“Okay,” she says firmly. “It’s down. That’s good. That’s manageable.”
“Please stop assessing my cock like it’s a medical case.”
One of us needs to get their shit together before we answer the door, so I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her to me.
“Don’t you dare stop loving me because your mother does,” she whispers, and it’s the first time I see true fear peeking through the panic.
“That’s not how this works.”
Because nothing could stop me from loving her. One day, she’ll believe that. Until then, I’ll just show her how much I mean it.
But right now, I need to face my spatula-loving mother.
“Ready?” I murmur against her mouth.
“No, but let’s do it anyway.”
When I open the door, my mother stands there, elegant as always. Tom looms behind her, holding a bottle of red.
I try to get the images of him bent over my childhood kitchen counter out of my head and remember he’s the man who has always been there for me.
It might take a minute.
“Hi, Mom. Tom. Come in.”
I kiss her cheek as she steps inside. Tom gives me a small nod that says,You’re about to be evaluated.
I gesture toward the center of the living room.
“Mom, Tom, this is Madison.”
Madison stands tall, her shoulders back and chin lifted.
My mother’s eyes land on her face first.
Then her outfit.
Then… her feet.
Madison follows her gaze. I watch as realization hits.
She never changed her footwear.
Her eyes snap to mine like I personally forced those slippers onto her body.
“Oh, thank God,” my mother says, relieved. She kicks off her heels. “I have been suffering for the last hour. I was trying to make a good impression, but my arches are killing me.”
I think the pressure has finally gotten to that beautiful woman of mine because she throws her head back and barks a laugh. The tension drains from her shoulders so fast I can almost see it happen.
My mother steps forward and kisses Madison’s cheek like they’ve known each other for years.
“It smells wonderful in here.”
Madison glances at me over my mother’s shoulder, eyes sparkling with disbelief. They head toward the kitchen, already linked at the elbows.
“What are we having?” my mother asks.
Madison leans closer. “Honestly? I have no idea. I can’t cook to save my life. I’m here for moral support and wine.”
