Page 59 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
With my mind made up, I focus on my phone, my thumbs flying across my keyboard. Sure thing, Mom. I’ll be there soon.
I power down my computer and grab my coat from its hook on the back of my door on my way out.
“I’m leaving early,” I call out to anyone who might be listening, shoving my arms into my coat sleeves. “Something just came up.”
Les, working diligently from his cubicle near the window, arches one bushy gray brow at me. “Is it something with Holt?”
My breath stills in my chest, and I hope my flinch isn’t as visible as it feels. “What? No.” I wonder why he’d assume that. Maybe I haven’t been as careful as I thought.
A small smile forms on Les’s lips, causing a ripple of wrinkles to appear across his kind face. “You don’t have to be secretive about it, Eden. I know you a little better than that. It’s clear there’s something going on between you two.”
Damn him for being so perceptive. And damn my brain for coming up with zero adequate responses right now. I’m just standing here, slack-jawed, blinking at him like an idiot. Thankfully, we’re the only two left in the office. Aspen left an hour ago for a dentist appointment.
“Don’t worry, Ms. Wynn,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s no big deal. Really. It’s sweet. And you shouldn’t worry about what other people think anyway.”
My cheeks go warm as the tension releases from my shoulders. Les’s approval is far from the be-all and end-all, but knowing someone in this office isn’t repulsed by the idea of me having a thing with the head of security does wonders for my nerves.
“Thanks, Les,” I say, my posture straightening. “But really, this isn’t about Holt. I just got a weird emergency text from my mom. I’ll be in early tomorrow, okay?”
He pats the top of his desk with one hand and gives me a thumbs-up with the other. “No problem. I’ll hold down the fort the rest of the afternoon.”
I thank him one last time before rushing out the door and straight to the parking garage.
Thirty minutes of frantic driving later, I’m turning up my mother’s private drive, the sculpted hedges blurring as I pass.
It’s been several months since I’ve been out to Brookline to visit her, and she’s made more than a few changes to the landscaping in that time. Or rather, her gardener has. Each time I visit, there’s some new extravagant addition—a topiary shaped like a dolphin, a marble fountain, even a miniature butterfly garden. This time, I count three new rosebushes planted near the side gate.
I step out of my car and rush up the slate walkway, then take the porch steps two at a time before pressing a finger against the doorbell. Penny, my mother’s shih tzu, alerts the house to my arrival.
Two full minutes of high-pitched barking later, there are still no signs of my mother, and I’ve developed a list of worst-case scenarios long enough to stretch back to my condo. I decide to take a note from Mom’s playbook and let myself in from the cold.
“Hello? Mom?” My worried voice echoes through the vaulted ceilings, bouncing off the white marble pillars of the foyer.
“Sorry, sorry,” her distant voice calls from upstairs. “Be down in a second, honey. Just putting some finishing touches on my outfit.”
Relief floods my system. She didn’t fall or hurt herself or anything. The woman is just accessorizing.
As promised, she descends the staircase moments later, her sleek gray bob bouncing with every step. “Eden, honey, thank goodness you’re here. Be honest with me. Am I too old to wear this?”
She does a slow, deliberate spin, arms out to showcase her beachy outfit—a flowy cream blouse paired with turquoise capri pants. It feels awfully summery for the biting October weather we’re currently experiencing.
“Not too old, but you might be too cold,” I say. “It’s barely fifty degrees outside.”
“Not in the Bahamas.” A giddy smile breaks out on her face, the stacks of silver bracelets on her wrists clinking as she claps her hands. “I just booked the cutest little bungalow for the next three months. The perfect way to get away from the cold for the holidays, don’t you think?”
“Sure, sure,” I say absently, swallowing the hurt building in my chest. What a way to find out I won’t be spending the holidays with my mother this year. “When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow.” Her expression is one of pure glee. “My flight leaves at seven a.m., which is why I needed your expert fashion advice right away.”
“Right,” I murmur, pulling my phone from my pocket to check the time.
Her text sounded so urgent, but playing spectator to my mother’s vacation fashion show is no reason to be late for my goalie’s son’s birthday party tonight. When I pocket my phone again, I look up to find my mother frowning at me, her arms folded tightly across her chest.
