Page 49 of Holiday Romance
“I don’t know, I went through a phase of buying those little pots from the grocery store and—”
“That’s not the same,” I interrupt, exasperated. “It will taste completely different here. Fresh, for a start. Handmade. I read they add a little touch of lavender to— Stop looking at me like that!”
“I can’t help it.” He laughs. “You get so excited about whipped eggs.”
“Beateneggs.” Christ, it’s like he enjoys annoying me. “You beat eggs for a mousse. And not even eggs, egg whites. You beat them and then you fold them into—” I break off as my work phone rings again and I feel a surge of anger as I reach for it, thumb hovering for a second before I turn the thing off.
Oh, they’re not going to like that.
“Molly?”
My gaze darts to Andrew, who’s watching me with concern.
“I seriously don’t mind if you need to take a call or—”
“I’m on vacation,” I say sharply. “They know I’m on vacation.” I shove the thing back into my bag, glancing at the laptop and folders inside. I have a brief, overwhelming urge to throw everything into the largest puddle I can find.
“I’m thinking about quitting,” I say abruptly, and Andrew sits up in surprise.
“Your job? You want to go to another firm?”
“No, I want to get out completely. I want to stop practicing law.” It’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud. I haven’t even said them to myself. But as soon as I do, I know it’s the right decision. There’s no panic, no sick feeling twisting in my gut. Only a sense of relief.
Andrew doesn’t say anything for a long moment, looking as though I’ve completely blindsided him. Which, I guess I have in a way. My job is all I’ve been since we first started getting to know each other. I’ve never given any indication otherwise.
“To do what?” he asks eventually.
“I have no idea.”
To my surprise, he almost looks disappointed. “Come on, Moll. You have no idea what you want to do? Seriously?”
“I don’t,” I protest. “At least not realistically. I’ve had a look at—”
He stops me with a quiet laugh. “You just said it. ‘At least not realistically.’ So, you do know what you want to do.”
“Oh,sorryif I’m taking supermodel and Hollywood socialite off the table at this time.”
“They were never on the table, to begin with,” he says flatly. “You hate any event that goes on past eleven p.m.”
Okay, fair point.
“Tell me,” he continues. “If money wasn’t an issue. If you woke up tomorrow with a brand-new life and you could do anything. What would you do?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know.”
“You’re lying. It’s something bohemian, isn’t it?”
“Andrew—”
“You’re going to start making hats.”
“I don’t know what I want to do,” I repeat, frustrated. “I just know that right now I’m unhappy.”
Going by his sudden scowl, it’s the wrong thing to say. “How unhappy?”
“I’m not… it’s…” Backtrack, Molly. Backtrack. “It’s just something I’ve been thinking about. It’s not like I’m handing in my notice tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
