Dirty Work - Regina Kyle Page 0,57

says bean bag chairs are for children, and if it doesn’t have a frame, it’s not supporting hers. That’s bonus points in its favor in my book.

“We’ve got more than we can handle,” I admit, not too modest for a little humble brag. “I’m considering hiring another assistant.”

If I can stop mooning over Jake long enough to put a job posting up on ZipRecruiter.com.

My mother arches one perfectly tweezed brow. “I take it that’s why you haven’t called Martin.”

I rifle through my mental Rolodex but come up empty. “Martin?”

“Fletcher,” she supplies with an exasperated huff. “The head of our co-op board. I texted you his number. He’s been expecting your call.”

Dammit. This again?

“Yes, this again. Although I wish you wouldn’t swear. It’s not ladylike.”

Shit. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. But now that I have, maybe it’s the perfect time to get this out in the open. Maybe that’s what my subconscious was after all along.

I take another sip of coffee, wishing I’d thought to spike it with a shot of something stronger, and dive right in. “The truth is, Mom, I haven’t called Martin—Mr. Fletcher—because I don’t want to come speak at any tenants’ meeting. I’m not looking for pity clients.”

She frowns, creasing her Botoxed forehead. “Who said anything about pity clients?”

“Why else would you be trying to throw business my way?” I down the rest of my coffee then deposit the mug on the floor next to me, earning me another disapproving glare. I ignore it and plow on. Now that the floodgates are opened, there’s no stopping the tsunami of truth spilling out of me. “It’s obvious you think I’m struggling.”

“I don’t know where you get these ideas.” My mother shakes her head. Her impeccably coiffed signature bob barely sways gently then falls back into place, not a hair out of line.

“Hmm, let’s see.” I tap my chin like I’m deep in thought. “Could it be the countless times you’ve mentioned that it’s a good thing I have my legal degree to fall back on? Or maybe it’s how you call Odds & Errands my ‘little gopher business.’ You’ve always treated it like it’s some sort of hobby, a passing fancy I’m dabbling in until I get bored and go back to practicing law. News flash, Mom. I don’t need anything to fall back on, and even if I did, it wouldn’t be anything even remotely connected to the law. I am not getting sucked into that live-at-the-office, eat-breathe-and-sleep-work world again.”

Now that the words are finally free and out in the ether, I feel lighter somehow. More at peace. Whether it’s with myself or with my mother, I’m not sure. But I’m not sure it matters, either.

I risk a glance at her. Not that I’m expecting much in the way of a reaction to my outburst of verbal vomit. My mother doesn’t do emotions. With her it’s all logic and reason and careful control.

So when I see her wiping away what can only be a tear with the back of her hand, it’s an understatement to say I’m shocked.

“I know I’m not the best at showing emotion,” she says, making me wonder for not the first time whether the woman can read minds. Then again, if she could, we wouldn’t be having this discussion. She would have known what I was thinking ages ago. “Saying how I feel isn’t easy for me.”

Her voice wavers, the careful control she prides herself on slipping a notch. I’m tempted to jump in. To do what I’ve done in the past when we’ve come close to this reckoning. Lie, tell her it’s okay, relieve her of any guilt she might have over our strained relationship.

But I don’t. Instead, I bite my lip and sit back, ears—and heart—open to what she has to say. Because maybe, like me, she needs to get something off her chest. And maybe this time it will be what I need to hear.

She takes a handkerchief from her vintage Hermès alligator bag—seriously, who carries a handkerchief anymore except stuck-up suits and elderly grandmothers? Or an alligator bag for that matter?—dabs at her eyes and continues. “I understand that you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. But I’m a mother. Mothers worry. Even the worst of us.”

Okay, it’s not exactly what I was hoping for. But it’s close. And I’ve got to give the woman credit for trying.

“I appreciate that. But I don’t need your help.” Emotional support would be nice. But I don’t want