Naughty Neighbor - Lauren Runow Page 0,77

my chest and sigh. “I’m fine. I plan on watching Inception. Tom Hardy is so hot in that film.”

“You need a new muse. That guy is old news.”

I give her the finger through the receiver even though she can’t see it. She seems happy that I’m in a good mood, and then we hang up.

I feel okay, too, even though the thought of a muse tugs at my gut.

My muse.

Our story was pretty epic. I didn’t mean to write it word for word, but as our friendship progressed and the relationship ensued, it felt natural. I was only going to use it as a launch point for scenes, but the feelings were jumping off the page.

It was raw.

It was real.

It was ours.

And now, it’s over. Cue dramatic music and romance author sitting on her sofa with a bowl full of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and a sweatshirt that hasn’t been washed in three days. Not my best look, I know.

Tom Hardy finally appears on the screen, only a side character in this film, when my house phone rings. It’s my mother, and she’s here.

Surprised by the impromptu visit, I buzz her in.

“Hey, Mom,” I say when she gets off the elevator. I’m standing in my open doorway, watching her walk toward me. “Wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know. That’s why it’s called a surprise visit.”

“That’s also why God invented the telephone—so you could give someone a warning that you were arriving.”

She walks in my apartment and raises her brow. “If I called first, would you have changed that sweatshirt?”

I look down and shrug. “Yeah, probably not. I would have set out some snacks. I don’t have anything to eat. I’m down to Pringles.”

“That’s fine. We can order in.” She takes off her coat and her shoes. There’s a large tote on her shoulder that she places on my dining room table.

“Staying awhile?” I ask as I see the size of the thing.

Walking to the Keurig, she pops in a pod and grabs a mug. “Depends.”

I hold my arms out and wait for her to finish her sentence. She watches the coffee drip into the mug before it makes that gurgling sound at the end. When it’s ready, she grabs her coffee and walks to my living room.

I follow her in. “You going to finish that sentence? Depends on what?”

She turns her head and smiles.

I narrow my eyes.

With a pat on the sofa, she says, “I read your book. Now, sit. We need to talk.”

Okay, I’m really uncomfortable with where this conversation might go. My mother is my worst critic, but she’s also been a champion of my writing style. We’ve discussed prose and turn of phrase, but this feels like more than the intellectual chitchat.

Dragging my feet, I make my way over to the couch and take the seat she’s offering on the sofa.

“Should I be concerned?” I ask her as I tuck my heels under my butt.

She sighs, something between melancholy and disappointment. “I think I’ve failed you.”

“I don’t know why you’d say such a thing. Do you think my book was that bad?”

“The opposite.” Her mouth twists. “It was beautiful.”

A surge of emotion rushes up my chest and into my eyes. I’m twirling my hand in the air in an attempt to push away the tears threatening to come up.

“Lacey, are you crying?” Even she knows this is very out of character for me.

“Yeah. It’s something I’ve been doing a lot of lately.”

Her eyes widen as she looks around, feeling equally out of place as I do. “Well then, you need a hug.”

She outstretches her arm and pulls me in. It’s awkward and yet so very comforting. My mom has never been a hugger per se, but she did know how to hold me when I was a child and in need of affection.

I wrap my arms around her and hug her tightly. The tears that I had are subsiding, and I’m feeling more like myself.

Sitting up straight, I take a deep breath. “Thanks for that.”

She wipes a tear from my cheek. “I can tell exactly why you’ve been crying. This book is different. Yes, it was romance, but it didn’t feel like fiction. It felt real.”

I sit back and wipe my cheek. “How so?”

“Well, for starters, the heroine is afraid of love. She’s been hurt by her father, her ex”—she pauses—“her mother.”

Now, I know this book has more of my real life than others, but everyone is really treating this book like it’s an autobiography. “You’re reading