Page 31 of Caught in the Axe
“You’re working so much.” She pressed a palm to my face and frowned. “You’re getting bags under your eyes and forehead wrinkles. Are you taking care of your skin? Hydrating enough?”
“Yes, Mom. This work is temporary. Not to mention the money is good and I like the work.”
She tutted. “You never go out anymore. Where are you going to meet people? You’re almost thirty.”
Oh jeez. This again.
I patted her shoulder and summoned all the patience I could. “I’m not interested in meeting anyone right now. Once I’m in grad school, I’ll work on my social life. Right now I want to save money and hang out with you.”
She hummed, mollified, at least on the dating front. “Should you be dressing up a bit more for this office job?” She picked up the teakettle from the stove and took it to the sink to fill it. “Wear heels and a skirt, maybe? I could lend you something.”
“It’s not that kind of office. I’m digging around in dusty boxes and building spreadsheets on a folding table,” I said, stepping up beside her as she set the kettle on the stove. “Jeans and sneakers are required.”
Boundaries. Boundaries.It really was a mantra. I could love and appreciate my mom and still hold space for me and what I wanted.
When she turned to face me, I took her hand in mine. “Mom, I love you so much. But I feel good about the choices I’m making.”
She pressed her lips together in what looked like resignation and nodded. “I just don’t want you to miss your chance.”
“Miss my chance at what?”
With both palms pressed to my cheeks this time, she gave me a sad smile. “Happiness.”
I gritted my teeth. It was better than stomping my feetand telling her that her version of happiness was bullshit. Happiness doesn’t happen by chance. A person has to choose it and work toward it. Which was exactly what I was doing, even if it didn’t look the way she’d envisioned.
Tamping down my annoyance, I forced a smile to my face. These conversations went nowhere; it was better to keep moving.
Despite keeping the peace at home, the irritation I’d felt lingered and festered, and by the time I reached the office, I was in a mood. How could I grow and evolve when my mother, along with everyone else in this damn town, wanted to keep me stuck?
They’d be content to stick me in the pretty girl box and never let me do anything. Because finding a rich husband and being a kept woman whose job it was to fuss over her man and please him while denying myself all of my own dreams was, to them, a goal I should be striving for. To me, a life like that was akin to living in a cage.
I’d earned my freedom. There was no going back.
Huffing out my frustration, I moved a couple of boxes, making room to plug my laptop into the external monitors at my makeshift workstation. All the while, I berated myself for not being more honest with my motherandfor looking around for Owen every few moments.
For all my desire to not be trapped here, he was a man I wouldn’t mind getting stuck with, at least for a little while.
I looked forward to these evenings, when it was just the two of us in the office, eating gluten-free snacks and arguing about spreadsheets while I tried to catch subtle whiffs of his intoxicating masculine scent.
I’d even put on mascara today.
It was a far cry from the forty-minute makeup routine that used to be my norm. The one that included blending several shades of eyeshadow, a full contour, and fake eyelashes. But nowadays, it was still more effort than I typically put into my appearance.
I could barely remember why I used to spend so much time on makeup. The woman I used to be was practically a stranger. I’d drifted so far that no matter how hard I reached, there were parts of her that were lost to me forever. Some I was happy to part ways with.
Other parts, the ones I enjoyed, were coming back. And I had Owen Hebert to thank for that.
First up, desire.
It had been so long since I’d felt even a single flutter in my belly or the quickening of my heart rate in proximity to a specific person. That part of me had been offline for so long that I worried it was irrevocably damaged. It was a thrill to know it wasn’t. To know that at some point, I’d experience chemistry, connection, and desire again.
Since an early age, I’d been performing. In pageants, on stage, and with boys. I liked what they liked. I dressed the way I thought I was supposed to dress and pretended that life was perfect.
Cole was the first man I slept with, and it had taken me years to orgasm during sex. Not because he wasn’t willing to try, but because, after the first couple of times, when it didn’t happen, I faked them. It was one more area of my life where I felt the need to be perfect. Perfect hair, perfect body, perfect smiles, perfect orgasms from a little penetration andsome halfhearted fumbling. I had no one to blame but myself.
Somehow, my friends had gotten that truth out of me and intervened. Magnolia, in fact, had sent me my first vibrator. Eventually, I explored and learned what I liked and what worked for me. But I’d never experienced the toe-curling chemistry I’d read about in romance novels. The kind that builds and builds until a person feels as though they’ll combust.
I’d assumed I was incapable of that kind of passion. I was more Hallmark movie than Harlequin novel. An all smiles and hand-holding, no orgasms kind of gal.
