Page 86 of Corkscrew You
She smiles at me, and back at Nate. Who’s still not glanced at me even once. The man has willpower; I’ll give him that. I’ve been staring at him nonstop since he exited his truck and thinking how much I’d love to run up and throw myself into his arms.
Because I’m staring, I can see Nate struggling with how to phrase his response. He can hardly break Mom’s bubble by telling her we’re about as cozy a team as early Buffy and Spike.
So, channelling the spirit of Buffy, I decide to save him.
“Mom, let Nate go. He’s super busy. Come into the kitchen, and I’ll put the coffee on.”
Of course, between Mom stepping one way, and me and Nate trying to anticipate each other’s moves, we end up sliding by each other. I feel his arm brush mine, and it’s like static shock. I catch his Nate-scent, and the longing wrenches me physically. How oneartham I going to survive this? I amthisclose to grabbing his arm and pulling him with me into the house.
But he’s gone. Office door is firmly shut. I’ll have to give him the note later. Lots later.
“Goodness, he’s handsome,” says Mom, once we’re safely in the kitchen. “Is he single?”
“Mom,” I say, in a warning tone.
“It’s a perfectly innocent question,” she replies, blithely, fetching a knife for the cake. “If he is, I know plenty of young women he could meet.”
I bet she does. My mom is weirdly obsessed with ensuring everyone on the planet finds his or her soul mate. Trouble is, her idea of compatible can often be like – well, like early Buffy and Spike.
“This is why your other children moved so far away,” I remind her, as I put the coffee pot on the stove. “And why you’re lucky Cam is still speaking to you, after you tried to set him up with your crazy artist friend, what’s-her-name.”
“HowisCam?” she asks, ignoring the negative, as only Mom can. “He’s terrible at answering my emails.”
“If you’re sending him more than one every six months, then what do you expect?” I say. “You know Cam needs time to process his replies.”
“I should stop by and see him, too, while I’m here.”
Once again, I speculate on exactlywhatkind of friendship Mom has with Cam. I know she was always faithful to Dad, but now, she’s a free agent, and—
Nope, that’s icky. Cam’s, what, thirty-six? Mom’s fifty-seven. OK, so it’s not exactly Harold and Maude, but still…
“If you do, remind him he has to talk to Nate about the pre-harvest equipment check,” I tell her.
We have coffee in front of us now, and Mom’s portioned out two generous slices of Iris’s famous strawberry shortcake.
“Yum,” I say.
I skipped lunch today because I was too busy phoning people.
“Are you eating?”
The universal Mom question. And redundant, because I have a whole forkful of cake in my mouth.
“I am,” I assure her, after swallowing. “I am also sleeping well and getting moderate exercise.”
The sleeping part’s notentirelytrue, but I’m sure it will improve. Eventually.
“I thought Nathan was looking a little peaky,” she adds.
“Mom, you’ve only justmethim,” I protest. “How do you know that’s not how he normally looks?”
“I pick up on people’s well-being.” She is completely serious about this. “I’d say his iron levels are low.”
“Well, bring him a steak next time.” I smile.
And then I change the subject, because I reallydon’twant to talk about Nate.
“How are you?” I ask her. “How’s the studio?”
