the plates. “`Mom’ is good. `Mother’ is a warning,” she said, opening the oven. The scents of cinnamon and nutmeg drifted out. “You ready for some coffee cake?”

Wendy stared at her mother. “No. Yes. Is it that sour cream cake you used to make?”

“Uh-huh.”

“In that case, maybe a sliver…and what in heck are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you and the Mom-Mother thing.” Gina took the cake from the oven and put it on the table, then closed the door with her hip. “`Why must I wear my galoshes, Mother?’“ she said in a little-girl voice. “`Why must I do my homework now, Mother?’“ She laughed at the perplexed expression on Wendy’s face. “Ever since you were tiny, I was `Mom’ when you were happy with me and `Mother’ when you weren’t.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I didn’t know I was that transparent.” Wendy hesitated, watching as Gina sliced the cake. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap just now.”

“I know you didn’t, sweetie.” Gina looked at her daughter. “And I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. You just need to remember that I haven’t had the chance to fuss over you in a very long time.”

“I know. And I really love having you fuss. I just…I guess I confused it with you thinking I wasn’t up to doing things for myself, and I’m not very good at letting people help me.”

“Not good? Dear, you bristle like a porcupine, but I’m not surprised. You always were so fiercely independent. It’s what got you into trouble your very first day in kindergarten.”

Wendy smiled. “Seriously?”

“Oh, yes. I’ll never forget it. Your teacher cornered me when I came to pick you up.” Gina’s expression softened at the memory. “I’d just gone back to teaching. I was doing half days, paired with a new teacher. She took mornings so I could be home with you in the afternoons.”

“Uh-huh. I remember.”

“Anyway, I came to get you. And your teacher—”

“Mrs. Barrett.”

“Right. Sally Barrett said she hated having to tell me, but you’d walloped some little boy.”

“I didn’t!” Wendy laughed. “I don’t remember that at all.”

“Well, it’s true. Seems he’d been crying. Lots of the kids were. First day away from home and all that… Anyway, this poor little guy wanted his mother. You were sitting next to him and you were crying, too.”

“I definitely don’t remember that! I loved kindergarten.”

“Yes, you did. But that very first day, you were teary-eyed, the same as the other children. Sally said the little boy looked at you—for comfort, maybe—and you said, `What are you looking at?’ or words to that effect, and he said he was looking at you because you were crying, and you said—”

“Oh, wow.” Wendy giggled and covered her face with her hands. “It’s coming back to me. I said he was a baby and he said if he was a baby, so was I, and—”

“And,” Gina said, putting slices of cake on their plates, “you hauled off and hit him.” She grinned. “Then he really had something to cry about, poor kid. Anyway, Sally Barrett read you the riot act. So did I. And when your father came home and I told him what had happened…”

“He said I’d done a bad thing.” Wendy’s lips twitched. “Then he picked me up, lifted me high in the air and said I was some piece of work.”