Page 115 of This is a Kissing Book

“I suppose.”

My banking app shows numbers that would normally make me panic, but the raise helps. I already transferred a second payment to the account number I’ve memorized. If only I could explain to them that I’m good for the money, that they don’t need to resort to arson to make their point. But now they’ve been paid double this month, so hopefully they’ll back off.

A cold fear grips me. What if they decide to make a connection to Mom?

“How are you and Brad?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.

“Oh, peachy. He surprised me with tickets to see an Elvis Presley tribute show for our anniversary next month. Can you believe it? Speaking of, are you going to be at our anniversary party? You still haven’t committed. I know it’s hard to get time off, but your brothers will miss you if you’re not there.”

“I doubt that,” I say with a laugh.

But Mom’s happiness is infectious, even through the phone. After my father ditched us, I never thought she’d find someone again. Brad the Dad might not be my biological father, but he makes her laugh, which is far better than making her cry.

“You sound tired, sweetheart. Everything okay? Any hot dates keeping you out late?”

My mother comes from a time when dating was the ultimate goal. It was the weekend plan that, with any luck, would lead to a lifetime of happiness. While I’ve diversified my interests somewhat from her generation—meaning my evenings and weekends might include a variety of activities—finding my forever someone is a little hope I keep hidden in my heart.

It’s not that it’s been broken too badly. More like I just haven’t found someone where we click in a way that tells me our primary interest is furthering the relationship, rather than getting a quick fix or pursuing our own separate agendas.

Until now, maybe.

“No hot dates.” Technically true. I glance toward Linc’s bedroom door. “Just work stuff.” Also accurate. However, I did find the Post-it note with my name on it from when he refused to address me by my name stuck to the mirror in his room.

Mom and I chat for a few more minutes about the usual topics—her succulent garden, Brad’s attempts at learning to cook, my cousin’s engagement—before she has to investigate a burning smell coming from the kitchen.

“Oh, by the way,” I say before she hangs up, “if you need to reach me this weekend, I’m staying at a friend’s cabin.”

“A friend’s cabin? Which friend? Is it a male or female friend? How long have you known this friend?”

“Mom—”

“I’m just asking! You’ve never mentioned friends with cabins.”

She’s such a mom, skilled at cracking my bad mood and making me smile. “It’s only for a few days. I’ll call you when I get back.”

After we hang up, I sit in the quiet of Linc’s penthouse, surrounded by luxury I’ll never be able to afford, preparing to run away to a lake house with a man who is out of my league, even if we kissed like that. But it’s a game. Theater. Our very own World’s Fair exposition. A depiction. A showcase. A temporary construction.

How did this become my life?

Linc is vague about what he was doing on his business trip, but I assume that deciding how best to approach the insurance fraud situation weighs heavily on his mind, which prompted our excursion.

When we leave the tightly stacked buildings of the city, giving way to the open, rolling countryside, I feel like I can breathe again. Apart from the unexpected trip to New York and then DC, I hadn’t left my immediate environment in … I count on my fingers, nine months.

“Doing some high-level math?” Linc looks sideways at my fingers as he drives north.

In turn, my attention has been on his hands—how easily he navigated through city traffic, how they’re rough on both sides, unlike Nate’s. Oly’s comment about his calluses has stuck with me. But maybe Linc visits this cabin frequently, chops logs, and does other woodsman tasks.

I wonder what he looks like in a flannel shirt.

Giving my head a shake from the mewling little thought, I answer his question. “I was thinking about the last time I left Chicago, aside from our adventure.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” His laugh is husky.

He asks where my mom lives and I tell him that she and Brad the Dad are still in Las Vegas. That my brothers work for the UFC.

“You mentioned that they worked in sports, but are they fighters?” By the slim line between his eyebrows, I can’t tell if this concerns him or brings relief. Both?

“They’re brutes and love the barbarism of it,” I say, using the comment I often tease them with. “But no, they’re not professional fighters, though they all practice mixed martial arts. Since a lot of matches happen in Las Vegas, they work behind the scenes, helping orchestrate the events.”