“Okay, fine, tatties,” I say, giving in with a smirk. “But they sound like boobs.”
He smirks. “Maybe that’s why they’re my favorite.”
Twenty-Seven
Axe
I drop her off at her apartment. Back home, I work all afternoon, but the hours drag, and my focus is scattered. I then sit by the fireplace, drinking, my fists flexed like cudgels, moving only to stoke the flames with the poker. The crackle of the fire fills the silence, but it doesn’t burn away what’s gnawing at me.
Something about Josie’s mother was off. She wasn’t thinking about Josie the way a mum cares for a child. Nay, it was deeper, something more controlling. Those eyes on Josie were drained of warmth, as if she saw her daughter not as a person but as a possession. A thing.
It’s a look I recognize well. I spent a lifetime around people who treated women like disposable objects, like tools for their own gain.
I think about Josie’s childhood—the constant scrutiny, the endless tests, the doctors and nurses who poked and prodded without a thought for her comfort or well-being. Will Josie’s work for She’s the One trigger those old feelings of being a guinea pig?
I’m used to the beast that is SynthoTech, with its relentless demands and prying eyes. Hell, I built that beast. But for Josie, it might bring back haunting memories and make her feel like anexperiment again rather than the strong, independent woman she’s fought so hard to become.
The last thing I want is for her to relive that nightmare.
To make her relive her worst trauma.
I drain my whiskey and toss the glass into the fire, a proper Scottish tradition, rich with many meanings. Tonight, I decide to let it symbolize my release from dangerous memories.
I pour myself a second glass, drink it down a little too fast.
Toss that glass into the fire, too. This one is for Josie.
I stand up, resolute. Put the bottle back into the cabinet. I am not yet ready to give up having an excuse to see Josie all the time. And yet, tomorrow, while it might fuck things up with Niles von Shitforbrains, I’ll tell her it’s not too late to pull out of She’s the One.
Twenty-Eight
Josie
“You look pale,” my mother announces the moment she opens the door. NotHelloorSorry about yesterday. Not evenI’ll never forgive you.
How could I be pale? I slept for thirteen hours and slathered on enough self-tanner to look borderline orange. Turned out the stomach bug, awful as it was, was nothing. Here one day, gone the next. Mom, on the other hand, looks all bouncy and polished like she just rolled out of a luxury salon, with her “red” hair freshly tinted, and she’s sporting fresh nail extensions that are definitely not from Nailed It, where she works, but from one of those upscale spots downtown.
“Well, I promise you, I amfine,” I insist, flashing a grin. “Look, I’m so good I made you a lemon cake. When life gives you lemons…ba-dum-bump.”
She takes the cake with a neutral nod. “Thanks.”
“About yesterday, I’m sorry—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“It’s just that when I see you out and about when you should be in bed, I worry,” she scolds. “I’m a mom, Josie. That’s what moms do. And then I was shoved away from you like a criminal.”
“I was working, and I asked you politely to leave.”
“I don’t like this new job of yours. Axe MacKenzie is notorious around here. His takeover of the old Merchants Exchange Building left a lot of people without jobs.”
“That place had been closed for years! Hebroughtjobs to Shelton, Mom. Lots of them.”
“Well, if he’s so smart, he should have seen that you were unfit to be working. Even if you’re just a personal assistant.”
I wince. That’s the lie I told her when I got the job. My confidence wavers. Mom has always diagnosed me before the doctors, like some hyper-attuned therapy dog. What does she see that I don’t? “How are you doing, Mom?”
She pouts and shrugs. “Fine.” It’s all I’m going to get. “Come sit and have a cup of tea. It’ll put some color in your cheeks. I already made breakfast.”
It’s a truce, if only a fragile one. I sit before a plate heaped with scrambled eggs and microwaved bacon. Though my stomach’s settled, it’s too early for such a feast. But I won’t show weakness. I pick up my fork. She pours me tea—bitter and medicinal, but at least it’s iced. Mom fancies herself an herbalist, and she’s always pushing us (unsuccessfully, so far) to sell her teas at Grace & Honor.
