Sighing, she shrugs her shoulders. “I thought he was my soul mate. I thought he was it for me.”

Christ. I hate this so much. My mother isn’t a bad person. She deserves better than to be let down by every man she dates. Then again, she scoffed at me when I told her that warm, fuzzy feeling wasn’t reliable. Maybe she’s finally ready to accept that I have a point. I bridge the distance between us and wrap my arms around her. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Turns out he was just as shitty as the others. Well, he was good in bed, I’ll give him that.”

“I could have done without that mental picture, thank you.” Looking around us, I add, “Let me get you set up in the guest bedroom.”

My mother takes a moment to survey my place. She widens her eyes when her gaze lands on the caipirinhas Solange made. “Oh shoot. Am I interrupting something?”

“A friend’s here,” I say, my mouth suddenly going dry. “She wanted to give us privacy.”

My mother gives me a devilish grin. “Wow, my son works fast.”

“It’s not like that,” I whisper.

“What’s it like, then?” she whispers in reply.

I grind my teeth and glare at her. “We’re not having this conversation right now.”

For at least two reasons. One, Solange is in my bedroom, and it doesn’t feel right to talk about her in this way. Two, I have no fucking clue what I’d say. It’s been a month since she crashed my wedding. If I hinted that Solange and I are anything other than friends with benefits, a barrage of questions would follow. I’m not an impulsive person. Telling my mother I have feelings—serious feelings—for a woman I met last month would raise all kinds of red flags in her mind. She knows that’s not my MO. Because it’s hers, and we couldn’t be more different if we tried.

Shit, comparing myself to my mother throws what’s been going on between Solange and me into sharp relief. Now that I think about it, what the hell am I doing? This isn’t me. At all. Instead, I’m taking a page from Melissa Chapman, and that’s the clearest sign that I’ve gone astray from where I need to be.

She puts up her hands. “Okay, okay. May I take a shower at least? I have seven hours’ worth of high-speed-train germs on my body.”

Before I can respond, the click of the door to my bedroom snags my attention and Solange enters the living room, her bag slung over her shoulder.

“Hello,” she says to my mother. “I’m Solange. Dean’s . . . friend. I was just leaving.”