Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 111400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
“Not necessarily.”
“Could I think about it?”
“Of course.” I understood her hesitation—this was the only home she’d ever known. We’d moved in with my mother right after she was born, which was also the day we lost Trisha.
“Don’t worry, Mariah, I’ll come over and clean it,” my mother said, using her apron to wipe off a framed photo of Trisha and me on our wedding day before replacing it at a slightly different angle on my dresser.
“That won’t be necessary, Mom.”
“Really?” She spun around to face me, arms folded. “Are you planning to hire a housekeeper? And while you’re at it, a personal chef and a babysitter?”
“No.”
“Who’s going to make your meals?”
“I will.”
“You can’t cook! And with your work schedule? You don’t even get home until seven o’clock. What’s Mariah going to do after school?”
“I’ll figure it out, Mom.”
“Would I have to stay alone?” Mariah’s voice trembled.
“Of course not,” I assured her.
“I can come over after school and make dinner for you, Mariah,” my mother said. “Or you can come here. Although it does seem sort of silly to move out if that’s going to be the case. I mean, really, Cole, if you’re not going to get remarried, what’s the point of—”
“That’s enough, Mom.” Anxious to avoid the same old fight, especially in front of Mariah, I went over to my daughter and tugged one of her braids. “And what are you up to tonight?”
Mariah beamed. “Miss Cheyenne said I could come over to her house for a mani-pedi and a movie.”
“Oh yeah?”
Cheyenne was Griffin’s younger sister. She was a kindergarten teacher at Mariah’s elementary school and had moved back home with her mother next door about a year and a half ago. She was wonderful to Mariah—a sort of surrogate aunt and big sister combined.
She was also gorgeous, with a body that wouldn’t quit, and lately she was on my mind all the time—and my thoughts weren’t always clean. I felt like an asshole about it, and I’d never act on the attraction, but frankly, a quiet evening in on the couch watching a movie with Cheyenne sounded a hell of a lot better than a loud night out at the pub.
“Aunt Blair is coming too.” Mariah tilted her head. “You think it’s okay to call her that even though she hasn’t married Uncle Griffin yet?”
“I think it’s fine. In fact, I bet she likes it.” I leaned a little closer to examine Mariah’s heart-shaped face, which resembled her mother’s more every year, although she had my blue eyes and light brown hair. “Did you have something chocolate for dessert tonight?”
She licked her lips. “Moose Tracks ice cream.”
“Well, you’ve got a Moose-stache, just like in that book you used to make me read every night. Go wash your face.”
Giggling, she put her hands over her mouth. “Okay.”
When she’d gone, I turned to my mom. “Listen, don’t scare her out of the idea of us moving out. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and I feel like now’s the time. I don’t have all the details worked out yet, but I’m asking for your support.”
She held up her hands. “Of course you have my support, darling. You’re always welcome here, but I understand wanting your own space. I think it’s a good thing. A healthy step in the right direction.”
“Thank you.”
She smiled, tucking her silvery bob behind her ears. “Now about that outfit . . .”
“My clothes are not up for discussion,” I said, switching off the light and heading out of my room.
“But it’s a party,” she said, hot on my heels. “How about a nice shirt and tie?”
I started down the stairs. “I’m just meeting my friends at the pub, Mom. The same guys I’ve been hanging out with since grade school. They won’t care what I have on.”
“But there will be other people there too. Maybe you could meet someone new.”
And there it is, I thought. The real reason she cares what I’m wearing—the “right direction” she’d been referring to.
My mother, like nearly everyone else in my life, seemed to be on some kind of endless quest to convince me to find a replacement wife. No matter how many times I told them I wasn’t interested in getting remarried, they never gave up.
“I’m good being single, Mom,” I said, heading into the kitchen.
“You say that, but—”
“I say that because it’s true.” Double-checking for my wallet and phone in my pockets, I grabbed my keys off the counter. “I don’t know why everyone thinks I’m so unhappy on my own. I’m not.”
“It’s not that we think you’re unhappy, sweetheart. We just think you’re, you know . . .” She groped for the right words.
“Go ahead and say it.”
“Stuck,” she blurted, twisting her hands together.
I widened my stance, folding my arms across my chest. “That’s ridiculous,” I said.