“I might also be avoiding Mom.” “Why?” He grimaces and shuts his eyes, hiding the pale blue-gray irises Mom gave him. “I dropped the ball on a massive baking order for one of her countless charitable fundraising doohickies. She was…not pleased.” This is not unusual. Viggo’s the definition of scattered. Dozens of interests, a hundred talents, none of which he can seem to settle on. Whereas I have one—painting. His charisma saves his ass on the regular, but Mom’s one of the few people who won’t be charmed by it.
