Page 86 of Boss of Me
Quinn beams with glee.
My grin softens. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
“So am I,” Quinn whoops excitedly. “Let the epic sleepover begin!”
Chapter Twenty
marlowe
It’s my first day of gradschool and I’m bursting with excitement.
My only class that day is a three-hour lecture in the UTA Building, located two blocks from the main campus. I get there twenty minutes early and claim a seat in the front row of the empty classroom.
With time to spare, I take out my laptop and set it on the table. When my phone’s musical ringtone trills from my purse, I rummage around until I find it. My good mood bursts like a pricked bubble when I seeMomon the screen.
I could ignore her call, which I’ve been doing for the past two weeks. But she’s my mother so I can’t avoid her forever.
I take a deep breath, mentally bracing myself before hitting the answer button. “Hey, Mom.”
“Well, look who finally answered her phone,” she says with exaggerated shock.
I suppress a sigh. “Sorry. I’ve been busy.”
“Not too busy to take your sister’s calls. You talk toherevery day.”
“Not every day,” I argue.
“Close enough. Anyway, she told me you started school today.”
“Yes, I’m actually in class right?—”
“Excellent. Make sure you take good notes and meet regularly with your advisor. Grad school is a great deal more challenging than undergrad. It’s very important to get off to a good start.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I murmur as two laughing students walk through the door.
“I was planning to send you some new clothes for school, but since you couldn’t be bothered to take my calls . . .” She deliberately trails off, her reprimand hanging in the air before she says, “I hope you’re dressed appropriately for class. Grad school is a job, and you should always dress for the job you want.”
I look down at my white cap-sleeve shirt, khaki shorts and flat sandals. Though far from slovenly, the outfit would never pass my mother’s stringent standards, and I take some perverse satisfaction in that.
“Anyway,” she continues more cheerfully, “how are you getting along with your new boss?”
“Um, fine.”
“I hope he’s pleased with the quality of your work.”
“I think so,” I say, trying not to blush at the wicked turn of my thoughts. “I haven’t heard any complaints.”
Mom titters. “That’s my girl.”
Really? Since when?
“My friends and colleagues are so impressed that my daughter works fortheGunner Ransom,” Mom gushes.
I can’t help smirking. “Did you tell them I’m his housekeeper?”
“Of course. Why would I leave out that detail?”
Because you’ve always disparaged my lowly cleaning jobs? Because you’re ashamed of me?
