When she let her guard down, Ally's face was beautifully expressive. And at the news of my mother's death, curiosity morphed to shock, to panic, and finally to sympathy.

"Your...your mom died? I'm so sorry. So, so sorry."

The awkwardness didn't get any easier, which was why I'd mentioned Mom's death to so few people. Just my two assistants, my old college roommate, and my father. Telling Father had been the most difficult. I'd almost left it to the lawyers, but that damn conscience the old man had spent decades trying to exorcise out of his only son had convinced me that I should be the one to break the news. That it would be better coming from family.

In hindsight, I should have left it to Thaddeus Marshall, Esquire. He was closer to my father than I'd ever been. When I'd informed the old man of his first wife's untimely demise, he'd just raised an eyebrow and said, "What did she die of? A bleeding heart?" Then, "Let's hope she didn't do anything stupid with those damn shares."

I'd come so fucking close to punching the jackass.

Which shouldn't have been a surprise—everyone said I was a chip off the old block, and Wynn Carrington had one hell of a temper.

I nodded. "Three days ago."

"Was it sudden?"

"Yes." And because Ally was probably wondering why I'd spent the day at a charity golf tournament instead of arranging a wake in Seattle, I added, "We weren't a big part of each other's lives."

Ally reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "I'm sorry for that too." A moment later, her expression filled with horror, and she dropped my hand like a hot coal. "Whoops! Overstepping there."

"Relax. At least you kept your hand above my waist this time."

I smiled to let her know I was joking, even if I didn't feel the slightest bit of mirth. How was I meant to explain the messed up relationship I had with my mother? If you could even call it a relationship. She'd walked out on Christmas Eve, a month before my sixth birthday and right after another fight. They'd happened often, although at the time, I'd been too young to truly understand what was going on. I just remembered her crying a lot, occasionally shouting, and on one occasion, slapping my father in the kitchen.

When she left, he'd framed it as a good thing. Explained in words a child could barely understand that she was crazy, psychotic, and now we were finally free of her. Although not entirely, I'd later found out. Mom had fought him hard in the divorce, and she'd been left with ten percent of the shares in Carrington Holdings, a seat on the board of the Carrington Foundation, and an NDA weighing heavy on her mind.

Me? I'd been left with a chip on my shoulder the size of Texas.

Years had passed before I found out the truth.

"We don't need to stay for dinner," Ally said. "Honestly, my foot's fine, my shin too, and Cooper said he'd be back by eight tonight. He can cook. Well, kind of."

"We're staying."

"Okay."

When Ally bit her lip and focused on the table, I realised I'd used the wrong tone with her. My senior vice president voice rather than my caring boyfriend voice. Or at least, what I hoped was a caring boyfriend voice. It wasn't as if I'd had much experience of being either of those things.

"What I mean is that I'd rather be here with you than sitting in my kitchen alone."

Silence, and maybe she was right? This wasn't what she'd signed up for. None of today's shitshow was what she'd signed up for. We had clear rules and boundaries in place, and I was pushing at them.

"I'll take you home," I said at the same time as she said, "I'll stay."

A waiter glided smoothly up to the table with our drinks, and I almost grabbed the gin and tonic and downed it in one. Ally eyeballed the hand gripping the glass, knuckles white.

"Brooks? Are you okay?"

Ally was eight years younger than me, a nobody I'd hired to play a part. A good-time girl out to make a few bucks by pretending to be something she wasn't. I was the chief operations officer of a billion-dollar corporation, wealthy in my own right, and with a lifestyle envied by millions. I had staff. I had homes in Malibu, New York City, and London. And right now, Ally was the only person in California whose company didn't make me grind my teeth.

"I'm fine."

She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her chin cupped in her hands. Blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders.

"You're also lying. I realise that's none of my business, but I signed the non-disclosure thingy, so if you ever want to talk, I'm happy to listen." She popped an amuse-bouche into her mouth and chewed. "Boy, those restaurant critics weren't kidding. The food here is really good. I mean, I have no idea what that was, but it tasted delicious."

I picked up my own offering and tried it.

"I believe it was a roasted scallop with a balsamic glaze."

"I don't suppose they do doggy bags, huh?"

I had to smile. Alabama Rockingham, with her lack of decorum, her positive outlook on life, and an outfit that was barely appropriate for a golf course let alone a Michelin-starred restaurant, made the darkness a little brighter every time she opened that cute mouth.

"If you want a doggy bag, I'll have them provide one."

"Do people always do what you say?"

"Mostly."

"Only mostly?"

My father never took orders, but I didn't want him on my mind tonight.

"I get the impression that if I wasn't paying you to conform, you'd challenge me at every opportunity."

She mulled that over. "Do you really think so?"

"You don't?"

"Maybe. I went through a conforming phase, but it didn't work out."

"In what way?"

"I learned that no matter how hard I tried, I'd never be good enough in the end. I'm short-term fun, not long-term commitment." Who the hell had given her that idea? "Which makes me great at my job, huh? Although clearly we won't be having fun at your mom's funeral, not at all. Who do you think called them that? Fun-eral? It's a really dumb name if you think about it."

"I believe it comes from the Latin funus, which means 'dead body.'"

"Latin? You speak Latin as well?"

"Nobody really speaks Latin anymore."

"Not even the insults?

"They were generally substandard."

"And the dirty talk?"

I felt my lips quirk. "Inadequate. Although there's verbero, which roughly translates as 'one who needs a good whipping.' I guess you could use that in either context, depending on your particular kinks. BDSM isn't for everyone."

I kept a straight face, even when Ally turned delightfully pink and choked on a stuffed olive.

"Don't choke, verculum." I raised a glass of water to her lips. "Drink."

"What"—cough—"does that mean? Verculum?"

"My little spring chicken."

"Uh, is that an insult or a term of endearment?"

"I'll leave you to make up your own mind on that."

"Hmm." She took another swallow of water. "If nobody speaks Latin anymore, why did you learn it?"

"Because back in high school, I still harboured a crazy notion that I might have a career in a different field."

"And you wanted to become...what? An emperor? A philosopher? No, wait...a gladiator?"

A laugh burst out of me, and boy, did it feel good. Laughter came all too rarely these days.

"I don't think the sandals would suit me. No, I wanted to be a veterinarian. There are a lot of Latin terms used in medical fields."

"Why did you change your mind? Not that it was a bad move or anything—you definitely won at business."

"I didn't change my mind. It was changed for me. That's not common knowledge, but as you so rightly pointed out, you signed the NDA."

"Then who changed...? Oh. Your dad?"

I nodded. "And if you ever meet him, I'd appreciate you not mentioning the funeral. He doesn't know I'm going. Just tell him we headed to Vegas for a dirty weekend and you got lucky at the blackjack table."

I could almost see the cogs turning into her head, and yes, there was a lot to unpack there. Ally might have been a fun-loving girl, but she was also smart. I took a sip of water and waited patiently for her mind to churn.

"Can I ask questions?"

"You just did."

She rolled her eyes, as I'd known she would. "You know exactly what I mean."

"You can ask, but I reserve the right not to answer."

Ally, unsurprisingly, dug right into the heart of the issue, thankfully keeping her voice down so diners on nearby tables couldn't hear her words over the string quartet playing in the far corner. The amount dinner here cost, the violinist should have been holding a Stradivarius.

"Why can't your dad know that you're going to your mom's funeral? Wouldn't he automatically expect you to be there?"

"No, he wouldn't. He thinks she's the devil incarnate, and he brought me up to believe the same."

"But you don't?"

"We...reconnected. Less than a year ago. After..." The wave of sadness I'd been trying to hold back washed over me, and I took a calming breath. And another. Even facing off against Briley's chihuahuas had been preferable to confronting my own feelings. "After the Expotec dinner."

That had been our first "date." A gala where tech CEOs and investors gathered to eat too much, drink too much, and stroke each other's egos in the name of networking. Casey Woodruff had been attending, daughter of hedge fund owner Bernie Woodruff, a freshly divorced man-eater who'd cornered me on a terrace and tried to stroke something else during our previous meeting, despite the fact that her husband had been in the ballroom twenty yards away. Ally had performed admirably at Expotec, clinging to my arm all evening and placing one hand possessively on my chest as Casey approached. The next day, she'd sent me a "thank-you for supporting my small business" note and a feedback form, and I'd immediately hired her again.

It was a decision I hadn't regretted.