Rockstar Romeo - Abbie Zanders Page 0,6

sense of accomplishment was nice. It was only temporary, I knew. Each day brought its own set of challenges, but for now at least, I felt as if I was holding my own.

Juggling my eco-friendly, reusable shopping bags, I jammed my key into the lock. With any luck, the boys had seen the note I’d left that morning and remembered to put the prepared baking pan into the oven for their dinner. Being a working mother, I’d long ago discovered the merits of prepping meals ahead of time for days like this. It was already after seven, and I was more than ready to call it a day.

Thankfully, my boys were older now and pretty self-sufficient, but I still liked them to have a home-cooked meal a few times a week. It wasn’t the first trying day I’d had, and it wouldn’t be the last, but it was the first time in many years I’d been so ruffled.

I blamed Jace Logan and his cursed pheromones. Honestly, it just wasn’t fair. The man was gorgeous as sin with a voice sensual enough to tempt a nun, and he had to smell like that?

I shook my head and shouldered the door with more force than necessary, trying for the hundredth time to dispel those thoughts lest my body started reacting again.

Oops. Too late.

I made it into the kitchen without dropping anything and surveyed the marble countertops with mixed feelings.

The good news was that my sons had indeed put the casserole in the oven and, apparently, eaten well. Not only had they devoured the casserole, but also an entire iced apple pie. Nothing remained except a smear along the bottom of the glass plate.

The bad news was, they’d left a stack of dirty dishes, glasses, and silverware piled on the counter. They would be doing those later.

My stomach growled. Mixed aromas of garlic butter, baked chicken, and warm apples lingered in the air, cruelly taunting me. My boys were eighteen, which meant they could eat hearty, carb-laden food in great quantities and burn it off within a matter of hours. I, on the other hand, could not, which meant my meals tended to be more of the lean meats and steamed vegetables variety.

Opting for a healthier diet more appropriate to my age and metabolism didn’t stop temptation from lurking around every corner. In a moment of weakness, I briefly considered licking the pans. I’m happy to say that I resisted the urge. I had some pride left.

I was too tired to wash, chop, and create a salad from the fresh items I’d just picked up, so I opted for one of the low-calorie, organic frozen entrees I kept around. Admittedly, they were tasty, but the portion sizes weren’t large enough to satisfy my appetite, so I only resorted to those in a pinch.

I had to follow a strict diet and exercise plan to remain where I was, thanks to a double whammy of both nature and nurture. My Italian heritage predisposed me to develop the plump curves of my mother, my grandmother, and all the women before me. My traditional upbringing and the fact that my parents owned a bakery meant that I subconsciously equated carbs with comfort, love, and contentment.

Nevertheless, I was determined not to take that path—at least, not yet. I fought the valiant fight, avoided the pasta and bread I so craved, and worked out religiously every day. As a result, my blood pressure, cholesterol, and triglyceride levels were stellar. Also, I still fit into a size eight. Yay me.

That reminded me, it was Tae Bo night. I hated Tae Bo. Loved what it did for my cardio endurance and arm flab though.

Judging by the muffled thumps beneath my feet, I guessed that the boys were making use of the small music studio in the basement. Given their genes, it wasn’t surprising that my offspring had a natural affinity for music.

Tonight, however, loud wailing guitars, pounding bass, and thumping drums were the last things I wanted to hear. I offered up a silent thanks that whoever had originally built the house had the foresight to install sound-absorbing walls and ceiling panels below. It certainly muted the noise, and tonight, quieter was good.

I walked over to the door leading down to the basement and opened it, greeted immediately with the sound of ear-splitting guitar, bass, and teeth-jarring drums. Between the multitude of audible instruments and the number of dirty dishes on the counter, I guessed they had friends over.

I knew from