A smile splits across my face as I continue taking in my surprise. “He’s getting ripped off picking me as his girlfriend.” The only things I’ve gifted him are problems.
I don’t know what the hell he sees in me, and I don’t think I care anymore. If our date and its aftermath two nights ago didn’t seal it, the spread in front of me will. I barely remember why I’ve been resisting this relationship.
Clearly, the only answer is to start ringing the wedding bells.
“As long as you rip his pants off, I doubt he cares. And hey”—Joyce slaps my arm—“don’t say that about yourself. You have plenty to offer.”
“Oh yeah?” I grin.
“Firstly, your ass is huge.”
I snort. She’s full of shit. It most definitely is not.
The third notification pops up on my phone since she’s come out of her room. She didn’t get back home until last night, and I’ve kinda missed her. But I’m almost grateful she wasn’t around yesterday to witness the state I was in, especially when I still feel like shit over asking her to cover my portion of rent until we get paid again, and having to lie about whether the insurance company has paid out yet.
I’m not sore anymore from the flare-up, but I spent all of yesterday morning feeling like shit for stopping, despite Leo’s many assurances that it was fine. Not to mention, well,Mom.
At least my blackmailer hasn’t contacted me since.
“Jesus Christ, your phone won’t stop going off. Look at you, Miss Famous Author.” The smile Joyce gives me is beaming,and shit if it doesn’t make me blush even harder. “Are you still getting a million messages about how much everyone loves it?”
“So many people have already finished reading it.” I’m trying to be humble, but fuck it, I can’t be right now.
“You wrote a fucking good book, that’s why. Are you ranking?”
“I’m ranking.” I’m at least bashful this time.
“Shut up.”
“Top 50 books in the store.”
“Oh my God!” Joyce’s scream could burst my eardrums if I weren’t giggling and fighting the need to jump around like she is.
Noneof my books have ever made it to even the top 400 in the store. But fifty? Five-zero? I think I might faint.
“Does your mom know?”
“Fuck no. I’m not telling that woman shit.” The reminder dampens my mood, and the dread comes crawling back.
Joyce’s forehead wrinkles. “Not even to shove it in her face?”
“She found out about Leo and is likely hiring a hitman as we speak.”
Her jaw drops. “What? When? How? Who? Where?”
“He showed up at Thomas’s funeral and introduced himself to Mom as my boyfriend.”
“Oh, she would’ve beenpissed. I’m surprised you’re still alive.”
“I’ve been avoiding her.”
“Good call.” She thrusts her chin toward the kitchen island. “What’s happening with you and hockey boy, anyway? You haven’t given me an update.”
Where do I even begin? “We keep talking about me moving in.”
“Already?”
“He’s really serious about us.”
