Page 46 of One Pucking Life

A whole week has passed, and though my entire body has been humming with need, I haven’t said a word. Honestly, I’m getting a little pissed. Why hasn’t he brought it up? Not once. And yes, I realize it’s irrational to be mad at someone for something I haven’t done either—but that’s neither here nor there.

At this point, I’m actually starting to wonder if I’m going crazy. Which is never ideal when your job is to keep a child safe.

A voice cuts through my internal spiral as I finish wrapping up what’s left of the charcuterie and toss the remaining bags of cheese and meat into the fridge.

“You okay, honey? You seem… bothered.”

Closing the refrigerator door, I blink at my mother, who’s standing in the middle of my kitchen wearing a neon green sweater she claims is “festive.” I told her already—that color is nowhere near Christmas green. In fact, she looks like she’s headed to a senior citizen rave. Not that my mom is old, but she definitely dresses like it. Her earrings are tiny tabby cats withtheir heads stuck through miniature holiday wreaths—a look that should only be legal past the age of ninety.

I sigh. I’m being a moody bitch. Her questionable fashion choices aren’t the problem.

I know what the problem is.

Forcing a smile, I say, “I’m fine.”

She gives me a look, not buying it. “Well, I appreciate the invite. It was a nice night. I really like Max, and the baby is adorable.” She reaches out and gently takes my hand. “You are happy here, right?”

“Yes.” I nod. “I am. I must be PMSing or something. I’m sorry. Please don’t worry. I love it here.”

The mention of my impending period satisfies her concern. Growing up, I learned that to my mother, PMS is an acceptable excuse for just about anything. I don’t feel guilty using it either—I know she’d worry if I gave her a hint of the truth. She’s always found my career choice odd, never fully understanding why I choose to live in someone else’s home, caring for someone else’s child. She thinks I’m stalling, avoiding starting my own life.

Maybe she’s right.

From the living room, I hear Max’s voice. He’s FaceTiming his family. His parents are calling in from Paris, where they’re spending the holidays, and his sister joins from her New York apartment.

“She’s getting so big!” a woman’s voice says through the phone.

“So,” my mom turns back to me, “you had a good Christmas morning with Max and Caroline?”

“Oh, yeah. It was fun. I mean, of course Caroline didn’t really understand any of it, but she had a blast chewing on wrapping paper, so I’d call that a win. I made your famous cinnamon rolls for breakfast.”

Her eyes light up. “You did?”

“Yep. As usual, they were a hit. Max loved them.”

He really did. He raved about them, even though they’re the easiest thing in the world. Store-bought cinnamon rolls, doused in heavy cream and coated in a butter and brown sugar mixture. Practically foolproof.

“Oh, good. I love that…” She starts to say more, but I hold up a hand to stop her.

I press a finger to my lips. I just heard my name from the living room. I tiptoe to the side of the kitchen closest to the open space and listen in.

“Oh, she’s great. Yeah. Caroline absolutely adores her,” Max says.

“That’s good. And it’s not weird having a random stranger living in your house?” a woman—his mom, I think—asks.

“Not at all. We get along really well. And she’s not a stranger,” Max replies. “Honestly, she’s more like family.”

There’s something in his voice when he says that. Maybe I’m imagining it, but it sounds like a hint of… sadness?

Because I’m more family to Caroline than his actual family is.

My mom taps me on the shoulder, pulling me out of my eavesdropping. I glance back to find her smirking.

“You like him.”

I blink. “I do not.”

She puckers her lips. “Doesn’t look that way to me.”

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