I shouldn’t have stopped to listen outside Zaila’s door when Jay waltzed in. I knew such behavior was beneath me. But if Jay followed in Lydia’s footsteps, I’d need to remedy that situation, too. I couldn’t have incompetent people working for the Wildcatters. That impacted morale and created disharmony, which went against my ethos. Plus, it was important, since I was the boss, to make sure Zaila felt comfortable in her new role. That was my only focus regarding her.
That’s what I told myself, and that was a lie.
Now that I’d heard Zaila’s laugh, I knew I’d do everything in my power to make sure I listened to that crystalline sound again. And again.
I sure as hell didn’t want baby-face Jay taking Zaila out. My breath had passed my lips on a whoosh as she turned him down.
But a partner? Of course she had someone, and I wouldn’t pursue her. I’d meant what I said about not involving myself with my staff. And I respected her choice, even if I didn’t like the idea of another man touching her, kissing her, loving her…
With a faint grunt, I pushed myself off the wall and stalked toward the elevator. I’d get over this. The response was hormonal, and I was an adult. Finding her attractive wasn’t that big of a deal. I’d ignore her as much as I could, seeing her only in meetings. Better, I’d ask Noelle Fischer from marketing and promotions to take over the department meetings and only get involved when necessary. Zaila didn’t work on my floor, and hopefully my interest would wane. I just had to hold to control myself until then. I could do that. I’d been doing so for decades.
Chapter 6
Zaila
I settled onto the couch next to my father’s favorite chair, a leather recliner that had seen better decades. The soft, worn upholstery cradled my mother, who huddled in its depths, draped in her housecoat. She told me she’d changed into it after her shower, but I’d bet she’d worn the horrid thing all day.
The housecoat itself wasn’t horrible; what it represented, however, upset me.
My mother was getting worse. She’d slowed down physically, and now she didn’t even want to get dressed. Instead, she hid in her nightclothes, growing paler and thinner—such a change from the vivacious, smiling woman who’d raised me.
“Mom,” I said, taking her hand in mine. Her skin was cool to the touch, and I could feel the bones beneath. “Do you want dinner?”
She opened her eyes and smiled. “Zaila, my sweet girl,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I…forgot what we were talking about.”
“I asked what you wanted for dinner.” Emotion rose in my throat as it tried to push up and make my eyes tear, but I shoved it down.
“Oh, I can just get something later.”
Her vague answer told me what I’d feared: my mother wasn’t eating. “I’m moving back in,” I told her.
She frowned. “Whyever would you do that? You should be out living your life.”
The tears I’d tried to force away now welled up. “I am living my life. I just told you about my job, remember?” I could tell she didn’t. “But you…” I blinked back tears. “You’re not.”
She reached over, fumbling until she could squeeze my hand weakly. “You have to, Zaila. You have to live your life, free and unfettered. Don’t let me hold you back. Your father would be appalled.”
He would, but not for the reason she’d cited. My mother had always been the backbone of our family, so seeing her reduced to this wisp of her former self destroyed me, just as it would have him.
“I’m going to make stroganoff.”
My mother loved the creamy pasta dish. I rose and headed to the kitchen, unsurprised that she didn’t follow me. Just two years before, my mother would have been bustling around the room, a smile on her face as she ensured that Dad and I had our favorite drinks as we waited for a meal. I took out some of the day’s frustration on the onion, then the mushrooms.
Once it was ready, I went back to the living room, where my mother was once again zoned out in Dad’s chair. The sight of her firmed my resolve. I’d moved out the year before Dad died—the year I’d finished my bachelor’s degree and started my master’s. I might have stayed longer, but both my parents wanted me to “experience a full life,” they’d said. While I loved my loft near the Galleria, it had become impractical. My lease was up in three months, and I’d let the place go. Mom needed me.
“Time to eat,” I said.
“Zaila.” She placed her hand to her chest. “Oh, darling. I forgot you were here.”
And I’d start moving my stuff back sooner than that. No way was I leaving Mom alone, even if it meant a longer commute.
We settled at the round oak table, and I dished up a plate for her, already knowing she wouldn’t finish most of the meal. Dread settled in my belly, chasing away my appetite.
“I’ll start moving my stuff back this weekend,” I said.
She shook her head. “No, Zaila. You have your whole life ahead of you?—”
“Stop it,” I argued. “You and Dad…you’re everything. Without you, I’d have spent my whole life in that orphanage. I’m here, happy and healthy, because of you. Don’t you dare diminish what you did for me.”
