Charity Case - The Complete Series - Piper Rayne Page 0,13

sound of my alarm still rattles inside my head as its cacophony continues from the floor. My palm continually slaps the wood, hoping to make contact with the cord so that I can yank the damn thing up and shut it off.

“Mom?” my daughter Jade calls out to me.

I swivel my head in the direction of her voice and there she stands in her poop emoji pajamas with my alarm poised in her hands like she’s offering me a gift.

“Turn it off,” I groan and bring the pillow over my head.

Her small feet pad along the hardwood floors, squeaking right at the edge of my bed. The pillow gets plucked from my grasp, and seconds later the overhead light flickers on, blinding me temporarily.

“You’re going to be late.” My mom’s voice adds to the mix from down the hall.

I dream of being woken up by some suave foreign man who doesn’t speak a lick of English, while he uses his soft, roaming hands and sprinkles kisses over my flesh to stir me into consciousness. Instead, I get my seven-year-old daughter and my mom to orchestrate my Monday morning trip to Crazyville.

Jade turns off the alarm and sets it down on the nightstand. “It’s seven,” she says in a completely unalarmed tone.

“What?” I sit up, chip crumbs falling to the rumpled sheets.

“Eating in bed again?” She giggles, and I snatch her up by her waist pulling her onto the bed with me, using my fingers as an instrument to torture her. Torture by tickle.

“Mom, no!” She laughs and squirms.

“It’s only six-fifteen.”

She wiggles enough to slide away and I release her because I’m later than I usually am, but it’s Monday and since I made a deal with Jade that every Sunday is our day, it meant a late night of studying after she went to bed.

“I’ll turn on the shower.” She walks out of the room and straight into the small bathroom of our three-bedroom bungalow—the house I grew up in. Jade now sleeps in my old bedroom, while I’m shacked up in my mom’s old sewing room. She doesn’t sew much these days, anyway.

“Thanks, and then—”

“I know. Brush my teeth, get dressed, and comb my hair.”

I smile at my independent daughter even though it causes a familiar tug on my heart. She should have had the luxury of having a mom who picks out her clothes and does fancy hairstyles with ribbon and curls before school. A mom who wakes her up with the smell of bacon and pancakes and freshly squeezed orange juice. A dad who pulls her mom in close to say goodbye and promises to be at her soccer practice as he kisses the top of her head.

Instead, she’s got a dad who didn’t blink when I told him we were moving back to Chicago and leaving him in Los Angeles. A mom who gave up her own education only to pursue her degree later in life while she’s working a full-time job. A mom who moved her halfway across the country, leaving behind the beach and sunny weather for concrete and dreary rain-filled days.

To her credit, my tough girl never gave me a guilt trip when I sat her down and explained that Grandma needed us. She packed her boxes and hid the tears. I guess people are right when they say she’s the spitting image of me.

I get up from the bed, staring at my phone to make sure my new boss, Hannah, hasn’t sent me anything urgent. It’s not something she expects me to do. But it’s been a hard transition from my last boss, Jagger Kale, who expected an answer to any question whenever he asked it. Old habits die hard.

Setting it down, I grab my robe and head out of the cocoon of soft sheets, warm blankets, and quiet space to start my week.

Forty-five minutes later, my heels click on my mom’s linoleum kitchen floor.

My to-go cup of coffee is placed next to my purse and my computer bag, while Jade is shoveling Lucky Charms into her mouth, leaving her banana untouched. My mom is still in her pajamas reading the paper mindlessly nodding and agreeing with Jade on the latest second-grade drama at her new school.

“Then Brian told Peter that he liked Valerie and—”

“Whoa,” I stop her, sliding my arms into my jacket. “Like? You’re talking about friendship, right?”

Jade rolls her eyes and I glance over my shoulder because surely, she’s not rolling her eyes at me.

“Mom,” she sighs.

My mom curls