Page 55 of Space Oddities

Iwas supposed to protecther.

True, she still hasn’t opened up to me about what she’s really running from, but I’m a patient man. And when she feels safe, she will.

Hands behind my head, I grin up at the ceiling, where Trish is currently making us late. For now, I’m going to focus on being happy. As cliché as it might sound, she’s made my house finally feel like a home. The home I never had growing up.

I rise, smoothing down my suit jacket. As usual, when I’m in my office for any length of time, my eyes go to the large picture sitting front and center on the built-in shelves behind my desk. The one of my mother and me when I was six years old. Right before my father went into politics.

Politics had always been his goal; my mother knew that going into the marriage. After all, my father’s father was a mayor, his brother a councilman. But wanting to be in politics and actuallybeingin politics are two different things.

In the picture our eyes are nearly squinted shut from the size of our smiles. My mother’s hugging me from behind, her arms wrapped around my middle, probably just after one of her notorious tickle attacks.

It might’ve been the last time she either tickled or hugged me like that.

Besides being a cesspool of bribery, lies, and corruption, a life in politics isn’t fair to the people surrounding the politician. The ones who vowed to love and honor until death.

I watched my mother go from a vibrant, playful young woman who’d drop everything to play hide-and-seek or lay out a game of Candyland on the foyer’s marble floor to a vacant, luxury-brand-draped shell who survives on Bloody Marys for breakfast and martinis at noon. She never laughs, and she rarely smiles unless a camera is pointed at her. She also doesn’t talk at public functions unless my father feels it’s appropriate.

To see Trish like that would kill me.

“How do I look, Captain?”

I swing toward Trish’s voice, her body poised under the study’s wide entry, and blink.

Trying to unswallow my tongue, I step toward her. “Wow.”

“Like what you see?” She Vanna Whites her hands down her body, showing off the tight, full-length white dress. It only has one strap, which is topped with a floppy-looking bow. It nips in at the waist, showing off her trim figure before flowing just slightly away from the body, enough for the fabric to move and open at the thigh-high slit on one side.

She holds her arms out, turning in a slow circle, purple-red heels poking out from beneath the hem of her dress. They’re a seductive wine color, a perfect match to her lipstick shade and nail color.

“You’re perfection.” The compliment isn’t adequate, and it’s probably cheesy as hell, but it’s true.Get it together, man.

But rather than cringe, she looks pleased with my choice of words. “Why, thank you, sugar.” Using small, ladylike steps in heels that probably boost her up at least five inches, Trish sashays over to me. She runs her hands across my shoulders and down my already smooth lapels (which does not help the fight I have going on to keep my hard-on at bay). “You don’t look too shabby yourself.” Wide brown eyes blink up at me, innocent and provocative all at once, just like her dress.

“Uh—” I clear my throat. “Thank you.”

When my eyes meet hers, everything clears. The secrets, the manipulations, the worry. I just see Trish. Her fierce love for her friends, her smiling eyes, her driven spirit, her tinkling laugh.

“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Brown eyes soften, her smile widening. Then a shadow flashes across her face.

“Trish?” Did I finally get too cheesy?

Looking down, she turns one shoe toward the other, looking hesitant. “Ian, I—”

“Walking on the Moon” blares from behind her. A giggle escapes her red lips. “That would be Jules.” She minces over to the banister, where a white clutch with red trim sits. She slides out the phone, bringing it to her ear. “Yes, oh mighty one?”

I can’t hear what Jules is saying, but Trish rolls her eyes, so it’s probably inappropriate.

“Yes, I know, I already cleared it with Rich at the bar. No need to get your panties in a bunch.” Closing her eyes and shaking her head at whatever Jules said, Trish responds, “I really didn’t need to know that, sugar.” Laughing, sounding more genuine than before, Trish hangs up. “Forget Bridezilla, Jules has coined a new term-MOHzilla.” When I frown, she laughs. “MOH is short for maid of honor.”

“Ah.”

“She wanted to triple-check that I have roped off a section at Big Texas for Jackie’s bachelorette.”

“You guys love that place.”

“Well, it is where it all began.” Her smile looks almost wistful before it falls, replaced by a look of regret. “Shall we go? Don’t want to be late.” As she asks me, her eyes are on her purse, as if slipping her phone inside requires her full concentration.

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