“Yeah. Thanks.” I take a hunk. “Do you have any butter?”
“Oh, yeah.” She rises and finds a stick in the fridge, unwraps it, and places it on the butter dish. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
A few minutes pass. Then—
“You’re a good cook, Skye.”
“Thanks.”
“This is the best stew I’ve had in a long time.” No lie there.
“I’m glad you like it. I wasn’t sure you were a stew kind of guy.”
“Are you kidding? My mother made stew all the time while I was growing up.”
“Right. It’s easy to forget sometimes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well… You grew up like I did. You didn’t always have billions.”
“You’re saying stew is a poor man’s meal?” It was the way my mother prepared it. It was also a delicious treat.
“I don’t know what I’m saying. Forget I said anything.”
“I still enjoy the simple things,” I say. “A walk in the rain, watching the sun rise, a warm bowl of stew, and a slice of crusty bread. Money doesn’t change who a person is.”
“I didn’t mean that it did.”
“Okay. No big deal.”
“If you like stew so much, Braden, why don’t you have Marilyn cook it for you?”
I don’t hesitate. “It wouldn’t be the same.”
“As your mother’s?”
I nod.
My mother passed away before I made my billions. It’s common knowledge, so Skye no doubt knows. I don’t talk about her, though. Just eating this stew brings back a lot of memories that are better left buried.
“Tell me about your mother,” Skye says.
I swallow a bite of stew and dart my gaze to the side. Nope. Not going there. “I don’t talk about her.”
“Why?”
I meet her gaze this time. “It’s too hard.”
She doesn’t press, thank God. “What about your dad? Can you tell me about him?”
“You can google him and find out everything.”
“I don’t want to read it in some rag, Braden. I want you to tell me.”
“I don’t talk about my family.”