I can see her in my head, looking at her nails while saying it. I have no idea how she comes up with all these words and terms, but I’m so glad she does. She’s hilarious.
“Okay, first of all, I do not have the hots for anyone. Second of all, what the hell is colágeno and where did you hear that? I know it wasn’t at the country club with the ladies of high society.”
“You’re right. I didn’t learn this here in Charlotte. It was your tía Marta who told me what a colágeno is.” I can practically hear her shrug through the phone. “It’s a guy that can be a lover, partner, fuck buddy. The only requirement is that he has to be younger than you.”
“Mami,” I shout into the phone. “I don’t even want to know how tía Marta knows that term. But no, that’s not who Miles is to me.”
The lie slips out way too easily.
I mean, we’ve only been together twice. It’s not like this is an ongoing thing.
“You keep telling yourself whatever you need to, mi amor. I’m going to keep praying you give that poor boy a real chance one day.”
Okay, this is getting out of hand. Mami praying for Miles?
“What do you mean? He’s not into me, Ma. We’re coworkers.”
“Coworkers can f—”
I cut her off with a gasp. “Don’t you dare to finish that sentence, Ma. You are a pure, innocent lady.”
Now it’s her turn to cackle. “Don’t make me laugh, Penny Bean. Call me when you get home safely. Okay?”
“Okay, Mami. Te amo.”
“Te amo también. Dad says hello.”
She hangs up, leaving me lighter somehow, and with some of the happiness from earlier returning.
God, I love my mom.
A car approaches outside, and through the window I spot my Bimmer coming down the long driveway. I hurry to get ready for the day.
After my shower, I throw Miles’s shirt back on and spend some time answering emails on my laptop.
By the time I finish packing my bag, a soft knock sounds at the door.
“Hey,” Miles greets me with a devilish smile.
“Hey yourself,” I say, matching it.
“I noticed you didn’t eat. Something wrong?” he asks, jerking his thumb toward the kitchen.
I frown. “I didn’t realize you left food for me. That’s so kind of you.”
He rolls his eyes. “Come on, let’s eat. I worked up an appetite digging your car out of the snow.”
And just like that, my brain throws me right back onto his couch—his mouth between my thighs, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.
“Should I reheat this, or do you want something fresh?” he asks, two little worry lines appearing between his brows.
I walk into the kitchen, close the distance between us. A tower of pancakes sits on a plate on the counter.
“I have some fruit cut up in the fridge. And I can make eggs, if you’d like,” he adds quickly when I don’t say anything right away.
His thoughtfulness makes me weak in the knees.
“Throwing these away is such a waste. Let’s warm them up.”
