Her sentence trails off, but I could see where it was going. “But remember, I’m bigger than Troy,” I tease. I loved hearing her tell me that. “So we’ll have to think about soundproofing.”
“Luke,” she protests, rolling her eyes.
“Sorry, Milly, I couldn’t resist. But I should get going.” Because I’m starting to think her sports bra looks far too tight to be comfortable, and a gentleman would offer to help her take it off . . .
But Melissa wants to take it slow, so I let her walk me to the door. I keep my goodbye kiss brief—barely more than a brush of the lips, because I know how easily I could get carried away.
So I resist the temptation to take her upstairs and kiss her all over. Because regardless of what Melissa might think, this is going to be a long-term thing.
I can be patient.
TWENTY-SIX
MELISSA
“So, are you going to see the plastic surgeon again?” my mother asks innocently. “What did you say his name was?”
It’s Monday afternoon, and my mother and I are watching Liam play at the park. She didn’t have a chance to grill me when I picked the kids up from their sleepover yesterday morning, so I wasn’t surprised when she showed up this afternoon. And now that Liam’s busy on the playground, she’s trying to fish for information.
And I’m not fooled by the casual nature of her questions. There’s no way she’s forgotten Austin’s name; she probably googled him as soon as I mentioned him. I bet she’s read his RateMD reviews, too.
I keep my reply vague. “I’m not sure if I’ll see him again.”
“So you liked him?”
“Very much. He’s a gentleman.”
“It was a surprise to see Luke Carlton at the restaurant,” Mom persists. “He seems to be doing well.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I say. “I was surprised to see you at the restaurant, Mom.”
Mom has the grace to blush a little. “I knew the restaurant would be busy, and I didn’t think you’d see me.”
“Uh huh.”
“I was worried about you, Melissa,” she says, a little defensively. “It’s been years since you dated, and with everything you read in the news?—”
“And you thought the restaurant would be dangerous,” I say skeptically. “Or did you follow us home, too?”
“No, I thought that Luke . . .” she starts, then trails off. Her blush deepens a little.
“What was that, Mom?”
“I thought Luke might follow you. Did he?”
“It’s none of your business, Mom.”
When I was debating whether to move back to Somerset, one of my fears was that my mother would try to manage my life. She’s a naturally confident person, the type of mother who always thinks she knows best. When I was a teenager, she had strong opinions about my clothes, my friends, and what I should study at university (something easy, so I’d have plenty of time for Luke).
And since I don’t like confrontation, I rarely argued with my mom, but I didn’t always do what she wanted. In fact, sometimes I went the opposite way, just to make a point. When I was sixteen, Mom mentioned how pretty my long hair was, and even though I liked it long myself, the next day I had it cut to my shoulders. Nothing too radical or rebellious—it wasn’t like I shaved my head—but enough to prove I had a mind of my own.
And I think one of the reasons I studied computer science in undergrad was my mother was dead against it.
So sometimes when my mother’s involved, I have a hard time figuring out what I want. And if I tell her I’m dating Luke again, she’ll probably turn cartwheels (with all her Pilates, she probably could). She’ll hint I shouldexercise more, so I can keep him hooked. And she’ll probably try to invite us both for dinner, so she can tell us she approves of the relationship.
And this relationship—this second chance with Luke—is too important to let my mother interfere in it.
“What do you mean, Melissa?” Mom asks. She looks hurt and surprised; this might be the first time in my thirty-one years of life that I’ve told her something isn’t her business.
