Office Grump An Enemies to Lovers Romance - Nicole Snow Page 0,16
doesn’t look suspicious.
Mom would be crushed to smithereens if she knew that over the past three months, I’ve bought six hundred and ten copies of her various titles and shipped them to libraries and used bookstores.
It’s going to be impossible to do that this month, and it kills me.
My parents depend on those book sales for extra money and Mom’s sanity. She’s struggled at this writing thing for years.
I always told her she’d make it someday. And if I have to help that along in my own secret way, so be it.
My face must betray my thoughts because Mom says, “Sabrina, honey, what’s wrong? You got so serious all of a sudden.”
“Oh. Nothing.” I smile. “Nothing at all!”
“Well, come into the kitchen and let me get you a cup of coffee.”
I follow Mom over and sit down at the four-person table. Her five-year-old writing laptop currently occupies a seat, the lettering on the keys worn off. The dishwasher gurgles behind us.
She returns to the table a minute later with two piping hot mugs of coffee and hands one to me.
“I’m working on a new book called Farm Love. It’s going to be my best yet.”
“That’s cool. What’s the story?” I ask, taking a long pull of warm coffee. It’s not Sweeter Grind but it’s familiar, and that makes it good.
“Oh, this sleek little city girl gets evicted from her apartment and has to move to northern Wisconsin.”
“That would suck.”
Although, it could be my life.
“She totally deserves it. She’s got plenty of lessons to learn when she takes a job as a farmhand with a big Marine and his mama’s old prize-winning pig, Sir Oinkswell...”
I don’t ask where an evicted city girl got the skills to become a farmhand. I doubt I’d be able to milk cows, if I needed to.
I scan the room as Mom talks. Again, familiarity is a comforting thing. The counters are lined with baskets of broccoli, carrots, and cabbage, still dirty from the garden, waiting to be washed. My parents have always had a massive backyard garden so they only have to buy produce half the year.
Dad used to hunt during deer season and keep the meat in the deep freezer for months. He’s not really well enough for it anymore.
Even if they’re happy with this life, guilt jolts through me. I’ve let my parents down, and money just gets tighter over the years. Meager pensions and Social Security can’t keep up.
Without me buying those books, they won’t even be able to maintain this humble standard of living.
“So, then, after a torrid affair and finding the missing pig, the Marine farmer man saves her from the Rodeo Clown Killer and they reconcile. He spells out ’I love you’ in the mud the pigs play in and proposes right there!” She claps her hands together. “What do you think?”
Holy hell.
Marine farmer? Rodeo Clown Killer? Sir Oinkswell? Mud proposals?
I love dirty romance books—what monster wouldn’t?—but I don’t think this qualifies.
I was only halfway listening, but what I’m hearing sounds like a train wreck.
My mother tries so hard, but she’s not bestseller movie-rights material. She’s not even a mid-lister after twenty years pecking away at her stories.
I don’t have the heart to tell her my attention drifted, or that if she’d given this up years ago and gotten a real job, maybe I wouldn’t have to sock away all of my fun money into funding this pipe dream of hers.
Instead, I give her a thumbs-up.
“It’s great, Mom. Steamy and riveting.”
“Are you okay?” she asks again.
“I’m fine!” I insist.
Only, I’m so not fine if I’m dragging so hard I can’t even fake it for my folks.
“Finish your coffee, dear. You look tired.”
I put the cup to my lips and inhale another fortifying sip of homemade latte. I’ve got to give her credit for one thing—Mom always puts cinnamon and vanilla in my coffee.
That’s why I love the Sweeter Grind’s drinks so much. It reminds me of home in the heart of a sometimes heartless city.
As I sip my coffee, a weird drip-drip-drip noise starts to annoy me. The dishwasher has been quiet for the past few minutes, so I have no clue where it’s coming from.
Then I see it. In the corner, right above Mom’s overwatered ivy, a steady stream of water leaks from the ceiling, straight down the wall.
“Oh, crap. The ceiling’s leaking? Why didn’t you tell me?” I set my mug down and sit up in my seat, staring sadly at the persistent drip.