Page 4 of Oh My Secret Christmas Baby
That said, I can't say I fully hate it. The busy, working side of it helps keep my days filled. What I'm not a fan of is being so popular and people always trying to talk to me. I’m not the most social person and tend to like to keep to myself.
My scars have also had a hand in me being more reclusive as of late. Not that I give a shit what anyone else thinks, but I hatethe stares that come from strangers. I’m not a fan of attention. I wasn’t before the accident either.
A knock sounds on my open office doors, and I turn away from the window where I’ve been watching the snow fall. It’s peaceful and can help rest my mind that never shuts off. If you keep yourself busy enough, you don’t have time to think about other things you don’t want to confront. Next year, I will. I’ll make it one of those New Year's resolutions people always talk about.
“Your mom is trying to get a hold of you,” Kindred tells me, fighting a smirk.
I’ve been dodging my mom for months now. She’s being rather persistent in her motherly demands. I know she means well and only wants the best for me, but I truly wish she’d let go of the idea of matchmaking for me.
"I'll call her back later."
"Yeah, that's not going to work for me," Kindred says. "I'm trying to get work done too, and she's on it this week. And she's bringing up a holiday party she wants you to throw."
"Me? Why do I have to plan a party?" That's the last fucking thing I want to do.
I've never been a fan of the holidays. Everyone is always taking off and cutting out early. Which means work isn't getting done.
Fuck me. I'm as busy as I was when I lived in the city. I can't help myself.
"I'll call her." I grab my phone off my desk and hit her number. It barely rings once and she's answering.
"Mayor," she greets me.
"Mom." She never misses a chance to point out I’m a mayor. When anyone meets her for the first time, she’ll introduce herself, and the next thing out of her mouth will be her telling them her son is a mayor.
“I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”
“It’s nine, Mom.”
“Right, I forget when I’m in the city.”
“There isn’t a time change.”
“Fine, you got me. It’s early, but I know you’re up at five.” I can’t deny that. It doesn’t matter what time I go to bed; I’m always up at the same time even when I don’t want to be, but I’m not going to simply lie in bed and do nothing.
“Is there an issue that you’re in such a hurry to reach me about?” I ask, wanting to get to the point, the one I know is going to be about her setting me up on a date, or trying to. It’s the same every single time she starts calling me like this.
"Since you're the mayor and you have that big fancy house, I think you should throw a Christmas party.” I’m absolutely dreading it, but I know it's what she wants. My mom drives me nuts, but if she wants to come here and throw a party for Christmas, she can have at it. I can grin and bear it for one night.
"If you want to throw a party, you're more than welcome to." I’m sure the townspeople would actually really enjoy it. As mayor, sometimes I have to put the greater good above what I want personally. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.
I'll consider this gesture my mom’s Christmas present. The woman is hard to buy for. Dad left her a lot of money, and she wants for nothing—nothing tangible, at least.
"Really?" There is no missing the excitement in her voice.
"Yes, Mom. If you want to throw a party, have at it. Let me know the date and time so I can add it to my calendar."
"This is perfect! Just perfect."
"Is there anything else?"
“Yes. I’m not going to be able to get there as quickly as will be needed to start prepping, so I’m going to send my party planner out ahead of me. You have room in that big house to put her up. Don’t scare her away. She’s the best in the business.”
There it is. The real reason she wants to throw a party. My instincts never fail me when it comes to my mother’s intentions. She really rushed through saying all that, wanting to get it all out before I could shoot any of it down or some of it got lost in the mix. I don’t miss much.
“Mom, tell me this isn’t a girl you’re trying to get me to date.” I run my hands down my face. My fingers linger on my scar. This is a sure way to give me a headache, and it’s too early in the day for that bullshit.
"She's a sweet girl." Her saying that lets me know everything I need to. This is a thousand percent another attempt at a dating setup.
