“Or, hear me out…” I place my hand extra high on his thigh, my heart skipping beats. “We could sit here for another hour or so, sharing tales about our childhood. We checked off the shitty, let’s dive into the good—I want to knoweverything.”
“Your stalling tactics are impressive…” His breath comes out shaky as I drift my hand higher on his thigh. “But we’ll have to do me later.”
“Oh, but I did you earlier, and all it did was give me a new fixation.” I squeeze his muscular thigh, and he readjusts himself, my taunting turning me on, too. “I’ve never experienced pleasure like that—not ever, Noah—and now all I can think about is you stripping me naked again.”
It pops out, surprising me as much as it does him, judging from his raised eyebrows and the mouth that hangs open like a bearded guppy.
Down, girl.
Suddenly bashful, I curl up against him, chin tucked on his shoulder and just blink, blink, blink at him. “That came out bolder than I expected, even though I wholeheartedly mean it.” I press puckered lips to his whiskered cheek, savoring the ticklish contrast. “Guess I’ve been hanging out with our grannies too long.”
He groans and gives me a kiss that’s over far too soon. “Call me if you need me.”
I nod, not caring that his scruff keeps catching on my hair.
Then my anxiety and procrastination come to a head, until nothing could be worse than going inside and getting it over with.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Noah waits at the curb like the gentleman he is, stealing another little piece of my heart. I wave to show him I’m fine before twisting the doorknob and pushing inside.
Fifi doesn’t come to greet me, which means she’s likely hiding from our guest. I probably shouldn’t find it so funny the cat doesn’t like my mother, but I do.
I set my beaded clutch on the console table next to the billowing moon goddess diffuser, thinking of my other unexpected twist of the night. Maddie of the hot pink pantsuit works for a publicity firm that’s searching for fresh, inventive ideas, and asked if she could share the community calendar and my info with her boss.
Like when she passed me her card at the event, I wait for the excitement to hit, but I can’t feel it through the swirl of giddiness over Noah and anxiety about my mom.
Still, the open house served as a much-needed reminder of how well I could plan and execute an event, despite limited resources and curveball surprises. By the end of the night, dozens of people had filled out interest forms, making me optimistic we’ll reach our 85 percent occupancy goal yet.
What more could I do here if given the chance?
For so long, my future’s been wrapped up in becoming a renowned publicist in a city I fell in love with the instant Grandma Helen collected me from the airport. Sunshine and sandy beaches, museums and cultural diversity, plus a bustling nightlife—as long as you weren’t too busy working to pay to live there.
“Mia? Is that you?” Mom calls, and I’m ten years old and sneaking through the house on tiptoe so she won’t assign me more chores.
Steeling myself, I head into the living room and do a quick scan of faces and body language. We’re down to our original trio from the early years at the village, before Tia Rita moved in next door: Wanda, Grandma Helen, and me.
My mom always hated that, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to see those were the only stretches of my childhood I felt validated and chosen.
Fighting my inclination to sit as far from the drama as possible, I purposely choose a seat on the couch next to Mom, so she won’t claim it’s another case of us versus her.
She assesses me with the hazel eyes she, Grandma Helen, and I share. “Looks like you’ve been eating good while you’re here,” she says, her tongue the sharpest tool at her disposal by far, and I wind my arms around my middle.
“Eatingwell,” Grandma Helen corrects, and Mom flinches without acknowledging the remark, already reaching for my hair.
“I still think your skin is too pale for this reddish-brown shade. Not sure what you have against your natural color.”
My grandma chimes in, the tension in the room cranking higher with each “observation,” it seems. “Says the person who keeps dyeing hers too dark—that doesn’t cover up the gray any better, just saying.”
Oh my God, it starts.
They both did a lot of “just saying” and “sorry you can’t handle the truth,” andfrom the dregs of my overworked subconsciousness comes my body positivity training. “We’re all so much more than hair color or clothing size, remember? And I look exactly what I am: happy.”
“Of course you are,” Mom says, and she doesn’t sound ecstatic or congratulatory about it, either. “Whenever you stay here withMother and her minions, you lose focus, forget your work ethic, and go completely off course.”
Forget. Your. Work Ethic.
Each word slams into me, hard enough to shoot holes in my happy. Theoff-coursecomment stings, too, and is that karma for declaring it her specialty?
