Mama’s Boy by Avery Flynn

Chapter Eleven

Dixon

Dixon was pacing underneath the bronze-inlaid dome in the boarding area at Union Station waiting for Fiona when his phone rang.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather join us in Switzerland?” his mom asked as soon as he answered, not willing to be second even when it came to waiting for someone to say hello. “It’s so gorgeous this time of year, and you know how much you love the lodge’s hot chocolate.”

“You make it sound like I’m eight years old, sitting in fuzzy pajamas holding a mug with huge marshmallows.” In reality, it was the amount of Jameson in the slow-melted Swiss chocolate that was oversized. After a day on the slopes, there was nothing quite like that sweet burn that went from the tip of his tongue down to his stomach.

His mom scoffed. “I’d never let an eight-year-old have cocoa with that much whiskey in it—a little Baileys, maybe.”

“Mom,” he warned.

Born wealthy, raised with only one rule, and indulged by anyone who loved her, which was everyone who met her, Suzanne Parker Beckett had never been a mother in the classic sense.

“Fine.” She sighed and continued on as if she’d been called in by the headmaster of her finishing school. “I would not break the law and give a child liquor that is basically candy.”

Despite knowing he shouldn’t encourage her, he laughed. “That almost sounded believable.”

“I’ve been practicing. So you know the Hershells will be there, and you know they’re going to challenge us on the downhills. However, your father twisted his ankle before we got here. He veered to the left, going around a crowd of tourists taking pictures of Union Station’s gothic architecture.”

“So that’s why you really want me to come.”

“Well, that and the fact that I do love you.”

That may be true, but the moment the Hershells’ name was mentioned, he knew that wasn’t the whole story. He could practically see his mother now as she walked the perimeter of the family chalet’s living room, the crackle of the fireplace filling the air and the abundance of heavy cable-knit blankets draped across the backs of every chair and couch. She’d pause and look out the huge window, not at the breathtaking view of the Alps but at the plot of land directly across the valley where her closest friends and even closer rivals had built their vacation lodge.

He shook his head as he headed back to the boarding area. “Mom, you’ll never change.”

“Primum est rem,” she said.

First place is all that matters, their family motto.

“Vincere aut mori,” he shot back.

“So dramatic, Dixon. Win or die? Really?” The sound of ice hitting the side of his mother’s highball glass rang over the line. “I guess if you insist on going to Gable House for Christmas this year, we’ll just have to tape up your dad’s ankle and give him a couple of painkillers. I’ll add in a little shove down the mountain if he needs it. It’ll be fine.”

More than likely, Maxwell Beckett would be yelling through his ski mask for her to do just that, but still, Dixon had to needle her at least a little. “You know some people would wonder if you were just after the inheritance money.”

His mom let out an offended gasp. “I adore that man and you know it. Anyway, that was his idea first. There is no second place between us.”

No shocker there. Growing up, it hadn’t been about what grade he’d gotten but was it the best one in his class; it wasn’t who he was dating but was she the most sought after; and it wasn’t about improving the family business but making Beckett Cosmetics the most recognizable company in the makeup community. Frankly, he was surprised his mom hadn’t thought to tattoo primum est rem on his ass when he was a baby. The only time he’d thought it was even possible they might lose was when his mom had gotten cancer. But she’d beat that too. Winning, she’d told him, is what they always did.

“What is Dad up to?” Dixon asked.

The clink of ice hitting the glass sounded again as she took a sip of her drink. “He’s making sure the Hershells haven’t built a bigger place than ours.”

Oh yes, the real reason why the chalet had a telescope out on the deck.

He was about to give his mom a warning about stalking when he spotted Fiona making her way through the crowd. As she did so, she smiled at the tourists milling about and even stopped to take a photo for a family whose selfie stick had broken. Unless she purposefully put her thumb in front of the lens, that was not exactly the type of behavior the world’s worst date would exhibit.

What are you up to, Fiona Hartigan?

Without thinking about it, he changed his direction and started heading directly toward her, curiosity aroused. He’d never been able to turn away from a puzzle. The why and the how were always more interesting than the what. He was turning it all around in his head when she spotted him. She paused, her chin went up, the upward curl of her pink lips flattened, and she was again the woman from the museum.

No doubt about it—Fiona Hartigan was trying her best to play him. The only question he had was why would someone he’d never met before pretend to be someone she obviously wasn’t? He’d unravel it. At most, it would take him a day or two—a little distraction from watching his cousins lose the bet to be the last man standing.

“Dixon, did you hear a thing I just said?”

Not a damn thing. “Sorry, Mom, I have to go catch the train. Have fun in Switzerland.”

“Always, darling,” she said and hung up.

He pocketed his phone and watched Fiona as she headed for him and ignored the other people who crossed her path. Everything about her screamed unapproachable, from the high and tight ponytail she’d pulled her hair back into to the fact that her fitted white shirt was buttoned up all the way to the top. Her shoes were no-nonsense flats, and her jeans left everything to the imagination. It was an outfit perfect for a woman who thought eating for pleasure was a waste of time—all except for one thing that he noticed as soon as she stopped in front of him. Fiona had forgotten about the necklace. There was no way the woman Fiona was pretending to be would be sentimental enough to wear a small heart around her neck on the outside of that buttoned-up shirt.

“So where do we go pick up our tickets?” she asked without a hello or how are you.

“I am your ticket.” Squelching his reflexive instinct to see if she needed a snack or to ask if she’d had an extra-bad day and how he could fix it, Dixon instead took her suitcase and motioned for her to go ahead of him down the stairs to the train platform. “Come on, you’ll see.”

Fiona wrinkled her nose as she eyeballed him, obviously trying to decide if he was going to push her down the stairs when she went first.

“Trust me,” he said, smiling at her. “I’m exactly who you think I am.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Then she turned and headed for the stairs, doing exactly what only the all-too-trusting do in Harbor City—she held on to the railing that had been touched by God knew how many people and had God knew how many germs on it. Yep. His date was very much not who she pretended to be.

Challenge accepted. Let the games begin.