across the keyboard as my best writing spills onto the page.
Chapter Twelve
I burned the midnight oil and some of the morning’s as well. It felt amazing, and then I crashed—hard.
My head doesn’t want to leave the pillow, except my buzzer is going off, which means I have a visitor from the outside world.
I roll over and answer my phone, my voice groggy, “Who is it?”
“It’s your mother,” she sings into the receiver.
I punch in the number nine and listen as the buzzing sound chimes in the receiver. Knowing she must be inside by now, I push the covers off the bed and make my way over to the front door, unlocking it and leaving it ajar as I walk to the Keurig.
“You look well rested,” she states in a serious tone, which is really her humor, exaggerating the state of a situation.
I pop a pod in. “What are you doing in the city?”
“I have two grant proposals in schools nearby. I told you about this.”
I try to rack my mind to remember her saying she’d be in the city. “Sorry. I’ve been a little all over the place this week in my attempt to finish up this book. I’ve finally hit my stride, and I’m on target to finish by my deadline.”
A closed-mouth smile graces her face. “What’s this one about? Another billionaire or a handsome prince?”
I narrow my eyes at her comment and wait as my cup fills. It’s too early—well, considering it’s afternoon, it’s too late—to find a witty comeback. I need my liquid stamina first.
“Or a strapping doctor with green eyes who wants to fill the heroine’s belly with a baby?” she muses as she takes in my bookshelf and the spines of romances, including my own.
“He’s from a wealthy family,” I state, and she makes that hum of disapproval. “And an artist, so he’s pretty much a prince in my eyes.”
The cup fills to the top, and I grab it, soaking in the heat.
She sets her tote bag on the table and takes a seat. “I’ll have a cup too. Thank you for asking.”
“Sorry. That was rude of me. French roast alright?”
Mom nods as she folds her hands on the table. “I haven’t heard from you in a few days. Everything good?”
“Yes, actually. I went on a date.”
“A date?” Her expression is a mixture of delighted and horrified as I put her mug in front of her and take a seat at the table.
“Two actually. A really bad one and a really good one. Funny, I haven’t gone out in years, and I went on two dates in a week. Guess I’m making up for lost time.”
“Should I be concerned?” She raises her eyebrows over her mug with a tilt to her lips.
I smile to myself as I brush my fingers along my lips, the kiss I shared with Jake lingering on them. “Don’t worry, Mom. I still don’t believe in real life happily ever afters.”
“You make me sound like I’m the evil queen, set to erase romantic love from the human experience. I’m just concerned that you have these grand illusions of what a man should be. When you idolize a man, he only lets you down.”
“I’m not idolizing anyone, trust me.”
She takes a sip from her cup. “You write about things that don’t really happen. It’s not every day that a single mom runs into a billionaire who sweeps her off her feet.”
I grin because even though my mom hates the tropes of my books, she reads every one. Never once has she critiqued my writing style, which is why I entertain these conversations. In fact, she applauds it. It’s the characters she has issues with.
“Clearly, I know the odds of a bazillionaire—dominant in the bedroom yet sensitive in matters of the heart with a dark past that only I, the Converse-sneaker-wearing virgin, can heal the wounds of—swooping in on his private jet and whisking me away are low to nonexistent.”
“Well, that’s a mouthful.” She shakes her head with a slight laugh while taking a sip.
“People like to abandon their reality. If I wrote about a guy who comes home, cracks open a beer, and watches baseball with his hand down his pants, they’d D-N-F me.” When she lifts a brow, I further explain, “Do not finish.”
She sighs. “Do you ever feel like you’re filling these women’s hearts with hope of things that will never come true? What about the one who reads a book and then looks at her husband and thinks, He’s