Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“The boss who wants to get married,” my mom says, coming forward and extending her hand with the grace of a southern debutante. “I’m the mother.”
Thomas surprises me by taking her extended hand without hesitation, raising it to his lips gallantly, and kissing the back of it.
For a horrible, confusing moment, I’m jealous of my own mother. I want her hand to be my hand. No, I want her hand to be my—
Good god, Mac. It’s Thomas.
But this casual version of him, with the tight-fitting sweater that shows the faintest outline of biceps I definitely did not see coming, it makes me a little . . . something
“Hello, The Mother,” he says, in the clipped tone that is becoming more and more appealing the more I hear it. “I regretfully must admit that yes, I am in fact one of those dreadful marrying types.”
“Oh, not dreadful,” Mom backpedals enthusiastically. “It’s just not the Austin women way.”
“I’ve heard that.” He cuts a gaze my way, and I feel the eye contact in all sorts of tingly ways.
Mom picks up her wine glass and makes some sort of murmuring noise that translates pretty clearly to I knew it.
“So, Thomas. How old are you?”
“Ohhhhkay, and that is where we say goodbye, Mom.” I plant a hand on her back and none-too-gently maneuver her out the door.
She surprisingly lets me, though her attention is still on Thomas. “Lovely to meet you, Mr. Bossman.”
“And you as well, Mac’s mother.”
“Please, call me Annette.”
“He won’t be calling you anything,” I say, starting to close the door. “You two will never meet again, and we will never speak of this night.”
She gives me another knowing glance. Mmm hmm. “Bye, baby girl!” she calls, already heading down the hallway.
I shut the door to my apartment, slumping against it as I look up.
“Actually, yeah. How old are you?” I ask.
He smiles. “Thirty-one.”
“Huh. I thought you were older.” I pick up my mom’s wine glass and finish the contents.
“Thanks? Sorry to let myself in. The front door of your building doesn’t close all the way.”
“I know. My mom takes full advantage of that fact regularly. Drink?”
I grab two beers out of the fridge, pop the top off both, and hand him one.
“Sorry about her,” I say, after taking a swig.
“Don’t be. She was . . . enlightening.”
“Do I even want to know what that’s supposed to mean?” I ask warily, flopping on my couch.
Thomas smiles. “So your aversion to committed relationships is in your blood, huh?”
He sits on the other side of the couch, and it’s not as odd as it should be, having Thomas Decker in my home, on my couch, drinking my beer, meeting my mother . . .
“I think it was more nurture than nature,” I say, surprising myself by answering his question. “I grew up without a dad, which I’m sure was part of it, but it was more that she never tried to soften that absence for me, because she didn’t think that it was an absence. For as long as I can remember, men came and went from her life—our life—but there was never any promise of permanency, or even desire for it, really. In fact, I think it sort of sticks in her craw that I’ve had the same job at Elodie as long as I have. Like it’s a betrayal of the Austin woman’s essence, or something.”
I glance over at him, half expecting judginess, or maybe even pity, but he looks simply thoughtful.
“Different from your upbringing, I’m guessing?” I prod.
“Very. My parents met in their early twenties, married in their mid-twenties, and they’ve never been shy or embarrassed about declaring themselves soulmates, even to a trio of scandalized teenage sons.”
“And you want what they have,” I say. “Stability.”
“I do. Just as you want what your mother has.”
“Lack of stability?”
He sips his beer. “I was going to say spontaneity.”
“Which is a synonym for lack of stability.”
“Hmm.” He considers. “Fun? I think you and your mom seek fun. How’s that?”
I both watch and listen closely for mocking, but I find none. I sit up a little straighter and scoot closer, filled with sudden intensity, a sudden need for reassurance or soothing or . . . something.
“What if . . . what if that’s not enough?” I blurt it out, and wish immediately I could take it back.
A line appears between Thomas’s thick, serious brows. “What do you mean?”
I look down at my beer, peel at the label, shaking my head quickly. “Nothing. It’s stupid.”
“No. Tell me.”
I look up, and realize I’m not the only one who’s closed some of the space between us. He seems to have moved closer as well. And though he’s leaning forward, arms on his knees, beer dangling casually from his fingers, his face is turned towards me. All of his attention is on me, and there’s nothing casual about it.